CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 M. 
 
 GIFT OF 
 W. Sampson 
 
wwiiicii wiiiwrsiiy i-iDrary' 
 
 PS 1732.M2 1891 
 
 Main-travelled roads six Mississippi val 
 
 3 1924 021 965 011 
 OLIN OBRART- CIRCULATION 
 DATE DUE 
 
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 PRINTED IH U.S.A. 
 
The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021965011 
 
MAIN -TRAYEEfcED ROADS 
 
 SIX MISSISSIPPI VALLEY STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 ARENA PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1891 
 
COPTBIOHTED BY 
 
 AEENA PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 1891. 
 
To my father and mother, whose half-century pil- 
 grimage on the main-travelled road of life has brought 
 them only toil and deprivation, this book of stories 
 is dedicated by a son to whom every day brings a 
 deepening sense of his parents' silent heroism. 
 
The main-travelled road in the West {as everywhere) 
 is hot and dusty in summer, and desolate and drear with 
 mud in fall and spring, and in winter the winds sweep 
 the snow across it j but it does sometimes cross a rich 
 meadow where the songs of the larks and bobolinks 
 and blackbirds are tangled. Follow it far enough, it may 
 lead past a bend in the river where the water laughs 
 eternally over its shallows. 
 
 Mainly it is long and weary ful and has a dull little 
 town at one end, and a home of toil at the other. Like 
 the main-travelled road of life it is traversed by many 
 classes of people, but the poor and the weary predomi- 
 nate. 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 
 
 " The Eeturn of the Private " is reprinted from 
 the Arena. "Under the Lion's Paw," "Among the 
 Corn-rows," and " Mrs. Eipley's Trip " are reprinted 
 , from Harper's Weekly by consent of the publishers. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PASES 
 
 A Branch-road, ...... 9 
 
 Up the Couxb, ..... 75 -^ 
 
 Among the Corn-rows. . . , . . 147 '' 
 
 The Rbtttrn op aJPritatb, , . . 186 
 
 Undkr the Lion's Paw, . . . . 217 - 
 
 Mrs. RiPLEy's Tktp, . , T . . 241 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 A BEANCH-EOAD. 
 
 " JEeep the main-travelled road till you come to a branch 
 leading off— keep to the right." 
 
 In the windless September dawn a voice went 
 singing, a man's voice, singing a cheap and 
 common air. Tet something in the elan of it all 
 told he was young, jubilant, and a happy lover. 
 
 Above the level belt of timber to the east a 
 vast dome of pale undazzling gold was rising, 
 silently and swiftly. Jays called in the thickets 
 where the maples flamed amid the green oaks, 
 with irregular splashes of red and orange. The 
 grass was crisp with frost under the feet, the 
 road smooth and gray-white in color the air was 
 indescribably sweet, resonant, and stimulating. 
 No wonder the man sang. 
 
 He came into view around the curve in the 
 lane. He had a fork on his shoulder, a graceful 
 and polished tool. His straw hat was tilted on 
 
10 MAlN-TRAtELLEt) MOAM. 
 
 the back of his head, his rough, faded coat was 
 buttoned close to the chin, and he wore thin 
 buckskin gloves on his hands. He looked mus- 
 cular and intelligent, and was evidently about 
 twenty-two or three years of age. 
 
 As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer 
 to him, he stopped his song. The broadening 
 heavens had a majesty and sweetness that made 
 him forget the physical joy of happy youth. He 
 grew almost sad with the great vague thoughts 
 and emotions which rolled in his brain as the 
 wonder of the morning grew. 
 
 He walked more slowly, mechanically following 
 the road, his eyes on the ever-shifting streaming 
 banners of rose and pale green, which made the 
 east too glorious for any words to tell. The air 
 was so still it seemed to await expectantly the 
 coming of the sun. 
 
 Then his mind flew back to Agnes. Would she 
 see it ? She was at work, getting breakfast, but 
 he hoped she had time to see it. H^was in 
 that mood so common to him now, whei(^he could 
 not fully enjoy any sight or sound imless he 
 could share it with hep' Far down the road he 
 heard the sharp clatter of a wagon. The roosters 
 were calling near and far, in many keys and 
 tunes. The dogs were barking, cattle-bells jang- 
 ling in the wooded pastures, and as the youth 
 passed farm-houses, lights in the kitchen windows 
 
MAIN-TliAtMLLSD BOADB. 11 
 
 showed that the women were astir about break- 
 fast, and the sound of Toices and curry-combs at 
 the barn told that the men were at their daily 
 chores. 
 
 And the east bloomed broader. The dome of 
 gold grew brighter, the faint clouds here and 
 there flamed with a flush of red. The frost be- 
 gan to glisten with a reflected color. The youth 
 dreamed as he waited ; his broad face and deep 
 earnest eyes caught and reflected some of, the 
 beauty and majesty of the sky. 
 
 But as he passed a farm gate and a young 
 man of about his own age joined him, his ;brow 
 darkened. The other man was equipped, for work 
 like himself. 
 
 "Hello, WUl!" 
 
 "Hello, Ed!" 
 
 " Going down to help Dingman thrash ?" 
 
 " Tes," replied Will, shortly. It was easy to 
 see he didn't welcome company, 
 
 " So'm I. Who's goin' to do your thrashin, — 
 DaveMcTurg?" 
 
 " Tes, I guess so. Haven't spoken to anybody 
 yet." 
 
 They walked on side by side. Will didn't feel 
 like being rudely broken in on in this way. The 
 two men were rivals, but Will, being the victor, 
 would have been magnanimous, only he wanted 
 to be alone with his lover's dream. 
 
12 MAIN-TSAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Wlien do you go back to the Sem ? " Ed , 
 asked after a little. 
 
 " Term begins next week. I'll make a break 
 about second week." 
 
 " Le's see : you graduate next year, don't ; 
 yeh?" 
 
 " I expect to, if I don't slip up on it." 
 
 They walked on side by side, both handsome 
 fellows ; Ed a little more showy in his face, which 
 had a certain clean-cut precision of line, and a 
 peculiar clear pallor that never browned under 
 the sun. He chewed Tigorously on a quid of | 
 tobacco, one of his most noticeable bad habits. -- 
 
 Teams could be heard clattering along on 
 several roads now, and jovial voices singing. 
 One team coming along behind the two men, the 
 driver sung out in good-natured warning, " Get • 
 out o' the way, there." And with a laugh and a 
 chirp spurred his horses to pass them. 
 
 Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver's | 
 trick, flung out his left hand and caught the 
 end-gate, threw his fork in and leaped after it. 
 Will walked on, disdaining attempt to catch the 
 wagon. On all sides now the wagons of the 
 plowmen or threshers were getting out into the 
 fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound. 
 
 The pale red sun was shooting light through 
 the leaves, and warming the boles of the great 
 oaks that stood ia the yard, and melting the frost 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED B0AD8. 13 
 
 off the great gaudy threshing-macliine that stood 
 between the stacks. The interest, p ^uresq ue jneSB 
 of it all-got hold of Will Hannan, accustomed to 
 it as he was. The horses stood about in a circle, 
 hitched to the ends of the six sweeps, all shining 
 with frost. 
 
 The driver was oiling the great tarry cog- 
 wheels underneath. Laughing fellows were 
 wrestling about the yard. Ed Kinney had scaled 
 the highest stack, and stood ready to throw the 
 first sheaf. The sun lighting him where he stood, 
 made his fork-handle gleam like dull gold. 
 Cheery words, jests, and snatches of song every- 
 where. Dingman bustled about giving his orders 
 and placing his men, and the voice of big Dave 
 McTurg was heard calling to the men as they 
 raised the long stacker into place : 
 
 " Heave ho, therel Up she-rises ! " 
 
 And, best of all, Will caught a glimpse of a 
 smiling girl-face at the kitchen window that 
 made the blood beat in his throat. 
 
 " Hello, Will !" was the general greeting, given 
 with some constraint by most of the young fel- 
 lows, for Will had been going to Eock Eiver to 
 school for some years, and there was a little feel- 
 ing of jealousy on the part of those who pre- 
 tended to sneer at the " seminary chaps like Will 
 Hannan and Milton Jennings." 
 
(« 
 
 14 MAIN-TEAVELLED BO^DB. 
 
 Dingman came up. " Will, I guess you'd betteil 
 go on the stack with Ed." 
 
 "All ready. Hurrah, there !" said David in his 
 soft but resonant bass voice that always had a 
 laugh in it. " Come, come, every sucker of yeh 
 git hold o' something. All ready!" He waved 
 his hand at the driver, who climbed upon hisj 
 platform. Everybody scrambled into place. > 
 
 "Chk, chk ! All ready, boys ! Stiddy thereii 
 Dan ! Ohh, chk ! All ready, boys ! Stiddy there, 
 boys ! All ready now ! " The horses began to 
 strain at the sweeps. The cylinder began to 
 hum. 
 
 " Grab a root there ! Where's my band-cutter? 
 Here, you, climb on here !" And David reached, 
 down and pulled Shep Watson up by the shoulder 
 with his gigantic hand. 
 
 Boo-oo-oo-oom, Boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-^ 
 owm, yarr-yarr ! The whirling cylinder boomed,] 
 roared and snarled as it rose in speed. At last, 
 when its tone became a rattling yell, David 
 nodded to the pitchers, rasped his hands together] 
 the sheaves began to fall from the stack, the^ 
 band-cutter, knife in hand, slashed the bands 
 in twain, and the feeder with easy majestic mo-^ 
 tion gathered them under his arm, rolled them' 
 out into an even belt of entering wheat, on whichj 
 the cylinder tore with its frightful, ferocious 
 snarl. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 15 
 
 Will was very happy in his quiet way. He 
 enjoyed the smooth roll of his great muscles, 
 the sense of power he felt in his hands as he 
 lifted, turned, and swung the heavy sheaves two 
 by two down upon the table, where the band-cut- 
 ter madly slashed away. His frame, sturdy 
 rather than tall, was nevertheless lithe, and he 
 made a fine figure to look at, so Agnes thought, 
 as she came out a moment and bowed and smiled 
 to both the young men. 
 
 This scene, one of the joUiest and most socia- 
 ble of the western farm, had a charm quite aside 
 from human companionship. The beautiful 
 yellow straw entering the cylinder ; the clear / S 
 yellow- brown wheat pulsing out at the side ; the I X 
 broken straw, chaff, and dust puffing out on the K^ /^ 
 great stacker ; the cheery whistling and calling 1 0^ 
 of the driver ; the keen, crisp air, and the bright L ^ y 
 sun somehow weirdly suggestive of the passage j H t 
 of time. '/^ <^ 
 
 Will and Agnes had arrived at a tacit under- 5 y"' 
 standing of mutual love only the night before, L ^ 
 and Will was powerfully moved to glance often ^j,<r' 
 toward the house, but feared somehow the Jokes " 
 of his companions. He worked on, therefore, 
 methodically, eagerly ; but his thoughts were on 
 the future — the rustle of the oak-tree near by, 
 the noise of whose sere leaves he could distin- 
 guish beneath the booming snarl of the machine ; 
 
16 MAm-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 on tlie sky, where great fleets of clouds were sail- 
 ing on the rising wind, like merchantmen bound 
 to some land of love and plenty. 
 
 When the Dingmans first came in, only a couple 
 of years before, Agnes had been at once sur- 
 rounded by a swarm of suitors. Her pleasant 
 face and her abounding good-nature made her an 
 instant favorite with all. Will, however, had dis- 
 dained to become one of the crowd, and held 
 himself aloof, as he could easily do, being away 
 at school most of the time. 
 
 The second winter, however, Agnes also at- 
 tended the seminary, and Will saw her daily, and 
 grew to love her. He had been just a bit 
 jealous of Ed Kinney all the time, for Ed had a 
 certain rakish grace in dancing and a dashing 
 skill in handling a team which made him a dan- 
 gerous rival. 
 
 But, as Will worked beside him all this Mon- 
 day, he felt so secure in his knowledge of the 
 caress Agnes had given him at parting the night 
 before that he was perfectly happy — so happy 
 that he didn't care to talk, only to work on and 
 dream as he worked. 
 
 Shrewd David McTurg had his joke when the 
 machine stopped for a few minutes. " Well, you 
 fellers do better'n I expected yeh to, after bein' 
 out so late last night. The first feller J find 
 gappin' has got to treat to the apples,'' 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 17 
 
 " Keep your eye on me," said Shep. 
 
 " You ?" laughed one of the others. " Anybody 
 knows if a girl so much as looked crossways at 
 you, you'd fall in a fit." 
 
 " Another thing," said David. " I can't have 
 yon fellers carryin' grain, going to the house too 
 often for fried cakes or cookies." 
 
 " Now you git out," said Bill Young from the 
 straw-pile. " You ain't goin' to have all the fun 
 to yerself." 
 
 Will's blood began to grow hot in his face. If \ 
 Bill had said much more, or mentioned her name, 
 he would have silenced him. To have this rough 
 joking come so close upon the holiest and most 
 exquisite evening of his life was horrible. It| 
 was not the words they said, but the tones theyj 
 used, that vulgarized it all. He breathed a sigh 
 of relief when the sound of the machine began 
 again. , 
 
 This jesting made him more wary, and when 
 the call for dinner sounded and he knew he was 
 going in to see her, he shrank from it. He took 
 no part in the race of the dust-blackened, half- 
 famished men to get at the washing-place first. 
 He took no part in the scurry to get seats at the 
 first table. 
 
 Threshing-time was always a season of great 
 trial to the housewife. To have a dozen men 
 with the appetites of dragons to cook for was no 
 
18 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 small task for a couple of women, in addition to 
 their other every-day duties. Preparations usu- 
 ally began the night before with a-raid on a hen- 
 roost, for " biled chickun" formed the piece de re- 
 sistance of the dinner. The table, enlarged by 
 boards, filled the sitting-room. Extra seats were 
 made out of planks placed on chairs, and dishes 
 were borrowed of neighbors who came for such 
 aid, in their turn. 
 
 Sometimes the neighboring women came in to 
 help ; but Agnes and her mother were determined 
 to manage the job alone this year, and so the girl, 
 with a neat dark dress, her eyes shining, her 
 cheeks flushed with the work, received the men as 
 they came in dusty, coatless, with grime behind 
 their ears, but a jolly good smile on every face. 
 
 Most of them were farmers of the neighbor- 
 hood and schoolmates. The only one she shrank 
 from was Bill Young, with his hard, glittering 
 eyes and red, sordid face. She received their 
 jokes, their noise, with a silent smile which 
 showed her even teeth and dimpled her round 
 cheek. " She was good for sore eyes," as one of 
 the fellows said to Shep. She seemed deliciously 
 sweet and dainty to these roughly-dressed fel- 
 lows. 
 
 They ranged along the table with a great deal 
 of noise, boots thumping, squeaking, knives and 
 forks rattling, voices bellowing out. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 19 
 
 " Now hold on, Steve ! Can't have yeh so near 
 that chickun!" 
 
 " Move along, Shep ! I want to be next to the 
 kitchen door ! I won't get nothin' with you on 
 that side o' me." 
 
 " Oh, that's too thin ! I see what you're — " 
 
 "No, I won't need any sugar, if you just smile 
 into it." This from gallant David, greeted with 
 roars of laughter. 
 
 " Now, Dave, s'pose your wife 'ud hear o' 
 that ?" 
 
 " She'd snatch 'im bald-headed, that's what 
 she'd do." 
 
 " Say, somebody drive that ceow down this 
 way," said Bill. 
 
 " Don't get off that drive ! It's too old," criti- 
 cised Shep, passing the milk-jug. 
 
 Potatoes were seized, cut in halves, sopped in 
 gravy, and taken one, two ! Corn-cakes went into 
 great jaws like coal into a steam-engine. Knives 
 in the right hand cut and scooped gravy up. 
 Great, muscular, grimy, but wholesome fellows 
 they were, feeding like ancient Norse, and capa- 
 ble of working like demons. They were deep in 
 the process, half hidden by steam from the pota- 
 toes and stew, in less than sixty seconds from 
 their entrance. 
 
 With a shrinking from the comments of the 
 others upon his regard for Agnes, Will ^/Ssumed 
 
20 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 a reserved and almost haughty air toward his 
 fellow-workman, and a curious coldness toward 
 her. As he went in, she came forward smiling 
 brightly. 
 
 " There's one more place, Will." A tender, in- 
 voluntary droop in her voice betrayed her, and 
 Will felt a wave of hot blood surge over him as 
 the rest roared. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Oh, there'd be a place for him .'" 
 
 "Don't worry. Will! Always room for you 
 here !" 
 
 Will took his seat with a sudden angry flame. 
 "Why can't she keep it from these fools?" was 
 his thought. He didn't even thank her for show- 
 ing him the chair. 
 
 She flushed vividly, but smiled back. She was 
 so proud and happy, she didn't care very much 
 if they did know it. But as Will looked at her 
 with that quick angry glance, and took his seat 
 with scowling brow, she was hurt and puzzled. 
 She redoubled her exertions to please him, and 
 by so doing added to the amusement of the 
 crowd that gnawed chicken-bones, rattled cups, 
 knives and forks, and joked as they ate with small 
 grace and no material loss of time. 
 
 Will remained silent through it all, eating in 
 marked contrast to the others, using his fork in- 
 stead of his knife in eating his potato, and drink- 
 his tea from his cup rather than from his saucer 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLBD ROADB. 21 
 
 — " finnickies" whicli did not escape the notice of 
 the girl nor the sharp eyes of the other workmen. 
 
 " See that ? That's the way we do down to the 
 Sem! See? Fork for pie in yer right hand! 
 Hey? /can't do it. Watch me." 
 
 When Agnes leaned over to say, " Won't you 
 have some more tea, Will ?" they nudged each 
 other and grinned. " Aha ! What did I tell 
 
 you?" 
 
 Agues saw at last that for some reason Will 
 didn't want her to show her regard for him, that 
 he was ashamed of it in some way, and she was 
 wounded. To cover it up, she resorted to the 
 feminine device of smiling and chatting with the 
 others. She asked Ed if he wouldn't have 
 another piece of pie. 
 
 " I will — with a fork, please." 
 
 " This is 'bout the only place you can use a 
 fork," said Bill Young, anticipating a laugh by 
 his own broad grin. 
 
 "Oh, that's too old," said Shep Watson. 
 " Don't drag that out agin. A man that'll eat 
 seven taters — " 
 
 " Shows who does the work." 
 
 " Tes, with his jaws," put in Jim Wheeloek, the 
 driver. 
 
 "-If you'd put in a little more work with soap 'n' 
 water before comin' in to dinner, it 'ud be a relig- 
 ious idee," said David. 
 
22 MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 " It ain't healthy to wash." 
 
 " Well, you'll live forever, then." 
 
 " He ain't washed his face sence I knew 'im." 
 
 " Oh, that's a little too tough ! He washes once 
 a week," said Ed Kinney. 
 
 " Back of his ears ?" inquired David, who was 
 munching a doughnut, his black eyes twinkling 
 with fun. 
 
 "Yep." 
 
 " What's the cause of it ?" 
 
 " Dade says she won't kiss 'im if he don't." 
 Everybody roared. 
 
 " Good fer Dade ! I wouldn't if I was in her 
 place." 
 
 Wheelock gripped a chicken-leg imperturbably, 
 and left it bare as a toothpick with one or two 
 bites at it. His face shone in two clean sections 
 around his nose and mouth. Behind his ears the 
 dirt lay undisturbed. The grease on his hands 
 could not be washed off. 
 
 Will began to suffer now because Agnes treated 
 the other fellows too well. With a lover's exact- 
 ing jealousy, he wanted her in some way to hide 
 their tenderness from the rest, but to showier 
 indifference to men like Young and Kinney .^ He 
 didn't stop to inquire of himself the justice of 
 such a demand, nor just how it was~4:o be done. 
 He only insisted she ought to do it. J 
 
 He rose and left the table at the end of his 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 23 
 
 dinner, without having spoken to her, without 
 even a tender, significant glance, and he knew, 
 too, that she was troubled and hurt. But he was 
 suffering. It seemed as if he had lost something 
 sweet, lose it irrecoverably. 
 
 He noticed Ed Kinney and Bill Young were 
 the last to come out, just before the machine 
 started up again after dinner, and he saw them 
 pause outside the threshold and laugh back at 
 Agnes standing in the doorway. Why couldn't 
 she keep those fellows at a distance, not go out 
 of her way to bandy jokes with them ? 
 
 Some way the elation of the morning was gone. 
 He worked on doggedly now, without looking up, 
 without listening to the leaves, without seeing the 
 sunlighted clouds. Of course he didn't think 
 that she meant anything by it, but it irritated 
 him and made him unhappy. She gave herself 
 too freely. 
 
 Toward the middle of the afternoon the 
 machine stopped for a time for some repairing ; 
 and while Will lay on his stack in the bright 
 yellow sunshine, shelling wheat in his hands and 
 listening to the wind in the oaks, he heard his 
 name and her name mentioned on the other side 
 of the machine, where the measuring-box stood. 
 He listened. 
 
 " She's pretty sweet on him, ain't she ? Did 
 yell notus how she stood around over him ?" 
 
J 
 
 24 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Yes ; an' did yeh see him when she passed the 
 cup o' tea down over his shoulder ?" 
 
 Will got up, white with wrath as they laughed. * 
 
 " Some way he didn't seem to enjoy it as I 
 would. I wish she'd reach her arm over my neck 
 that way." 
 
 Will walked around the machine, and came on 
 the group lying on the chaff near the straw-pile. 
 
 " Say, I want you fellers to understand that I 
 won't have any more of this talk. I won't have 
 it." 
 
 There was a dead silence. Then Bill Young 
 rose up. 
 
 " What yeh goen' to do about ut ?" he sneered. 
 
 " I'm going to stop it." 
 
 The wolf rose in Young. He moved forward, 
 his ferocious soul flaming from his eyes. 
 
 " W'y, you damned seminary dude, I can break 
 you in two !" 
 
 An answering glare came into Will's eyes. Jle 
 grasped and slightly shook his fork, which he had 
 brought with him unconsciously. 
 
 " If you make one motion at me, I'll smash 
 your head like an egg-shell !" His voice was low 
 but terrific. There was a tone in it that made his 
 own blood stop in his veins. " If you think I'm 
 going to roll around on this ground with a hyeQa . 
 like you, you've mistaken your man. I'll Mil you, 
 but I won't Jight with such men as you are." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED R0AB8. . 25 
 
 Bill quailed and slunk away, muttering some 
 epithet like "coward." 
 
 " I don't care what you call me, but just re- 
 member what I say : you keep your tongue off 
 that girl's affairs." 
 
 " That's the talk !" said David. " Stand up for 
 your girl always, but don't use a fork. You can 
 handle him without that." 
 
 " I don't propose to try," said Will, as he 
 turned away. As he did so, he caught a glimpse 
 of Ed Kinney at the well, pumping a pail of water 
 for Agnes, who stood beside him, the sun on her 
 beautiful yellow hair. She was laughing at some- 
 thing Ed was saying . as he slowly moved the 
 handle up and down. 
 
 Instantly, like a foaming, turbid flood, his rage 
 swept out towards her. " It's all her fault," he - 
 thought, grinding his teeth. " She's a fool. If 
 she'd hold herself in like other girls ! But no ; 
 she must smile and smile at everybody." It was 
 a beautiful picture, but it sent a shiver through 
 him. 
 
 He worked on with teeth set, white with rage. 
 He had an impulse that would have made him 
 assault her with words as with a knife. He was 
 possessed with a terrible passion which was 
 hitherto latent in him, and which he now felt to 
 be his worst self. But he was powerless to ex- 
 orcise it. His set teeth ached with the stress of 
 
26 MAIN-TRAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 his muscular tension, and his eyes smarted with 
 the strain. 
 
 He had always prided himself on being cool, 
 calm, above these absurd quarrels that his com- 
 panions had so often indulged in. He didn't 
 suppose he could be so moved. As he worked on, 
 his rage settled down into a sort of stubborn bit- 
 terness — stubborn bitterness of conflict between 
 this evil nature and his usual self. It was the 
 instinct of possession, the organic feeling of pro- 
 prietorship of a woman, which rose to the sur- 
 face and mastered him. He was not a self-an- 
 alyst, of course, being young, though he was 
 more introspective than the ordinary farmer. 
 
 He had a great deal of time to think it over as 
 he worked on there, pitching the heavy bundles, 
 but still he did not get rid of the miserable desire 
 to punish Agnes ; and when she came out, look- 
 ing very pretty in her straw hat, and came around 
 near his stack, he knew she came to see him, to 
 have an explanation, a smile ; and yet he worked 
 away with his hat pulled over his eyes, hardly 
 noticing her. 
 
 Ed went over to the edge of the stack and 
 chatted with her ; and she — ^poor girl ! — ^feeling 
 Will's neglect, could only put a good face on the 
 matter, and show that she didn't mind it, by 
 laughing back at Ed. 
 
 All this "Will saw, though he didn't appear to 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLEB BO ADS. 27 
 
 be looking. And when Jim Wheelock — Dirty 
 Jim — with his whip in his hand, came up and 
 playfully pretended to pour oil on her hair, and 
 she laughingly struck at him with a handful of 
 straw. Will wouldn't have looked at her if she 
 had called him by name. 
 
 She looked so bright and charming in her 
 snowy apron and her boy's straw hat tipped 
 jauntily over one pink ear that David and Steve 
 and Bill, and even Shep, found a way to get a 
 word with her, and the poor fellows in the high 
 straw-pile looked their disappointment and shook 
 their forks in mock rage at the lucky dogs on the 
 ground. But Will worked on like a fiend, while 
 the dapples of light and shade fell on the bright 
 face of the merry girl. 
 
 To save his soul from hell-flames he couldn't 
 have gone over there and smiled at her. It was 
 impossible. A wall of bronze seemed to have /' 
 arisen between them. Yesterday, last night, ^ 
 seemed a dream. The clasp of her hands at his 
 neck, the touch of her lips, were like the caresses 
 of an ideal in some dim revery. 
 
 As night drew on, the men worked with a 
 steadier, more mechanical action. No one spoke 
 now. Each man was intent on his work. No one 
 had any strength or breath to waste. The driver 
 on his power changed his weight on weary feet, 
 and whistled and sang at the tired horses. The 
 
28 MAIN-TRAVELLEt) ROADS. 
 
 feeder, his face gray with dust, rolled the grain 
 into the cylinder so even, so steady, so swift that 
 it ran on with a sullen, booming roar. Far up on 
 the straw-pile the stackers worked with the 
 steady, rhythmic action of men rowing a boat, 
 their figures looming vague and dim in the flying 
 dust and chaff, outlined against the glorious yel- 
 low and orange-tinted clouds. 
 
 " Phe-e-eew-ee," whistled the driver with the 
 sweet, cheery, rising notes of a bird. " Chh, cJih, 
 chk I Phe-e-eew-ee. Go on there, boys ! Chk, 
 chk, chk ! Step up, there Dan, step up ! {Snap I) 
 Phe-e-eew-ee! G'-wan — g'-wan, g'-wan! Chk, 
 chk, chk ! Wheest, wheest, wheest ! Ghk, chk !" 
 
 In the house the women were setting the table 
 for supper. The sun had gone down behind the 
 oaks, flinging glorious rose-color and orange 
 shadows along the edges of the slate-blue clouds." 
 Agnes stopped her work at the kitchen window 
 to look up at the sky, and cry silently. " What 
 was the matter with Will ?" She felt a sort of 
 distrust of him now. She thought she knew him 
 so well, but now he was so strange. 
 
 " Come, Aggie," said Mrs. Dingman, " they're 
 gettin' most down to the bottom of the stack. 
 They'll be pilin' in here soon." 
 
 " Phe-e-eew-ee ! G'-wan, Doll ! G'-wan, boys'! 
 Chk, chk, chk ! Phe-e-eew-ee !" called the driver 
 out in the dusk, cheerily swinging the whip ove! 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 29 
 
 tlie horses' backs. Boom-oo-oo-oom ! roared the 
 machine, with a muffled, monotonous, solemn 
 tone. " G'-wan, boys ! G'-wan, g'-wan !" 
 
 Will had worked unceasingly all day. His 
 muscles ached with fatigue. " His hands trembled. 
 He clenched his teeth, however, and worked on, 
 determined not to yield. He wanted them to 
 understand that he could do as much pitching as 
 any of them, and read Caesar's Commentaries be- 1 
 sides. It seemed as if each bundle were the last 
 he could raise. The sinews of his wrist pained 
 him so, they seemed swollen to twice their nat- 
 ural size. But still he worked on grimly, while 
 the dusk fell and the air grew chill. 
 
 At last the bottom bundle was pitched up, and 
 he got down on his knees to help scrape the loose 
 wheat into baskets. What a sweet relief it was 
 to kneel down, to release the fork and let the 
 worn and cramping muscles settle into rest ! A 
 new note came into the driver's voice, a soothing 
 tone, fidl of kindness and admiration for the work 
 his team had done. 
 
 "Wo-o-o, lads! Stiddy-y-y, boys! Wo-o-o, 
 there, Dan. Stiddy, stiddy, old man ! 5b, there!" 
 The cylinder took on a lower key, with short ris- 
 ing yells, as it ran empty for a moment. The 
 horses had been going so long that they came to 
 a stop reluctantly. At last David called, " Turn 
 out!" The men seized the ends of the sweep. 
 
V 
 
 30 MAm-TBAVBLLISD BO ADS. 
 
 David uncoupled the tumbling-rods, and Shep 
 threw a sheaf of grain into the cylinder, choking 
 it into silence. 
 
 The stillness and the dusk were very impres- 
 sive. So long had the bell-metal cog-wheel sung 
 its deafening song into Will's ear that, as he 
 walked away into the dusk, he had a weird feeling 
 of being suddenly deaf, and his legs were so numb 
 that he could hardly feel the earth. He stumbled 
 away like a man paralyzed. 
 
 He took out his handkerchief, wiped the dust 
 from his face as best he could, shook his coat, 
 dusted his shoulders with a grain-sack, and was 
 starting away, when Mr. Dingman, a rather feeble 
 elderly man, came up. 
 
 " Come, Will, supper's all ready. Go ia and 
 eat." 
 
 "I guess I'll go home to supper." 
 
 " Oh no, that won't do. The women' 11 be ex- 
 pecting yeh to stay." 
 
 The men were laughing at the well, the warm 
 yellow light shone from the kitchen, the chill air 
 making it seem very inviting, and she was there, 
 waiting ! But the demon rose in him. He knew 
 Agnes would expect him, that she would cry that 
 night with disappointment, but his face hardened. 
 " I guess I'll go home," he said, and his tone was 
 relentless. He turned and walked away, hungry, 
 tired — so tired he stumbled, and so unhappy he 
 could have wept. 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED BOABS. 31 
 
 II. 
 
 On Thursday the county fair was to be held. 
 The fair is one of the gala-days of the year in the 
 country districts of the "West, and one of the times 
 when the country lover rises above expense to 
 the extravagance of hiring a top-biiggy in which 
 to take his sweetheart to the neighboring town. 
 
 It was customary to prepare for this long 
 beforehand, for the demand for top-buggies was 
 so great the liverymen grew dictatorial and took 
 no chances. Slowly but surely the country beaux 
 began to compete with the clerks, and in many 
 cases actually outbid them, as they furnished 
 their own horses and could bid higher, in conse- 
 quence, on the carriages. 
 
 Will had secured his brother's " rig," and early 
 on Thursday morning he was at work, busily 
 washing the mud from the carriage, dusting the 
 cushions, and polishing up the buckles and 
 rosettes on his horses' harnesses. It was a beau- 
 tiful, crisp, clear dawn — the ideal day for a ride ; 
 and Will was singing as he worked. He had re- 
 gained his real self, and, having passed through '^ 
 a bittpr period of shame, was now joyous witli 
 anticipation of forgiveness. He looked forward \ 
 to the day with its chances of doing a thousand I 
 little things to show his regret and his love. / 
 
32 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 He had not seen Agnes since Monday, because 
 Tuesday be did not go back to help thresh, and 
 "Wednesday he had been obliged to go to town 
 to see about board for the coming term ; but he 
 felt sure of her. It had all been arranged the 
 Sunday before; she'd expect him, and he was 
 to call at eight o'clock. 
 
 He polished up the colts with merry tick-tack 
 of the brush and comb, and after the last stroke 
 on their shining limbs, threw his tools in the box 
 and went to the house. 
 
 "Pretty sharp last night," said his brother 
 John, who was scrubbing his face at the cistern. 
 
 " Should say so by that rim of ice," WUl re- 
 plied, dipping his hands into the icy water. 
 
 "I ought'o stay home to-day an' dig tates," 
 continued the older man, thoughtfully, as they 
 went into the wood-shed and wiped consecutively 
 on the long roller-towel. " Some o' them Early 
 Eose lay right on top o' the ground. They'll 
 get nipped sure." 
 
 " Oh, I guess not. You'd better go. Jack ; you 
 don't get away very often. And then it would dis- 
 appoint Nettie and the children so. Their 
 little hearts are overflowing," he ended, as the 
 door opened and two sturdy little boys rushed 
 out. 
 
 "B'ekfuss, poppa; all yeady!" 
 
 The kitchen table was set near the stove ; the 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 33 
 
 room -was full of sun, and the smell of sizzling 
 sausages and the aroma of coffee filled the room. 
 The kettle was doing its duty cheerily, and the 
 ■wife with flushed face and smiling eyes was hur- 
 rying to and fro, her heart full of anticipation of 
 the day's outing. 
 
 There was a hilarity almost like some strange 
 intoxication on the part of the two children. 
 They danced, and chattered, and clapped their 
 chubby brown hands, and ran to the windows 
 ceaselessly. 
 
 " Is yuncle Will goin' yide nour buggy ?" 
 "Yus; the buggy and the colts." 
 " Is he goin' to take his girl ?" 
 WUl blushed a little and John roared. 
 " Yes, I'm goin'—" 
 " Is Aggie your girl ?" 
 
 "H'yer! h'yer! young man," called John, 
 " you're gettin' personal." 
 
 " Well, set up," said Nettie, and with a good 
 deal of clatter they drew around the cheerful 
 table. 
 
 Will had already begun to see the pathos, the 
 pitiful significance of this great joy over a day's 
 outing, and he took himself a little to task at his 
 own selfish freedom. He resolved to stay at 
 home some time and let Nettie go in his place. 
 A few hours in' the middle of the day on Sunday, 
 three or four holidays in summer ; the rest for 
 
34 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROABS. 
 
 tliis cheerfTil little wife and her patient husband 
 was work — work that someway accomplished so 
 little and left no trace on their souls that was 
 beautiful. 
 
 While they were eating breakfast, teams began 
 to clatter by, huge lumber-wagons with three 
 seats across, and a boy or two jouncing up and 
 down with the dinner-baskets near the end-gate. 
 The children rushed to the window each time to 
 announce who it was, and how many there were in- 
 
 But as Johnny said " firteen" each time, and 
 Ned wavered between " seven" and " sixteen," it 
 was doubtful if they could be relied upon. They 
 had very little appetite, so keen was their antici- 
 pation of the ride and the wonderful sights before 
 them. Their little hearts shuddered with joy at 
 every fresh token of preparation — a joy that made 
 Will say, " Poor little men !" 
 
 They vibrated between the house and the barn 
 while the chores were being finished, and their 
 happy cries started the young roosters into a 
 renewed season of crowing. And when at last 
 the wagon was brought out and the horses hitched 
 to it, they danced like mad sprites. 
 
 After they had driven away. Will brought out 
 the colts, hitched them in, and drove them to the 
 hitching-post. Then he leisurely dressed him- 
 self in his best suit, blacked his boots with con- 
 siderable exertion, and at about 7.30 o'clock' 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 35 
 
 climbed into his carriage and gathered up the 
 reins. 
 
 He was quite happy again. The crisp, bracing 
 air, the strong pull of the spirited young team 
 put all thought of sorrow behind him. He had 
 planned it all out. He would first put his arm 
 around her and kiss her — there would not need to 
 be any words to tell her how sorry and ashamed 
 he was. She would know ! 
 
 Now, when he was alone and going toward her 
 on a beautiful morning, the anger and bitterness 
 of Monday fled away, became unreal, and the 
 sweet dream of the Sunday parting grew the re- 
 ality. She was waiting for him now. She had 
 on her pretty blue dress, and the wide hat that 
 always made her look so arch. He had said 
 about eight o'clock. 
 
 The swift team was carrying him along the 
 cross-road, which was little travelled, and he was 
 alone with his thoughts. He fell again upon his 
 plans. Another year at school for them both, 
 and then he'd go into a law-office. Judge Brown 
 had told him he'd give him — 
 
 "Whoa! HoP' 
 
 There was a swift lurch that sent him flying 
 over the dasher. A confused vision of a roadside 
 ditch full of weeds and bushes, and then he felt 
 the reins in his hands and heard the snorting 
 horses trample on the hard road. 
 
36 MAIN-TBAVELLED XiOADB. 
 
 He rose dizzy, bruised, and covered with dust. 
 The team he held securely and soon quieted. He 
 saw the cause of it all : the right fore-wheel had 
 come off, letting the front of the buggy drop. He 
 unhitched the excited team from the carriage, 
 drove them to the fence and tied them securely, 
 then went back to find the wheel, and the " nut " 
 whose failure to hold its place had done all the 
 mischief. He soon had the wheel on, but to find 
 the hurr was a harder task. Back and forth he 
 ranged, looking, scraping in the dust, searching 
 the weeds. 
 
 He knew that sometimes a wheel will run with- 
 out the burr for many rods before coming off, 
 and so each time he extended his search. He 
 traversed the entire half-mile several times, each 
 time his rage and disappointment getting more 
 bitter. He ground his teeth in a fever of vexa- 
 tion and dismay. 
 
 He had a vision of Agnes waiting, wondering 
 why he did not come. It was this vision that 
 kept him from seeing the burr in the wheel-track, 
 partly covered by a clod. Once he passed it 
 looking wildly at his watch, which was showing 
 nine o'clock. Another time he passed it with 
 eyes dimmed with a mist that was almost tears 
 of anger. 
 
 There is no contrivance that will replace an 
 axle-burr, and farm-yards have no unused axle- 
 
main-Travelled bo ads. 37 
 
 burrs, and so Will searched. Each moment he 
 said : " I'll give it up, get onto one of the horses, 
 and go down and tell her." But searching for a 
 lost axle-burr is like fishing : the searcher expects 
 each moment to find it. And so he groped, and 
 ran breathlessly, furiously, back and forth, and 
 at last kicked away the clod that covered it, and 
 hurried, hot and dusty, cursing his stupidity, back 
 to the team. 
 
 It was ten o'clock as he climbed again into the 
 buggy and started his team on a swift trot down 
 the road. What wovld she think ? He saw her 
 now with tearful eyes and pouting lips. She was 
 sitting at the window, with hat and gloves on ; 
 the rest had gone, and she was waiting for him. 
 
 But she'd knoio something had happened, be- 
 cause he had promised to be there at eight. He 
 had told her what team he'd have. (He had for- 
 gotten at this moment the doubt and distrust he 
 had given her on Monday.) She'd know he'd 
 surely come. 
 
 But there was no smiling or tearful face watch- 
 ing at the window as he came down the lane at a 
 tearing pace and turned into the yard. The house 
 was silent and the curtains down. The silence 
 sent a chill to his heart. Something rose up in 
 his throat to choke him. 
 
 "Agnes!" he called. "Hello! I'm here at 
 last!" 
 
38 MAIN-TBAVBLLED BO ADS. 
 
 There was no reply. As he sat there, the part 
 tie had played on Monday came back to him. 
 3he may be sick ! he thought, with a cold thrill 
 af fear. 
 
 An old man came around the corner of the 
 bouse with a potato-fork in his hands, his teeth 
 iisplayed in a grin. 
 
 "She ain't here. She's gone." 
 
 " Gone !" 
 
 " Yes — more'n an hour ago." 
 
 "Who'd she go with?" 
 
 "Ed Kinney," said the old fellow, with a ma- 
 licious grin. " I guess your goose is cooked." 
 
 Will lashed the horses into a run and swung 
 round the yard and out of the gate. His face 
 was white as a dead man's, and his teeth were set 
 like a vise. He glared straight ahead. The team 
 ran wildly, steadily homeward, while their driver 
 guided them unconsciously. He did not see 
 bhem. His mind was filled with a tempest of 
 rages, despairs, and shames. 
 
 That ride he will never forget. In it he threw 
 away all his plans. He gave up his year's school- 
 ing. He gave up his law aspirations. He de- 
 serted his brother and his friends. In the dizzy- 
 ing whirl of passions he had only one clear idea 
 —to get away, to go West, to get away from the 
 sneers and laughter of his neighbors, and to 
 make her suffer by it all. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 39 
 
 He drove into the yard, did not stop to unhar- 
 ness the teain.but rushed into the house and began 
 packing his trunk. His plan was formed, which 
 was to drive to Cedarville and hire some one to 
 bring the team back. He had no thought of any- 
 thing but the shame, the insult she had put upon 
 him. Her action on Monday took on the same 
 levity it wore then, and excited him in the same 
 way. He saw her laughing with Ed over his dis- 
 may. He sat down and wrote a letter to her at 
 last — a letter that came from the ferocity of the 
 mediaeval savage in him : 
 
 "If you want to go to hell with Ed Kinney, 
 you can. I won't say a word. That's where he'll 
 take you. You won't see me again." 
 
 This he signed and sealed, and then he bowed 
 his head and wept like a girl. But his tears did 
 not soften the effect of the letter. It went as 
 straight to its mark as he meant it should. It 
 tore a seared and ragged path to an innocent, 
 happy heart, and he took a savage pleasure in the 
 thought of it as he rode away on the cars toward 
 the South. 
 
 III. 
 
 The seven years lying between 1880 and 1887 
 made a great change in Eock River and in the ad- 
 jacent farming land. Signs changed and firms 
 
40 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 went out of business witli characteristic Western 
 ease of shift. The trees grew rapidly, dwarfing 
 the houses beneath them, and contrasts of new- 
 ness and decay thickened. 
 
 "Will found the country changed, as he walked 
 along the dusty road from Rock River toward 
 " The Corners." The landscape was at its fairest 
 and liberalest, with its seas of corn deep green 
 and moving with a mournful rustle, in sharp con- 
 trast to its flashing blades ; its gleaming fields 
 of barley, and its wheat already mottled with 
 soft gold in the midst of its pea-green. 
 
 The changes were in the hedges, grown higher, 
 in the greater predominence of corn-fields and 
 cattle-pastures, but especially in the destruction 
 of homes. As he passed on Will saw the grass 
 growing and cattle feeding on a dozen places 
 where homes had once stood. They had given 
 place to the large farm and the stock-raiser. 
 Still the whole scene was bountiful and very 
 beautiful to the eye. 
 
 It was especially grateful to Will, for he had 
 spent nearly all his years of absence among the 
 rocks, treeless swells, and bleak cliffs of the 
 Southwest. The crickets rising before his dusty 
 feet appeared to him something s^eet and sug- 
 gestive and the cattle feeding in the clover moved 
 him to deep thought — they were so peaceful and 
 slow-motioned. 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 41 
 
 As he reached a little popple-tree by the road- 
 side-, he stopped, removed his broad-brimmed 
 hat, put his elbows on the fence, and looked 
 hungrily upon the scene. The sky was deeply 
 blue, with only here and there a huge, heavy, 
 slow-moving, massive, sharply-outlined cloud 
 sailing like a berg of ice in a shoreless sea of 
 azure. 
 
 In the fields the men were harvesting the 
 ripened oats and barley, and the sound of their 
 machines clattering, now low, now loud, came to 
 his ears. Flies buzzed near him, and a king- 
 bird clattered overhead. He noticed again, as 
 he had many a time when a boy, that the soft- 
 ened sound of the far-off reaper was at times 
 exactly like the hum of a blue-bottle fly buzzing 
 heedlessly about his ears. 
 
 A slender and very handsome young man was 
 shocking grain near the fence, working so des- 
 perately he did not see Will until greeted by 
 him. He looked up, replied to the greeting, but 
 kept on till he had finished his last stook ; then 
 he came to the shade of the tree and took off his 
 hat. 
 
 "Nice day to sit under a tree and fish." 
 
 Will smiled. "I ought to know you, I sup- 
 pose ; I used to live here years ago." 
 
 " Guess not ; we came in three years ago." 
 
42 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 The young man was quick-spoken and very 
 pleasant to look at. Will felt freer with him. 
 
 " Are the Kinnys stUl living over there ?" He 
 nodded at a group of large buildings. 
 
 " Tom lives there. Old man lives with Ed. 
 Tom ousted the old man someway, nobody seems 
 to know how, and so he lives with Ed." 
 
 Will wanted to ask after Agnes, but hardly 
 felt able. " I s'pose John Hannan is on his old 
 farm?" 
 
 " Yes. Got a good crop this year." 
 
 Will looked again at the fields of rustling 
 wheat over which the clouds rippled, and said 
 with an air of conviction : " This lays over Ari- 
 zony, dead sure." 
 
 " You're from Arizony, then?" 
 
 " Yes — a good ways from it," Will replied in a 
 way that stopped further question. " Good luck !" 
 he added, as he walked on down the road toward - 
 the creek, musing. 
 
 " And the spring — ^I wonder if that's there yet. 
 I'd like a drink." The sun seemed hotter than 
 at noon, and he walked slowly. At the bridge 
 that spanned the meadow, brook, just where it 
 widened over a sandy ford, he paused again. 
 He hung over the rail and looked at the minnows 
 swimming there. 
 
 "I wonder if they're the same identical chaps 
 that used to boil and glitter there when I was a 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLEB BO AD 8. 43 
 
 boy — looks so. Men change from one genera- 
 tion to another, but the fish remain the same. 
 The same eternal procession of types. I suppose 
 Darwin 'ud say their environment remains the, 
 same." 
 
 He hung for a long time over the railing, think- 
 ing of a vast number of things, mostly vague, 
 flitting things, looking into the clear depths of 
 the brook, and listening to the delicious liquid 
 note of a blackbird swinging on the willow. Eed 
 lilies starred the grass with fire, and golden-rod 
 and chicory grew everywhere ; purple and orange 
 and yellow-green the prevailing tints. 
 
 Suddenly a water-snake wriggled across the 
 dark pool above the ford, and the minnows 
 disappeared under the shadow of the bridge, 
 /^hen Will sighed, lifted his head, and walked on. 
 Vlhere seemed to be something prophetic in it, 
 and he drew a long breath. That's the way his 
 plans broke and faded awa#? 
 
 Human life does not move with the regularity 
 of a clock. - In living there are gaps and silences 
 when the soul stands still in its fiight through 
 abysses — and then there come times of trial and 
 times of struggle when we grow old without know- 
 ing it. Body and soul change appallingly. 
 
 Seven years of hard, busy life had made 
 changes in Will. 
 
44 MAIN-TRAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 His face liad grown bold, resolute, and rugged, 
 some of its delicacy and all of its boyisli quality 
 gone. His figure was stouter, erect as of old, 
 but less graceful. He bore bimself like a man 
 accustomed to look out for himself in all kinds 
 of places. It was only at times that there came 
 into his deep eyes a preoccupied, almost sad 
 look that showed kinship with his old self. 
 
 This look was on his face as he walked toward 
 the clump of trees on the right of the road. 
 
 He reached the grove of popple-trees, and 
 made his way at once to the spring. When he 
 saw it, it gave him a shock. They had let it fill 
 up with leaves and dirt. 
 
 Overcome by the memories of the past, he 
 flung himself down on the cool and shadowy 
 bank, and gave himself up to the bitter-sweet 
 reveries of a man returning to his boyhood's 
 home. He was filled somehow with a strange 
 and powerful feeling of the passage of time ; 
 with a vague feeling of the mystery and elusive- 
 Qess of human life. The leaves whispered it 
 overhead, the birds sang it in chorus with the in- 
 sects, and far above, in the measureless spaces of 
 3ky, the hawk told it in the silence and majesty j 
 Df his flight from cloud to cloud. 
 
 It was a feeling hardly to be expressed in 
 (vords — one of those emotions whose springs lie 
 far back in the brain. He lay so still, the chip- 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED HO ADS. 45 
 
 munks came curiously up to his very feet, only 
 to scurry away when lie stirred like a sleeper in 
 pain. 
 
 He had cut himself off entirely from the life 
 at The Corners. He had sent money home to 
 John, but had concealed his own address care- 
 fully. The enormity of this folly now came back 
 to him, racking him till he groaned. 
 
 He heard the patter of feet and the half-mum- 
 bled monologue of a running child. He roused 
 up and faced a small boy, who started back in 
 terror like a wild fawn. He was deeply surprised 
 to find a man there where only boys and squir- 
 rels now came. He stuck his fist in his eye, and 
 was backing away when Will spoke. 
 
 " Hold on, sonny ! Nobody's hit you. Come, 
 I ain't goin' to eat yeh." He took a bit of money 
 from his pocket. " Come here and tell me your 
 name. I want to talk with you." 
 
 The boy crept upon the dime. 
 
 Will smiled. " You ought to be a Kinney. 
 What is your name ?" 
 
 " Tbmath Dickinthon Kinney. I'm thix and a 
 half. I've got a colt," lisped the youngster, 
 breathlessly, as he crept toward the money. 
 
 " Oh, you are, eh ? Well, now, are you Tom's 
 boy or Ed's?" 
 
 " Tomth's boy. Uncle Ed hith gal — " 
 
 "Ed got a boy?" 
 
46 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Tetli, tliir — a lil baby. Aunt Agg letth me 
 hold 'im." 
 
 " Agg ! Is that her name ?" 
 
 " That's what Uncle Ed callth her." 
 
 The man's head fell, and it was a long time be- 
 fore he asked his next question. 
 
 " How is she, anyhow ?" 
 
 " Purty well," piped the boy, with a prolong- 
 ation of the last words into a kind of ch&p. 
 " She'th been thick, though," he added. 
 
 " Been sick ? How long ? " 
 
 " Oh, a long time. But she aint thick abed ; 
 she'th awful poor, though, Gran'pa thayth she'th 
 poor ath a rake." 
 
 "Oh, he does, eh?" 
 
 " Teth, thir. Uncle Ed he jawth her, then she 
 crieth." 
 
 Will's anger and remorse broke out in a groan- 
 ing curse. " O my God ! I see it all. That great 
 lunkin houn' has made life a hell fer her." 
 Then that letter came back to his mind ; he had 
 never been able to put it out of his mind — he 
 never would till he saw her and asked her par- 
 don. 
 
 " Here, my boy, I want you to tell me., some 
 more. Where does your Aunt Agnes live ?" 
 
 " At gran'pa' th. You know where my gran'pa 
 livth?" 
 
 "Well, you do. Now I want you to take this 
 
MAIN- TRAVELLED ROADS. 47 
 
 letter to her. Give it to her." He wrote a little 
 note and folded it. "Now dust out o' here." 
 
 The boy slipped away through the trees like 
 a rabbit ; his little brown feet hardly rustled. He 
 was like some little wood-animal. Left alone, the 
 man went back into a revery that lasted till the 
 shadows fell on the thick little grove around the 
 spring. He rose at last and, taking his stick in 
 hand, walked out to the wood again and stood 
 there, gazing "at the sky. He seemed loath to 
 go farther. The sky was full of flame-colored 
 clouds floating in a yellow-green sea, where bars 
 of faint pink streamed broadly away. 
 
 As he stood there, feeling the wind lift -his hair, 
 listening to the crickets' ever-present crying, and 
 facing the majesty of space, a strange sadness 
 and despair came into his eyes. 
 
 Drawing a quick breath, he leaped the fence 
 and was about going on up the road, when he 
 heard, at a little distance, the sound of a drove 
 of cattle approaching, and he stood aside to allow 
 them to pass. They snuffed and shied at the 
 silent figure by the fence, and hurried by with 
 snapping heels — a peculiar sound that made the 
 man smile with pleasure. 
 
 An old man was driving the cows, crying out : 
 " St, boy, there ! Go on, there. Whay, boss !" 
 "Will knew that hard-featured, wiry old man, 
 now entering his second childhood and beginning 
 
48 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 to limp painfully. He had his hands full of hard 
 clods which he threw impatiently at the lumber- 
 ing animals. 
 
 " Good-evening, uncle !" . 
 
 " I ain't y'r uncle, young man." 
 
 His dim eyes did not recognize the boy he had 
 chased out of his plum-patch years before. 
 
 " I don't know yeh, neither." 
 
 " Oh, you will, later on. I'm from the East. 
 I'm a sort of a relative to John Hannan." 
 
 " I wanto know if y' be !" the old man ex- 
 claimed, peering closer. 
 
 "Yes. I'm just up from Bock Biver. John's 
 harvesting, I s'pose?" 
 
 " Yus." 
 
 " Where's the youngest one — Will ?" 
 
 " William ? Oh ! he's a bad aig — he lit out 
 f'r the West somewhere. He was a hard boy. 
 He stole a hatful o' my plums once. He left 
 home kind o' sudden. He ! he ! I s'pose he was 
 purty well cut up jest about them days." 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 The old man chuckled. 
 
 " Well, y' see, they was both courtin' Agnes 
 then, an' my son cut William out. Then Will- 
 iam he lit out f'r the West, Arizony 'r Califor- 
 nia 'r somewhere out West. Never been back 
 sence." 
 
 "Ain't, heh?" 
 
MAm-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 49 
 
 " No. But they say he's makin' a terrible lot o' 
 money," the old man said in a hushed voice. 
 " But the way he makes it is awful scaly. I tell 
 my wife if I had a son like that an' he'd send me 
 home a bushel-basket o' money, earnt like that, 
 I wouldn't touch finger to it — no, sir !" 
 
 " You wouldn't ? Why ?" 
 
 " 'Cause it ain't right. It ain't made right no 
 way, you—" 
 
 "But how is it made? What's the feller's 
 trade ?" 
 
 " He^a_a.gaiHbierr=-that's his trade ! He plays 
 cards, and every cent is bloody. I wouldn't touch 
 such money no how you could fix it." 
 
 " Wouldn't, hay ?" the young man straight- 
 ened up. " " Well, look-a-here, old man : did 
 you ever hear of a man foreclosing a mortgage on 
 a widow and two boys, getting a farm f'r one 
 quarter what it was really worth ? You damned 
 old hypocrite ! I know all about you and your 
 whole tribe — you old blood-sucker !" 
 
 The old man's jaw fell ; he began to back 
 away. 
 
 " Your neighbors tell some good stories about 
 you. Now skip along after those cows or I'll 
 tickle your old legs for you !" 
 
 The old man, appalled and dazed at this sud- 
 den change of manner, backed away, and at last 
 turned and racked off up the road, looking back 
 
50 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 with a wild face at wMch the young man laughed 
 remorselessly. 
 
 " The doggoned old skeesucks !" Will solilo- 
 quized as he walked up thevroad. " So that's the 
 kind of a character he's been givin' me !" 
 
 " Hullo ! A whipporwill. Takes a man back 
 into childhood — No, don't ' whip poor WiM;' he's 
 got all he can bear now." 
 
 He came at last to the little farm DingmaQ had 
 owned, and he stopped in sorrowful surprise. 
 The barn had been moved away, the garden 
 plowed up, and and the house turned into a 
 granary, stood with boards nailed across its 
 dusty cobwebbed windows. The tears started 
 into the man's eyes ; he stood staring at it 
 silently. 
 
 In the face of this hou-se the seven years that 
 he had last liveJ stretched away into a wild 
 waste of time. It stood as a symbol of his 
 wasted, ruined life. It was personal, intimately 
 personal, this decay of her home. 
 
 All that last scene came back to him : the 
 booming roar of the threshing-machine, the 
 cheery whistle of the driver, the loud, merry 
 shouts of the men. He remembered how warmly 
 the lamp-light streamed out of that door as he 
 turned away tired, hungry, sullen with rage and 
 jealousy. Oh, if he had only had the courage of 
 a man !" 
 
MAIN-TRAYELLED ROADS. 51 
 
 Then he thought of the boy's words. She was 
 sick. Ed abused her. She had met her punish- 
 ment. A hundred times he had been over the 
 whole scene. A thousand times he had seen her 
 at the pump smiling at Ed Kinney, the sun light- 
 ing her bare head ; and he never thought of it 
 without hardening. 
 
 At this very gate he had driven up that last 
 forenoon ; to find that she had gone with Ed. He 
 had lived that sickening, depressing moment over 
 many times, but not times enough to keep down 
 the bitter passion he had felt then, and felt now 
 as he went over it in detail. 
 
 He was so happy and confident that morning, 
 so perfectly certain that all would be made right 
 by a kiss and a cheery jest. And now ! Here he 
 stood sick with despair and doubt of all the 
 world. He turned away from the desolate home- 
 stead and walked on. 
 
 " But I'll see her — just once more. And 
 then—" 
 
 And again the mighty significance, responsibil- 
 ity of life fell upon him. He felt as young people 
 seldom do the irrevocableness of living, the deter- 
 minate, unalterable character of living. He deter- 
 mi ned to begin to live in some new w ay — jiist how 
 he could not say. 
 
53 MAm-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Old man Kinney and his wife were getting 
 their Sunday-school lessons with much bickering, 
 when Will drove up the next day to the dilapidated 
 gate and hitched his team to a leaning-post un- 
 der the oaks. Will saw the old man's head at 
 the open window, but no one else, though he 
 looked eagerly for Agnes as he walked up the 
 familiar path. There stood the great oak under 
 whose shade he had grown to be a man. How 
 close the great tree seemed to stand to his heart, 
 someway ! As the wind stirred in the leaves, it 
 was like a rustle of greeting. 
 
 In that low old house they had all lived, and 
 his mother had toiled for thirty years. A sort of 
 prison after all. There they were all born, and 
 there his father and his little sister had died. 
 And then it had passed into old Kinney's hands. 
 
 Walking along up the path he felt a serious 
 weakness in his limbs, and he made a pretence of 
 stopping to look at a flower-bed containing nothing 
 but weeds. After seven years of separation he 
 M'as about to face once more the woman whose 
 life came so near being a part of his — ^Agnes, now 
 a wife and a mother. 
 
 How would she look ? Would her face have 
 that old-time peachy bloom, her mouth that 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD BO ADS. 53 
 
 peculiar beautiful curve ? She was large and 
 fair, lie recalled, hair yellow and shining, eyes 
 blue — 
 
 He roused himself. This was nonsense ! He 
 was trembling. He composed himself by looking 
 around again. 
 
 " The old scoundrel has let the weeds choke out 
 the flowers and surround the bee-hives. Old 
 man Kinney never believed in anything but a 
 petty utility." 
 
 Will set his teeth, and marched up to the door 
 and struck it like a man delivering a challenge. 
 Kinney opened the door, and started back in fear 
 when he saw who it was. 
 
 " How de do ? How de do ? " said Will, walking 
 in, his eyes fixed on a woman seated beyond, a 
 child in her lap. 
 
 Agnes rose, without a word ; a fawn-like, 
 startled widening of the eyes, her breath coming 
 quick, and her face flushing. They couldn't 
 speak ; they only look at each other an instant, 
 then Will shivered, passed his hand over his eyes 
 and sat down. 
 
 There was no one there but the old people, who 
 were looking at him in bewilderment. They 
 did not notice any confusion in Agnes's face. She 
 recovered first. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you back. Will," she said, 
 rising and putting the sleeping child down in a 
 
54 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 neighboring room. As she gave him her hand, 
 he said: 
 
 " I'm glad to get back, Agnes. I hadn't ought 
 to have gone." Then he turned to the old people.: 
 " I'm Will Hannan. You needn't be scared, Dad- 
 dy ; I was jokin' last night." 
 
 " Dew tell ! I wanto know! " exclaimed granny. 
 " Wal I never ! An, you're my little WUly 
 boy who ust 'o be in my class. Well ! well ! 
 W'y, pa, ain't he growed tall ! Growed handsome 
 tew. I ust 'o think he was a dretfid humly boy ; 
 but my sakes, that mustache — " 
 
 " Wal, he give me a turrible scare last night. 
 My land ! scared me out of a year's growth," 
 cackled the old man. 
 
 This gave them all a chance to laugh and the 
 air was cleared. It gave Agnes time to recover 
 herself, and to be able to meet Will's eyes. Will 
 himself was powerfully moved; his throat swelled 
 and tears came to his eyes every time he looked 
 at her. 
 
 She was worn and wasted incredibly. The blue 
 of her eyes seemed dimmed and faded by weep- 
 /' ing, and the old-time scarlet of her lips had been 
 'washed away. The sinews of her neck showed 
 'painfully when she turned her head, and her 
 trembling hands were worn, discolored, and 
 lumpy at the joints. 
 
 Poor girl ! She felt that she was under scru- 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED ROADS. 55 
 
 tiny, and her eyes felt hot and restless. She 
 wished to run away and cry, but she dared not. 
 She stayed, while Will began to tell her of his life 
 and to ask questions about old friends. 
 
 The old people took it up and relieved her of 
 any share in it ; and Will, seeing that she was suf- 
 fering, told some funny stories which made the 
 old people cackle in spite of themselves. 
 
 But it was forced merriment on Will's part. 
 Once in a while Agnes smiled with just a little 
 flash of the old-time sunny temper. But there 
 was no dimple in the cheek now, and the smile had 
 more suggestion of an invalid — or even a skele- 
 ton. He was almost ready to take her in his 
 arms and weep, her face appealed so pitifully to 
 him. 
 
 " It's most time f 'r Ed to be gittin' back, ain't 
 it, pa ?" 
 
 " Sh'd say 'twas ! He jist went over to Hob- 
 kirk's to trade horses. It's dretful tryin' to me 
 to have him go off tradin' horses on Sunday. 
 Seems if he might wait till a rainy day, 'r do it 
 evenin's. I never did believe in horse-tradin' 
 anyhow." 
 
 "Have y' come back to stay, Willie?" asked 
 the old lady. 
 
 "Well — it's hard — tellin," answered Will, 
 looking at Agnes. 
 
 " Well, Agnes, ain't you goin' to get no dinner ? 
 
56 MAm-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 I'm 'bout ready fr dinner. We must git to 
 church early to-day. Elder Wheat is goin' to 
 preach an' they'll be a crowd. He's goin' to 
 hold communion." 
 
 " You'll stay to dinner, Will ?" asked Agnes. 
 
 "Yes— if you wish it." 
 
 " I do wish it." 
 
 " Thank you ; I want to have a good visit with 
 you. I don't know when I'll see you- again." 
 
 As she moved about, getting dinner on the 
 table, Will sat with gloomy face, listening to the 
 " clack " of the old man. The room was a poor 
 little sitting-room, with furniture worn and 
 shapeless ; hardly a touch of pleasant color, save 
 here and there a little bit of Agnes's handiwork. 
 The lounge, covered with calico, was rickety; 
 the rocking-chair matched it, and the carpet of 
 rags was patched and darned with twine in 
 twenty places. Everywhere was the influence of 
 the Kinneys. The furniture looked like them , in 
 fact. 
 
 Agnes was outwardly calm, but her real dis- 
 traction did not escape" Mrs. Kinney's hawk-like 
 eyes. 
 
 " Well, I declare if you hain't put the butter 
 on in one o' my blue chainy saucers ! Now you 
 know I'don't allow that saucer to be took down by 
 nobody. I don't see what's got into yeh. Any- 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 57 
 
 body'd s'pose you never see any comp'ny b'fore 
 — wouldn't they, pa?" 
 
 "Sh'd say tli' would," said pa, stopping short 
 in a long story about Ed. " Seems if we couldn't 
 keep anything in this house sep'rit from the rest. 
 Ed he uses my curry-comb — " 
 
 He launched out a long list of grievances, 
 which Will shut his ears to as completely as pos- 
 sible, and was thinking how to stop him, when 
 there was a sudden crash. Agnes had dropped 
 a plate. 
 
 " Good land o' Goshen !" screamed Granny. " If 
 you ain't the worst I ever see. I'll bet that's my 
 grapevine plate. If it is — well, of all the mer- 
 cies, it ain't ! But it might 'a' ben. I never see 
 your beat — never ! That's the third plate since 
 I came to live here." 
 
 "Oh, look-a-here. Granny," said "Will, desper- 
 ately. "Don't make so much fuss about the 
 plate. What's it worth, anyway? Here's a 
 dollar." 
 
 Agnes cried quickly : 
 
 " Oh, don't do that. Will ! It ain't her plate. 
 It's my plate, and I can break every plate in the 
 house if I want'o," she cried defiantly. 
 
 " Course you can," Will agreed. 
 
 " Well, she can't ! Not while Tm around," put 
 in Daddy. "I've helped to pay f'r them plates, 
 if she does call 'em he^n — " 
 
58 MAIN-TRAVELLBI) BO ADS. 
 
 "What the devul is all this row about? Agg, 
 can't you get along without stirring up the old 
 folks every time I'm out o' the house ?" 
 
 The speaker was Ed, now a tall and slouchily- 
 dressed man of thirty two or three; his face 
 still handsome in a certain dark, cleanly-cut style, 
 but he wore a surly look and lounged along in a 
 sort of hang-dog style, in greasy overalls and 
 vest unbuttoned. 
 
 " Hello, Will ! I heard you'd got home. John 
 told me as I came along." 
 
 They shook hands, and Ed slouched down on 
 the lounge. Will could have kicked him for lay- 
 ing the blame of the dispute upon Agnes; it 
 showed him in a flash just how he treated her. 
 He disdained to quarrel ; he simply silenced and 
 dominated her. 
 
 Will asked a few questions about crops, with 
 such grace as he could show, and Ed, with keen 
 eyes in his face, talked easily and stridently. 
 
 " Dinner ready ?" he asked of Agnes. " Where's 
 Pete?" 
 
 'f He's asleep," 
 
 " All right. Let 'im sleep. Well, let's go out 
 an' set 'up. Come, Dad, sling away that Bible 
 and come to grub. Mother, what the devul are 
 you sniffling at ? Say, now, look here. If I hear 
 any more about this row, I'll simply let you walk 
 down to meeting. Come, Will, set up." 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLEI) ROADS. 59 
 
 He led the way out into the little kitchen where 
 the dinner was set. 
 
 "What was the row about? Hain't been 
 breakin' some dish, Agg?" 
 
 " Tes, she has." 
 
 "One o' the blue ones?" winked Ed. 
 
 " No, thank goodness, it was a white one." 
 
 " Well, now, I'll git into that dod-gasted cub- 
 berd some day an' break the whole eternal 
 outfit. I ain't goin' to have this damned jawin' 
 goin' on," he ended, brutally unconscious of his 
 own " jawin'." 
 
 After this the dinner proceeded in comparative 
 silence, Agnes sobbing under breath. The room 
 was small and very hot ; the table was warped so 
 badly that the dishes had a tendency to slide to 
 the centre ; the walls were bare plaster grayed' 
 with time ; the food was poor and scant, and the 
 flies absabitelj swarmed upon everything, like 
 bees. Otherwise the room was clean and or- 
 derly. 
 
 " They say you've made a pile o' money out 
 West, Bill. I'm glad of it. We fellers back 
 here don't make anything. It's a dam tight 
 squeeze. Agg, it seems to me the flies are dev- 
 Uish thick to-day. Can't you drive 'em out ?" 
 
 Agnes felt that she must vindicate herself a 
 little. 
 
 " I do drive 'em out, but they come- right in 
 
60 MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 again. The screen-door is broken and they come 
 right in." 
 
 " I told Dad to /a; that door." 
 
 " But he won't do it for me." 
 
 Ed rested his elbows on the table and fixed his 
 bright black eyes on his father. 
 
 " Say, what d'you mean by actin' like a mule ? 
 I swear I'll trade you off f'r a yaller dog. What 
 do I keep you round here for anyway — to look 
 purty?" 
 
 " I guess I've as good a right here as you have, 
 Ed Kinney." 
 
 " Oh, go soak y'r head, old man. If you don't 
 tend out here a little better, down goes your 
 mfeat-house ! I won't drive you down to meetin' 
 till you promise to fix that door. Hear me !" 
 
 Daddy began to snivel. Agnes could not look 
 up for shame. Will felt sick. Ed laughed. 
 
 " I kin bring the old man to terms that way ; 
 he can't walk very well late years, an' he can't 
 drive my colt. Tou know what a cuss I used to 
 be about fast nags? Well, I'm just the same. 
 Hobkirk's got a colt I want. Say, that re- 
 minds me : your team's out there by the fence. 
 I forgot. I'll go and put 'em up." 
 
 "No, never mind; I can't stay but a few 
 minutes." 
 
 " Goin' to be round the country long ?" 
 
 " A week — maybe." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 61 
 
 Agnes looked up a moment, and then let her 
 eyes fall. 
 
 " Goin' back West, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " No. May go East, to Europe mebbe." 
 
 " The devul y' say ! You must 'a' made a ten- 
 strike out West." 
 
 " They say it didn't come lawful," piped Daddy, 
 over his blackberries and milk. 
 
 " Oh, you shet up. Who wants your put-in ? 
 Don't work in any o' your Bible on us." 
 
 Daddy rose to go into the other room. 
 
 " Hold on, old man. You goin' to fix that 
 door?" 
 
 " Course I be," quavered he. 
 
 " Well see't y' do, that's all. Now git on y'r 
 duds, an' I'll go an' hitch up." He rose from the 
 table. " Don't keep me waiting." 
 
 He went out unceremoniously, and Agnes was 
 alone with Will. 
 
 " Do you go to church ?" he asked. She shook 
 her head. " No, I don't go anywhere now. I 
 have too much to do ; I haven't strength left. 
 And I'm not fit anyway." 
 
 " Agnes, I want to say sometHng to you ; not 
 now — after they're gone." 
 
 He went into the other room, leaving her to 
 wash the dinner-things. She worked on in a 
 curious, almost dazed way, a dream of some- 
 thing sweet and irrevocable in her eyes. He 
 
62 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 represented so much to her. His voice brougl 
 ^^up times and places that thrilled her like sonj 
 \ He was associated with all that was sweetest an 
 most care-free and most girlish in her life^ 
 
 Ever since the boy had handed her that not 
 she had been re-living those days. In the mids 
 ^of her drudgery she stopped to dream — to le 
 some picture come back into her mind. She wa 
 a student again at the seminary, and stood in th 
 recitation-room with suffocating beat of the hean 
 Will was waiting outside — waiting in a tremo 
 like her own, to walk home with her under th 
 maples. 
 
 Then she remembered the painfully sweet mis 
 ture of pride and fear with which she walked u 
 the aisle of the little church behind him. He 
 pretty new gown rustled, the dim light of th 
 church had something like romance in it, and h 
 was so strong and handsome. Her heart wen 
 o^ in a great silent cry to God — 
 
 " Oh, let me be a girl again !" 
 
 She did not look forward to happiness. Sh 
 j hadn't power to look forward at all. 
 
 As she worked, she heard the high, shrill voice 
 of the old people as they bustled about am 
 nagged at each other. 
 
 " Ma, where's my specticles ?" 
 
 " I ain't seen y'r specticles." 
 
 "You have, too." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 63 
 
 "I ain't neither." 
 
 " You had 'em this forenoon." 
 
 " Didn't no such thing. Them was my own 
 brass-bowed ones. You had yourn jest 'fore goin' 
 to dinner. If you'd put 'em into a proper place 
 you'd find 'em again." 
 
 " I want'o know if I would," the old man 
 snorted. 
 
 "Wal, you'd orter know." 
 
 " Oh, you're awful smart, ain't yeh ? Tou never 
 have no trouble, and use mine — do yeh?^ — an' 
 lose 'em so't I can't — " 
 
 " And if this is the thing that goes on when I'm 
 here, it must be hell when visitors are gone," 
 thought WiU. 
 
 " Willy, ain't you goin' to meetin' ?" 
 
 "No, not to-day. I want to visit a, little with 
 Agnes, then I've got to drive back to John's." ^ 
 
 " Wal, we must be goin'. Don't you leave ">^ 
 them dishes fr me to wash," she screamed at o^ 
 Agnes as she went out the door. " An' if wet- -f 
 don't get home by five,them caaves orter be fed."^ 
 
 As Agnes stood at the door to watch them 
 drive away, Will studied her, a smothering ache 
 in his heart as he saw how thin and bent and 
 weary she was. In his soul he felt that she was 
 a dying woman unless she had rest and tender 
 care. 
 
 As she turned, she fc,-*w something in his face — 
 a pity and an agony of self-accusation — that made 
 
64 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 her weak and white. She sank into a chair, 
 putting her hand on her chest, as if she felt a 
 failing of breath. Then the blood came back to 
 her face, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Don't — don't look at me like that," she said 
 in a whisper. His pity hurt her. 
 
 At sight of her sitting there pathetic, abashed, 
 bewildered, like some gentle animal, Will's throat 
 contracted so that he could not speak. His voice 
 came at last in one terrible cry — 
 
 " Oh, Agnes ! for God's sake forgive me !" He 
 knelt by her side and put his arm about her 
 shoulders and kissed her bowed head. A cur- 
 ious numbness involved his whole body ; his 
 voice was husky, the tears burned in his eyes. 
 His whole soul and body ached with his pity and 
 remorseful, self-accusing wrath. 
 
 " It was all my fault. Lay it all to me. . . I 
 am the one to bear it. . . , Oh, I've dreamed a 
 thousand times of sayin' this to you, Aggie ! I 
 thought if I could only see you again and ask 
 your forgiveness, I'd — " He ground Jiis teeth to- 
 gether in his assault upon himself. UiXthre'vysmy 
 life away an' killed you — that's what I did I'O 
 
 He rose, and raged up and down the room till 
 he had mastered himself. 
 
 " What did you think I meant that day of the 
 thrashing?" he said, turning suddenly. He spoke 
 of it as if it were but a month or two past. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED B0AD8. 65 
 
 She lifted her head and looked at him in a slow 
 w&j. She seemed to be remembering. The tears 
 lay on her hollow cheeks. 
 
 " I thought you was ashamed of me. ' I didn't 
 know — why — " 
 
 He uttered a snarl of self-disgust. 
 
 " You couldn't know. Nobody could tell what 
 I meant. But why didn't you write? I was 
 ready to come back. I only wanted an excuse — 
 only a line." 
 
 "How could I, Will— after your letter?" 
 
 He groaned, and turned away. 
 
 " And Will, I — I got mad too. I couldn't write." 
 
 " Oh, that letter — I can see every line of it ! F'r 
 God's sake, don't think of it again ! But I didn't 
 think, even when I wrote that letter, that I'd find 
 you where you are. I didn't think, I hoped any- 
 how, Ed Kinney wouldn't — " 
 
 She stopped him with a startled look in her 
 great eyes. 
 
 " Don't talk about him — ^it ain't right. I mean 
 it don't do any good. What could I do, after 
 father died ? Mother and I. Besides, I waited 
 three years to hear from you,'Will." 
 
 He gave a strange, choking cry. It burst from 
 his throat — that terrible thing, a man's sob of 
 agony. She went on, curiously calm now. 
 
 " Ed was good to me ; and he offered a home, 
 anyway, for mother — " 
 
66 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " And all the time I was waiting for some line 
 to break down my cussed pride, so I could write 
 to you and explain. But you did go with Ed to 
 the fair," he ended suddenly, seeking a morsel 
 of justification for himself. 
 
 " Yes. But I waited an' waited ; and I thought 
 you was mad at me, and so when they came I — 
 no, I didn't really go with Ed. There was a 
 wagon-load of them." 
 
 " But I started," he explained, " but the wheel 
 came off. I didn't send word because I thought 
 you'd feel sure I'd come. If you'd only trusted 
 me a little more — No ! it was all my fault. I 
 acted like a crazy fool. I didn't stop to reason 
 about anything." 
 
 They sat in silence after these explanations. 
 The sound of the snapping wings of the grass- 
 hoppers came through the windows, and a lo- 
 cust high in a poplar sent down his ringing 
 whir. 
 
 " It can't be helped now. Will," Agnes said 
 at last, her Toice full of the woman's resignation. 
 " We've got to bear it." 
 
 Will straightened! up. " Bear it ?" He paused. 
 "Yes, I s'pose so. If you hadn't married Ed 
 Kinney! Anybody but him. How did you do it ?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she answered, wearily 
 brushing her hair back from her eyes. " It 
 seemed best when I did it — and it can't be helped 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED UOADS. 67 
 
 now." There was infinite, dull despair and resig- 
 nation in her voice. 
 
 Will went over to the window. He thought 
 how bright and handsome Ed used to be, and he 
 felt after all that it was no wonder that she mar- 
 ried him. Life pushes us into such things. 
 Suddenly he turned, something resolute and im- 
 perious in his eyes and voice. 
 
 " It can be helped, Aggie," he said. " Now just 
 listen to me. We've made an awful piistake. 
 We've lost seven years o' life, but that's no rea- 
 son why we should waste the rest of it. Now 
 hold on ; don't interrupt me just yet. I come 
 back thinking just as much of you as ever. I 
 ain't going to say a word more about Ed ; let the 
 past stay past. I'm going to talk about the 
 future." 
 
 She looked at him in a daze of wonder as he 
 went on. 
 
 " Now I've got some money, I've got a third 
 interest in a ranche, and I've got a standing offer 
 to go back on the Santa Fee road as conductor. 
 There is a team standing out there. I'd like to 
 make another trip to Cedarville— with you — " 
 
 "Oh, Will, don't !" she cried ; "for pity's sake 
 don't talk—" 
 
 " Wait !" he said imperiously. " Now look at it. 
 Here you are in hell ! Caged up with two old 
 crows picking the life out of you. They'll kill 
 
68 MAIN-TBAVELLED B0AD8. 
 
 you — I can see it ; you're being killed by inches. 
 You can't go anywhere, you can't have anything. 
 Life is just torture for you — " 
 
 She gave a little moan of anguish and despair, 
 and turned her face to her chair-back. Her 
 shoulders shook with weeping, but she listened. 
 He went to her and stood with his hand on the 
 chair-back. 
 
 His voice trembled and broke. " There's just 
 one way to get out of this, Agnes. Come with 
 me. He don't care for you ; his whole idea of 
 women is that they are created for his pleasure 
 and to keep house. Your whole life is agony. 
 Come ! Don't cry. There's a chance for life yet." 
 
 She didn't speak, but her sobs were less vio- 
 lent ; his voice growing stronger reassured her. 
 
 " I'm going East, maybe to Europe ; and the 
 woman who goes with me will have nothing to 
 do but get strong and well again. I've made you 
 suffer so, I ought to spend the rest of my life mak- 
 ing you happy. Come ! My wife will sit with me 
 on the deck of the steamer and see the moon rise, 
 and walk with me by the sea, till she gets strong 
 and happy again — till the dimples get back into 
 her cheeks. I never will rest till I see her eyes 
 laugh again." 
 
 She rose flushed, wide-eyed, breathing hard 
 with the emotion his vibrant voice called up, but 
 she could not speak. He put his hand gently 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 69 
 
 Upon her shoulder, and she sank down again. 
 And he went on with his appeal. There was 
 something hypnotic, dominating in his voice 
 and eyes. 
 
 On his part there was no passion of an ignoble 
 sort, only a passion of pity andxgmorse, and a 
 sweet, tender, reminiscent love^^He did not love 
 the woman before him so mucB' as the girl 
 whose ghost she was — the woman whose promise 
 she waSrVHe held himself responsible for it 
 all, an.**^ throbbed with desire to repair 
 the ravage he had indirectly caused. There was 
 nothing equivocal in his position — nothing to 
 disown. How others might look at it he did not 
 consider, and did not care. His impetuous soul 
 was carried to a point where nothing came in to 
 mar or divert. 
 
 "And then after you're well, after our trip, 
 we'll come back to Houston, and I'll build my 
 wife a house that'll make her eyes shine. My 
 cattle and my salary will give us a good living, 
 and she can have a piano and books, and go to 
 the theatre and concerts. Come, what do you 
 think of that?" 
 
 Then she heard his words beneath his voice 
 somehow, and they produced pictures that daz- 
 zled her. Luminous shadows moved before her 
 eyes, drifting across the gray background of her 
 poor, starved, work-weary life. 
 
to MAIlt-TilAVMLLED BO AM. 
 
 As his voice ceased the rosy clouds faded, and 
 she realized again the faded, musty little room, 
 the calico-coTered furniture, and looking down 
 at her own cheap and ill-fitting dress, she saw 
 her ugly hands lying there. Then she cried out 
 with a gush of tears : 
 
 " Oh, Will, I'm so old and homely now, I ain't 
 fit to go with you now ! Oh, why couldn't we 
 have married then ?" 
 
 She was seeing herself as she was then, and so 
 was he ; but it deepened his resolution. How 
 beautiful she used to be ! He seemed to see her 
 there as if she stood in perpetual sunlight, with 
 a warm sheen in her hair and dimples in her 
 cheeks. 
 
 She saw her thin red wrists, her gaunt and 
 knotted hands. There was a pitiful droop in the 
 thin pale lips, and the tears fell slowly from her 
 drooping lashes. He went on : 
 
 " Well, it's no use to cry over what was. We 
 must think of what we're going to do. Don't 
 worry about your looks ; you'll be the prettiest 
 woman in the country when we get back. Don't 
 wait, Aggie ; make up your mind." 
 
 She hesitated, and was lost. 
 
 " What will people say ?" 
 
 " I don't care what they say," he flamed out. 
 " They'd say, stay here and be killed by in- 
 ches. I say you've had your share of suffering. 
 
MAIN-TRAVBLLBD ROADS. 71 
 
 They'd say — tlie liberal ones — stay and get a 
 diYorce ; but how do we know we can get one 
 after youVe been dragged through the mud of a 
 trial ? We can get one just as well in some other 
 State. Why should you be worn out at thirty ? 
 What right or justice is there in making you 
 bear all your Jife the consequences of our — my 
 school-boy folly ?" 
 
 As he went on, his argument rose to the level 
 of Browning's philosophy. 
 
 " We can make this experience count for us 
 yet. But we mustn't let a mistake ruin us — it 
 should teach us. What right has any one to 
 keep you in a hole ? God don't expect a toad to 
 stay in a stump and starve if it can get out. He 
 don't ask the snakes to suffer as you do." 
 
 She had lost the threads of right and wjwng 
 out of her hands. She was lost in a maze. \She 
 was not moved by passion. Flesh had ceasecl to 
 stir her ; but there was vast power in Ihe new 
 and thrilling words her deliverer spo^. He 
 seemed to open a door for her, and tErough it 
 turrets shone and great ships crossed on dim 
 blue seas. 
 
 " You can't live here, Aggie. You'll die in less 
 than five years. It would kill me to see you die 
 here. Come ! It's suicide." 
 
 She did not move, save the convulsive motion 
 of her breath and the nervous action of her 
 
73 MATN-TRAVBLLED ROADS. 
 
 fingers. She stared down at a spot in the car- 
 pet ; she couldn't face him. 
 
 He grew insistent, a sterner note creeping into 
 his voice. 
 
 " If I leave this time, of course you know I 
 never come back." 
 
 Her hoarse breathing, growing quicker each 
 moment, was her only reply. 
 
 " I'm done," he said with a note of angry dis- 
 appointment. He did not give her up, however. 
 " I've told you what I'd do for you. Now if you 
 think—" 
 
 " Oh give me time to think. Will !" she cried 
 out, lifting her face. 
 
 He shook his head. " No. Tou might as well 
 decide now. It won't be any easier to-morrow. 
 Come, one minute more and I go out o' that 
 door — unless — " He crossed the room slowly, 
 doubtful himself of his desperate last measure. 
 " My hand is on the knob. Shall I open it ?" 
 
 She stopped breathing ; her fingers closed con- 
 vulsively on the chair. As he opened the door 
 she sprang up. 
 
 " Don't go. Will ! Don't go, please don't ! I 
 need you here — I — " 
 
 " That ain't the question. Are you going with 
 me, Agnes ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! I tried to speak before. I trust 
 you, Will ; you're — " 
 
MAlN-TRAfELLEt) ttOADS. It 
 
 He flung the door open wide. " See the sun- 
 light out there shining on that field o' Wheat ? 
 That's where I'll take you — out into the sunshine. 
 You shall see it shining on the Bay of Naples. 
 Come, get on your hat ; don't take anything more'n 
 you actually need. Leave the past behind 
 you." 
 
 The woman turned wildly and darted into the 
 little bedroom. The man listened. He whistled 
 in surprise almost comical. He had forgotten 
 the baby. He could hear the mother talking, 
 cooing. 
 
 "Mommie's 'ittlo pet. She wasn't goin' to 
 leave her 'ittle ma.n— no, she wasn't ! There, 
 there, don't 'e cry. Mommie ain't goin' away and 
 leave him — wicked mommie ain't — 'ittle treas- 
 ure !" 
 
 She was confused again ; and when she re- 
 appeared at the door, with the child in her arms, 
 there was a wandering look on her face pitiful to 
 see. She tried to speak, tried to say, "Please 
 go, Will." 
 
 He designedly failed to understand her whis- 
 per. He stepped forward. " The baby ! Sure 
 enough. Why, certainly ! to the mother belongs 
 the child. Blue eyes, thank heaven !" 
 
 He put his arm about them both. She obeyed 
 silently. There was something irresistible in his 
 frank, clear eyes, his sunny smile, his strong 
 
'74 main-travellsd roam. 
 
 brown liand. He slammed the door behind 
 them. 
 
 " That closes the door on your sufferings," he 
 said, smiling down at her. " Good-by to it all." 
 
 The baby laughed and stretched out its hands 
 toward the light. 
 
 " Boo, boo !" he cried., 
 
 " What's he talking about ?" 
 
 She smiled in perfect trust and fearlessness, 
 seeing her child's face beside his own. " He says 
 it's beautiful." 
 
 " Oh, he does ! I can't follow his French 
 accent." 
 
 She smiled again, in spite of herself. Will 
 shuddered with a thrill of fear, she was so weak 
 and worn. But the sun shone on the dazzling, 
 rustling wheat, the fathomless sky blue, as a sea, 
 bent above them — and the world lay before them. 
 
77 
 
 UP THE COULE. 
 
 A STOUT OF WISCONSIN. 
 
 ^^ Keep the main-travelled road up the Coolly — Ws the 
 second house after crossin' the crick.'''' 
 
 The ride from Milwaukee to the Mississippi is 
 a fine ride at any time, superb in summer. To 
 lean back in a reclining-chair and whirl away in 
 a breezy 'July day, past lakes, groves of oak, past 
 fields of barley being reaped, past hay-fields, 
 where the heavy grass is toppling before the 
 swift sickle, is a panorama of delight, a road full 
 of delicious surprises, where down a sudden vista 
 lakes open, or a distant wooded hill looms darkly 
 blue, or swift streams, foaming deep down the 
 solid rock, send whiffs of cool breezes in at the 
 window. 
 
 It has majesty, breadth. The farming hasV / 
 nothing apparently petty about it. All seems • 
 vigorous, youthful, and prosperous. Mr. How- / 
 ard McLane in his chair let his newspaper fall 
 on his lap, and gazed out upon it with dreaming 
 eyes. It had a certain mysterious glamour to 
 him ; the lakes were cooler and brighter to his 
 
 75 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS, 
 
 eye, the greens fresher, and the grain more 
 golden than to any one else, for he was coming 
 Iback to it all after an absence of ten years. It 
 was, besides, his West. He still toot pride in 
 being a "Western man. 
 
 His mind all day flew ahead of the train to the 
 little town far on toward the Mississippi, where 
 he had spent his boyhood and youth. As the 
 train passed the Wisconsin Eiver, with its curi- 
 ously carved cliffs, its cold, dark, swift-swirling 
 water eating slowly under cedar-clothed banks, 
 Howard began to feel curious little movements of 
 the heart, like a lover as he nears his sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 The hills changed in character, growing more 
 intimately recognizable. They rose higher as 
 the train left the ridge and passed down into the 
 Black River valley, and specifically into the La 
 Crosse valley. They ceased to have any hint of 
 upheavals of rock, and became simply parts of 
 the ancient level left standing after the water 
 had practically given up its post-glacial, scooping 
 action. 
 
 It was about six o'clock as he caught sight of 
 the dear broken line of hills on which his baby 
 eyes had looked thirty-five years ago. A few 
 minutes later and the train drew up at the grimy 
 little station set in at the hillside, and, giving 
 him just time to leap off, plunged on again toward 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 77 
 
 the West. Howard felt a ridiculous weakness in 
 his legs as he stepped out upon the broiling hot 
 splintery planks of the station and faced the few 
 idlers lounging about. He simply stood and 
 gazed with the same intensity and absorption one 
 of the idlers might show standing before the 
 Brooklyn Bridge. 
 
 The town caught and held his eyes first. How \ 
 poor and dull and sleepy and squalid it seemed ! i 
 The one main street ended at the hillside at his 
 left, and" stretched away to the north, between ■ 
 two rows of the usual village stores, unrelieved 
 by a tree or a touch of beauty. An unpaved 
 street, drab-colored, miserable, rotting wooden 
 buildings, with the inevitable battlements — the 
 same, only worse, was the town. ' 
 
 The same, only more beautiful still, was the 
 majestic amphitheatre of green wooded hills that 
 circled the horizon, and toward which he lifted 
 his eyes. He thrilled at the sight. 
 
 " Glorious !" he cried involuntarily. 
 
 Accustomed to the White Mountains, to the 
 AUeghanies, he had wondered if these hills would 
 retain their old-time charm. They did. He took 
 off his hat to them as he stood there. Eichly 
 wooded, with gently-sloping green sides, rising to 
 massive square or rounded tops with dim vistas, 
 they glowed down upon the squalid town, gra- 
 
78 MAm-TBAVELLSlD ROADS. 
 
 cious, lofty in their greeting, immortal in their 
 vivid and delicate beauty. 
 
 He was a goodly figure of a man as lie stood 
 there beside his valise. Portly, erect, handsomely 
 dressed, and with something unusually winrang 
 in his brown mustache and blue eyes, something 
 scholarly- suggested by the pinch-nose glasses, 
 something strong in the repose of the head. He 
 smiled as he saw how unchanged was the group- 
 ing of the old loafers on the salt-barrels and 
 nail-kegs. He recognized most of them — a little 
 dirtier, a little more bent, and a little grayer. 
 
 They sat in the same attitudes, spat tobacco 
 with the same calm delight, and joked each other, 
 breaking into short and sudden fits of laughter, 
 and pounded each other on the back, just as when 
 he was a student at the La Crosse Seminary, and 
 going to and fro daily on the train. 
 
 They ruminated on him as he passed, specu- 
 lating in a perfectly audible way upon his busi- 
 ness. 
 
 " Looks like a drummer." 
 
 " No, he ain't no drummer. -See them Boston 
 glasses ?" 
 
 "That's so. Guess he's a teacher." 
 
 "Looks like a moneyed cuss." 
 
 " Bos'n, I guess." 
 
 He knew the one who spoke last — Freeme 
 Cole, a man who was the fighting wonder of 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 79 
 
 Howard's boyhood, now degenerated into a 
 stoop-shouldered, faded, garrulous, and quarrel- 
 some old man. Yet there was something epic in 
 the old man's stories, something enthralling in 
 the dramatic power of recital. 
 
 Over by the blacksmith shop the usual game of 
 " quaits" was in progress, and the drug-clert on 
 the corner was chasing a crony with the squirt- 
 pump, with which he was about to wash the win- 
 dows. A few teams stood ankle-deep in the mud, 
 tied to the fantastically-gnawed pine pillars of 
 the wooden awnings. A man on a load of hay was 
 " jawing " with the attendant of the platform 
 scales, who stood below, pad and pencil in hand. 
 
 " Hit 'im ! hit 'im ! Jump off and knock 'im !" 
 suggested a bystander, jovially. 
 
 Howard knew the voice. 
 
 " Talk's cheap. Takes money t' buy whiskey," 
 he said, when the man on the load repeated his 
 threat of getting off and whipping the scales-man. 
 
 " You're William McTurg," Howard said, com- 
 ing up to him. 
 
 " I am, sir," replied the soft-voiced giant, turn- 
 ing and looking down on the stranger, with an 
 amused twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He 
 stood as erect as an Indian, though his hair and 
 beard were white. 
 
 " I'm Howard McLane." 
 'Ye begin t' look it," said McTurg, removing 
 
80 MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 his right hand from his pocket. " How are 
 yeh?" 
 
 " I'm first-rate. How's mother and Grant ?" 
 
 " Saw 'im ploughing corn as I came down. 
 Guess he's all right. Want a boost?" 
 
 "'Well, yes. Are you down with a team ?" 
 
 "Yep. 'Bout goin' home. Climb right in. 
 That's my rig, right there," nodding at a sleek 
 bay colt hitched in a covered buggy. " Heave 
 y'r grip under the seat." 
 
 They climbed into the seat after William had 
 lowered the buggy-top and unhitched the horse 
 from the post. The loafers were mildly curious. 
 Guessed Bill had got hooked onto by a light- 
 nin'-rod peddler, or somethin' o' that kind. v 
 
 " Want to go by river, or 'round by the hills ?" 
 
 "Hills, I guess." 
 
 The whole matter began to seem trivial, as if 
 he had only been away for a month or two. 
 
 William McTurg was a man little given to talk. 
 Even the coming back of a nephew did not cause 
 any flow of questions or reminiscences. They 
 rode in silence. He sat a little bent forward, the 
 lines held carelessly in his hands, his great 
 leonine head swaying' to and fro with the move- 
 ment of the buggy. 
 
 As they passed familiar spots, the younger 
 man broke the silence with a question. 
 
 "That's old man McElvaine's place, ain't it?" 
 
 "Yep." 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 81 
 
 "Old man living?" 
 
 " I guess he is. Husk more corn 'n any man 
 he c'n hire." 
 
 In the edge of the Tillage th6y passed an open 
 lot on the left, marked with circus-rings of dif- 
 ferent eras. 
 
 " There's the old ball-ground. Do they have 
 circuses on it just the same as ever?" 
 
 "Just the same." 
 
 " What fun that field calls up ! The games of 
 ball we used to have ! Do you play yet?" 
 
 "Sometimes. Can't stoop so well as I used 
 to." He smiled a little. "Too much fat." 
 
 It all swept back upon Howard in a flood of 
 names and faces and sights and sounds ; some- 
 thing sweet and stirring somehow, though it had 
 little of aesthetic charm at the time. They were 
 passing along lanes now, between superb fields 
 of com, wherein ploughmen were at work. 
 Kingbirds flew from post to post ahead of them ; 
 the insects called from the grass. The valley 
 slowly outspread below them. The workmen in 
 the fields were " turning out " for the nighljHiey 
 all had a word of chaff with McTurg. 
 
 Over the western wall of the circling amphi- 
 theatre the sun was setting. A few scattering 
 clouds were drifting on the west wind, their 
 shadows sliding down the green and purple/ 
 slopes. The dazzling sunlight flamed along the 
 
82 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 luscious velvety grass, and sliot amid tlie rounded, 
 distant purple peaks, and streamed in bars of 
 gold and crimson across tlie blue mist of the 
 narrower upper Coules. 
 
 The heart of the young man swelled with pleas- 
 ure almost like pain, and the eyes of the silent 
 older man took on a far-off, dreaming look, as he 
 gazed at the scene which had repeated itself a 
 thousand times in his life, but of whose beauty 
 he never spoke. 
 
 Far down to the left was the break in the wall, 
 through which the river ran, on its way to join 
 the Mississippi. As they climbed slowly among 
 the hills, the valley they had left grew still more 
 beautiful, as the squalor of the little town was 
 hid by the dusk of distance. Both men were 
 silent for a long time. Howard knew the pecu- 
 liarities of his companion too well to make any 
 remarks or ask any questions, and besides it was 
 a genuine pleasure to ride with one who could 
 feel that silence was the only speech amid such 
 splendors. 
 
 Once they passed a little brook singing in a 
 mournfully sweet way its eternal song over its 
 pebbles. It called back to Howard the days 
 when he and Grant, his younger brother, had 
 fished in this little brook for trout, with trousers 
 rolled above the knee and wrecks of hats upon 
 their heads, 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 83 
 
 "Any trout left?" he asked. ' 
 
 "Not many. Little fellers." Finding the 
 silence broken, William asked the first question 
 since he met Howard. " Less see : you're a show 
 feller now? B'long to a troupe?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I'm an actor." 
 
 "Pay much?" 
 
 " Pretty well." 
 
 That seemed to end William's curiosity about 
 the matter. 
 
 "Ah, there's our old house, ain't it?" Howard 
 broke out, pointing to one of the houses farther 
 up the Coule. ' It'll be a surprise to them, won't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yep ; only they don't live there." 
 
 "What! They don't!" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Who does?" 
 
 " Dutchman." 
 
 Howard was silent for some moments. " Who 
 lives «n the Dunlap place ?" 
 
 " 'Nother Dutchman." 
 
 " Where's Grant living, anyhow ?" 
 
 " Farther up the Coolly." • 
 
 "Well, then I'd better get out here, 
 hadn't I?" 
 
 " Oh, I'll drive yeh up." 
 
 "No, I'd rather walk." 
 
 The sun had set, and the Coule was getting 
 
84 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 dusk when Howard got out of McTurg's carriage, 
 and set off up the winding lane toward his 
 brother's house. He walked slowly to absorb 
 the coolness and fragrance and color of the hour. 
 The katydids sang a rhythmic song of welcome 
 to him. Fireflies were in the grass. A whip- 
 poorwill in the deep of the wood was calling 
 weirdly, and an occasional night-hawk, flying high 
 gave his grating shriek, or hollow boom, sugges- 
 tive and resounding. 
 
 f He had been wonderfully successful, and yet 
 
 Mad carried into his success as ^dramatic author 
 
 as well as actor a certain Puritanism that made 
 
 him a paradox to his f ellowSj^Ss^as one of those 
 
 actors who are always in luck, and the best of it 
 
 was he kept and made use of his luck. Jovial as 
 
 he appeared, he was inflexible as granite against 
 
 drink and tobacco. He. retained through it all a 
 
 I certain fresTrnes a^of enjoyTnent that made him one 
 
 ! of the best companions in the prof essionr)and now 
 
 as he walked on, the hour and the place appealed 
 
 ! to him with great power. It seemed to sw6ep 
 
 away the life that came between. 
 
 How close it all was to him, after all-in his 
 restless life, surrounded by the glare of electric 
 lights, painted canvas, hot colors, creak of ma- 
 chinery, mock trees, stones, and brooks, he had 
 not lost but gained appreciation for the coolness, 
 
MAm-TBAtBLL^D ROAD&. 85 
 
 quiet and low tones, the shyness of the wood and 
 field. \ 
 
 In i&e farm-house ahead of him a light was 
 shining as he peered ahead, and his heart gave 
 another painful movement. His brother was 
 awaiting him there, and his mother, whom he had 
 not seen for ten years and who had grown unable 
 to write. And when Grant wrote, which had 
 been more and more seldom of late, his letters 
 had been cold and curt. 
 
 He began to feel that in the pleasure and ex- 
 citement of his life he had grown away from his 
 mother and brother. Bach summer he had said, 
 " Well, now I'll go home this year sure." But a 
 new play to be produced, or a yachting trip, or a 
 tour of Europe, had put the home-coming o£f; 
 and now it was with a distinct consciousness of 
 neglect of duty that he walked up to the fence 
 and looked into the yard, where William had told 
 him his brother lived. 
 
 It was humble enough — a small white house, 
 story-and-a-half structure, with a wing, set in the 
 midst of a few locust-trees ; a small drab-colored 
 barn, with a sagging ridge-pole ; a barnyard full 
 of mud, in which a few cows were standing, 
 fighting the files and waiting to be milked. An 
 old man was pumping water at the well; the pigs 
 were squealing from a pen near by; a child was 
 crying. 
 
86 "MAm-TMATrBLZMD ROADS. 
 
 Instantly the beautiful, peaceful valley was for- 
 gotten. A sickening cMll struck into Howard's 
 soul as he looked at it all. In the dim light he 
 could see a figure milking a cow. Leaving" his 
 valise at the gate, he entered, and walked up to 
 the old man, who had finished pumping and was 
 about to go to feed the hogs. 
 
 " Good-evening," Howard began. " Does Mr. 
 Grant McLane live here ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he does. He's right over there milk- 
 in'." 
 
 "I'll go over there an — " 
 
 " Don't b'lieve I would. It's darn muddy over 
 there. It's been turrible rainy. He'll be done 
 in a minute, anyway." 
 J " Very well; I'll wait." 
 
 As he waited, he could hear a woman's fretful 
 
 o._ ^ voice, and the impatient jerk and jar of kitchen 
 
 ^^ Ci -^things, indicative of ill-temper or worry. The 
 
 "^ ,'" -■/ longer he stood absorbing this farm-scene, with all 
 
 " Ij^^ its sordidness, dulness, triviality, and its endless 
 
 4! ''I drudgeries, the lower his heart sank. All the 
 
 °\ joy of *^® home-coming was gone, when the figure 
 
 I arose from the cow and approached the gate, and 
 
 I put the pail of milk down on the platform by the 
 
 i pump. 
 
 " Good-evening," said Howard, out of the dusk. 
 Grant stared a moment. " Good-evening." 
 Howard knew the voice, though it was older 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED R0AB8. 8t 
 
 and deeper and more sullen. " Don't you know 
 me, Grant? I am Howard." 
 
 The man approached him, gazing intently at 
 his face. " You are ?" after a pause. " Well, 
 I'm glad to see yeh, but I can't shake hands. 
 That damned cow had laid down in the mud." 
 
 They stood and looked at each other. Howard's 
 cuffs, collar, and shirt, alien in their elegance, 
 showed through the dusk, and a glint of light shot 
 out from the jewel of his necktie, as the light 
 from the house caught it at the right angle. As 
 they gazed in silence at each other, Howard di-i 
 vined something of the hard, bitter feeling 
 which came into Grant's heart, as he stood there! 
 ragged, ankle-deep in muck, his sleeves rolled' 
 up, a shapeless old straw hat on his head. 
 
 The gleam of Howard's white hands angered 
 him. When he spoke, it was in a hard, gruff tone, 
 full of rebellion. 
 
 " Well, go in the house and set down. I'll be 
 in soon's I strain the milk and wash the dirt off 
 my hands." 
 
 " But mother—" 
 
 " She's 'round somewhere. Just knock on the 
 door under the porch round there." 
 
 Howard went slowly around the corner of the 
 
 house, past a vilely smelling rain-barrel, toward 
 
 - the west. A gray -haired woman was sitting in a 
 
 rocking-chair on the porch, her hands in her lap. 
 
88 MAIN-IBAVELLED R0AD8. 
 
 her eyes fixed on tlie faintly yellow sky, against 
 wliicli the hills stood dim purple silhouettes, and 
 the locust-trees were etched as fine as lace. 
 There was sorrow, resignation, and a sort of dumb 
 despair in her attitude. 
 
 Howard stood, his throat swelling till it seemed 
 as if he would suffocate. This was his mother — 
 the woman who bore him, the being who had 
 taken her life in her hand for him ; and he, in 
 his excited and pleasurable life, had neglected her ! 
 
 He stepped into the faint light before her. 
 She turned and looked at him without fear. 
 " Mother !" he said. She uttered one little, 
 breathing, gasping cry, called his name, rose, and 
 stood still. He bounded up the steps and took 
 her in his arms. 
 
 " Mother ! Dear old mother !" 
 
 In the silence, almost painful, which followed, 
 an angry woman's voice could be heard inside : 
 " I don't care. I ain't goin' to wear myself out 
 fer him. He c'n eat out here with us, or else — " 
 
 Mrs. McLane began speaking. " Oh, I've 
 longed to see yeh, Howard. I was afraid you 
 wouldn't come till: — too late." 
 
 " What do you mean, mother ? Ain't you well ?" 
 
 " I don't seem to be able to do much now 'cept 
 sit around and knit a little. I tried to pick some 
 berries the other day, and I got so dizzy I had to 
 give it up." 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 89 
 
 " You mustn't work. You needn't work. Why 
 didn't you write to me how you were ?" Howard 
 asked in an agony of remorse. 
 
 " Well, we felt as if you probably had all you 
 could do to take care of yourself." 
 
 " Are you married, Howard ?" 
 
 " No, mother ; and there ain't any excuse for 
 me — not a bit," he said, dropping back into her 
 colloquialisms. "I'm ashamed when I think of 
 how long it's been since I saw you. I could have 
 come." 
 
 "It don't matter now," she interrupted gently. 
 "It's the way things go. Our boys grow up and 
 leave us." 
 
 "Well, come in to supper," said Grant's ungra- 
 cious voice from the doorway. ""Come, mother." 
 
 Mrs. McLane moved with difficulty. Howard 
 sprang to her aid, and leaning on his arm she 
 went through the little sitting-room, which was 
 unlighted, out into the kitchen, where the supper- 
 table stood near the cook-stove. 
 
 " How, this is my wife," said Grant, in a cold, 
 peculiar tone. 
 
 Howard bowed toward a remarkably handsome 
 young woman, on whose forehead was a scowl, 
 which did not change as she looked at him and 
 the old lady. 
 
 " Set down, anywhere," was the young woman's 
 cordial" invitation." 
 
fiO MAIN-TRAVBLLEI) BO At) 8. 
 
 Howard sat down next his mother, and facing 
 the wife, who had a small, fretful child in her 
 arms. At Howard's left was the old man, Lewis. 
 The supper was spread upon a gay-colored oil- 
 cloth, and consisted of a pan of milk, set in the 
 midst, with bowls at each plate. Beside the pan 
 was a dipper and a large plate of bread, and at 
 one end of the table was a dish of fine honey. 
 
 A boy of about fourteen leaned upon the table, 
 his bent shoulders making him look like an old 
 man. His hickory shirt, like that of Grant, was 
 still wet with sweat, and discolored here and 
 there with grease, or green from grass. His hair, 
 freshly wet and combed, was smoothed away 
 from his face, and shone in the light of the kero- 
 sene lamp. As "he ate, he stared at Howard, as 
 if he would make an inventory of each thread of 
 the visitor's clothing. 
 
 "Did I look like that at his age?" thought 
 Howard. 
 
 " You see we live jest about the same's ever," 
 said Grant, as they began eating, speaking with 
 a grim, almost challenging inflection. 
 
 The two brothers studied each other curiously, 
 as they talked of neighborhood scenes. Howard 
 seemed incredibly elegant and handsome to them 
 all, with his rich, soft clothing, his spotless linen, 
 and his exquisite enunciation and ease of speech. 
 He had always been " smooth-spoken," and he 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 91 
 
 had become " elegantly persuasive," as his friends 
 said of him, and it was a large factor in his 
 success. 
 
 Every detail of the kitchen, the heat, the flies 
 buz2dng aloft, the poor furniture, the dress of the 
 people — all smote him like the lash of a wire 
 whip. His brother was a man of great character. 
 He could see that now. His deep-set, gray eyes 
 and rugged face showed at thirty a man of great 
 natural ability. He had more of the Scotch in 
 his face than Howard, and he looked much 
 older. 
 
 He was dressed, like the old man and the boy, 
 in a checked shirt without vest. His suspenders, 
 once gay-colored, had given most of their color 
 to his shirt, and had marked irregular broad 
 bands of pink and brown and green over his 
 shoulders. His hair was uncombed, merely 
 pushed away from his face. He wore a mus- 
 tache only, though his face was covered with a 
 week's growth of beard. His face was rather 
 gaunt, and was brown as leather. 
 
 Howard could not eat much. He was dis- 
 turbed by his mother's strange silence and op- 
 pression, and sickened by the long-drawn gasps 
 with which the old man ate his bread and milk, 
 and by the way the boy ate. He had his knife 
 gripped tightly in his fist, knuckles up, and was 
 scooping honey upon his bread. 
 
92 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 The baby, having ceased to be afraid, was curi- 
 ous, gazing silently at the stranger. 
 
 " Hello, little one ! Come and see your uncle. 
 Eh ? Course 'e ' will," cooed Howard in the 
 attempt to escape the depressing atmosphere. 
 The little one listened to his inflections as a 
 kitten does, and at last lifted its arms in sign of 
 surrender. 
 
 The mother's face cleared up a little. " 1 de- 
 clare, she wants to go to you." 
 
 "Course she does. Dogs and kittens always 
 come to me when I call 'em. Why shouldn't my 
 own niece come ?" 
 
 He took the little one and began walking up 
 and down the kitchen with her, while she pulled 
 at his beard and nose. I ought to have you, my 
 lady, in my new comedy. You'd bring down the 
 house." 
 
 "You don't mean to say you put babies on the 
 stage, Howard," said his mother in surprise. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Domestic comedy must have a 
 baby these days." 
 
 " Well, that's another way of makin' a livin', 
 sure," said Grant. The baby had cleared the at- 
 mosphere a little. " I s'pose you fellers make a 
 pile of money." 
 
 " Sometimes we make a thousand a week ; 
 oftener we don't." 
 
 " A thousand dollars !" They all stared. 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 93 
 
 " A thousand dollars sometimes, and then lose 
 it all the next week in another town. The dra- 
 matic business is a good deal like gambling^you 
 take your chances." 
 
 " I wish you weren't in it, Howard. I don't 
 like to have my son — " 
 
 " I wish I was in somethin' that paid better'n 
 farmin'. Anything under God's heavens is bet- 
 ter'n farmin'," said Grant. 
 
 " No, I ain't laid up much," Howard went on, 
 as if explaining why he hadn't helped them. 
 " Costs me a good deal to live, and I need about 
 ten thousand dollars leeway to work on. I've 
 made a good living, but I — I ain't made any 
 money." 
 
 Grant looked at him, darkly meditative. 
 
 Howard went on : 
 
 " How'd ye coine to sell the old farm ? I was 
 in hopes — " 
 
 " How'd we come to sell it?" said Grant with 
 terrible bitterness. " "We had something on it that 
 didn't leave anything to sell. You probably don't 
 remember anything about it, but there was a 
 mortgage on it that eat us up in just four years 
 by the almanac. 'Most killed mother to leave it. 
 We wrote to you for money, but I don't s'pose 
 you remember that." 
 
 " No, you didn't." 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
94 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " When was it ? I don't — why, it's — I never re- 
 ceived it. It must have been that summer I went 
 with Rob Manning to Europe." Howard put the 
 baby down and faced his brother. " Why, Grant, 
 you didn't think I refused to help ?" 
 
 " Well, it looked that way. We never heard, a 
 word from yeh all summer, and when y' did write, 
 it was all about yerself 'n plays 'n things we 
 didn't know anything about. , I swore to God I'd 
 never write to you again, and I won't." 
 
 " But, good heavens ! I never got it." 
 
 " Suppose you didn't. Tou might of known we 
 were poor as Job's off-ox. Everybody is that 
 earns a living. We fellers on the farm have to 
 earn a livin' for ourselves and you fellers that 
 don't work. I don't blame yeh. I'd do it if I 
 could." 
 
 "Grant, don't talk so ! Howard didn^t realize — " 
 
 " I tell yeh I don't blame 'im. Only I don't 
 want him to come the brotherly business over 
 me, after livin' as he has — that's all." There was 
 a bitter accusation in the man's voice. 
 
 Howard leaped to his feet, his face twitching. 
 " By God, I'll go back to-morrow morning !" he 
 threatened. 
 
 " Go, an' be damned ! I don't care what yeh 
 do," Grant growled, rising and going out. 
 
 " Boys," called the mother, piteously, "it's ter- 
 rible to see you quarrel." 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED ROADS. 95 
 
 " But I'm not to blame, mother," cried Howard 
 in a sickness that made him white as chalk. 
 " The man is a savage. I came home to help you 
 all, not to quarrel." 
 
 " Grant's got one o' his fits on," said the young 
 wife, speaking for the first time. " Don't pay any 
 attention to him. He'll be all right in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " If it wasn't for you, mother, I'd leave now, 
 and never see that savage again." 
 
 He lashed himself up and down in the roomy 
 in horrible disgust and hate of his brother and of 
 this home in his heart. He remembered his 
 tender anticipations of the home-coming with a 
 kind of self-pity and disgust. This was his greet- 
 ing! 
 
 He went to bed, to toss about on the hard, 
 straw-filled mattress in the stuffy little best 
 room. Tossing, writhing under the bludgeoning 
 of his brother's accusing inflections, a dozen times 
 he said, with a half-articulate snarl : 
 
 " He can go to hell ! I'll not try to do any- 
 thing more for him. I don't care if he is my 
 brother; he has no right to jump on me like that. 
 On the night of my return, too. My God ! he is (y^ 
 a brute, a savage !" 
 
 He thought of the presents in his trunk and 
 valise which he couldn't show to him that night, 
 after what had been said. He had intended to 
 
96 MAIN- TEA yelled: HO ADS. 
 
 have sucli a happy evening of it, such a tender 
 reunion ! It was to be so bright and cheery ! 
 
 In the midst of his cursings, his hot indigna- 
 tion, would come visions of himself in his own 
 modest rooms. He seemed to be yawning and 
 stretching in his beautiful bed, the sun shining 
 in, his books, foils, pictures around him, to say 
 good-morning and tempt him to rise, while the 
 squat little clock on the mantel struck eleven 
 warningly. 
 
 He could see the olive walls, the unique cop- 
 per-and-crimson arabesque frieze (his own selec- 
 tion), and the delicate draperies ; an open grate 
 full of glowing coals, to temper the sea-winds ; 
 and in the midst of' it, between a landscape by 
 Enneking and an Indian in a canoe in a canon, , 
 by Brush, he saw a sombre landscape by a master 
 greater than Millet, a melancholy subject, treated 
 with pitiless fidelity. 
 
 - A farm in the valley ! Over the mountains 
 swept jagged, gray, angry, sprawling clouds, 
 'sending a freezing, thin drizzle of rain, as they 
 passed, upon a man following a plough. The 
 horses had a sullen and weary look, and their 
 manes and tails streamed sidewise in the blast. 
 The ploughman clad in a ragged gray coat, with 
 uncouth, muddy boots upon his feet, walked with 
 his head inclined towards the sleet, to shield his 
 face from the cold and sting of it, The soil rolled 
 
MAIN-TRAYBLLED BO ABB. 97 
 
 awaj, black and sticky and with a dull sheen 
 upon it. Near by, a boy with tears on his cheeks 
 was watching cattle, a dog seated near, his back 
 to the gale. 
 
 As he looked at this picture, his heart softened. 
 He looked down at the sleeve of his soft and 
 fleecy night-shirt, at his white, rounded arm, 
 muscular yet fine as a woman's, and when he 
 looked for the picture it was gone. Then came 
 again the assertive odor of stagnant air, laden 
 with camphor ; he felt the springless bed under 
 him, and caught dimly a few soap-advertising 
 lithographs^ on the walls. He thought of his 
 brother, in his still more inhospitable bedroom, 
 disturbed by the child, condemned to rise at five 
 o'clock and begin another day's pitiless labor. 
 His heart shrank and quivered, and the tears 
 started to his eyes. -^ ' 
 
 " I forgive him, poor fellow ! He's not to i ^ 
 blame." — ^ 
 
 II. 
 
 He woke, however, with a dull, languid pulse, 
 and an oppressive melancholy on his heart. He 
 looked around the little room, clean enough, but 
 oh, how poor ! how barren ! Cold plaster walls, 
 a cheap wash-stand, a wash-set of three pieces, 
 with a blue band around each ; the windows. 
 
98 /■ MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 rectangularX and fitted witli fantastic green 
 ~sEad 
 
 Outside he could hear the bees humming, 
 Chickens were merrily moving about. Cow-bells 
 far up the road were sounding irregularly. A 
 jay came by and yelled an insolent rereille, and 
 Howard sat up. He could hear nothing in the 
 house but the rattle of pans on the back side of 
 the kitchen. He looked at his watch and saw it 
 was half-past seven. His brother was in the 
 field by this time, after milking, currying the 
 horses, and eating breakfast — had been at work 
 two hours and a half. 
 
 He dressed himself hurriedly in a neglige shirt 
 with a Windsor scarf, light-colored, serviceable 
 trousers with a belt, russet shoes and a tennis 
 hat — a knockabout costume, he considered. His 
 mother, good soul, thought it a special suit put 
 on for her benefit, and admired it through her 
 glasses. 
 
 He kissed her with a bright smile, nodded at 
 Laura the young wife, and tossed the baby, all 
 in a breath, and^ith the manner as he himself 
 saw, of the returned captain in the war-dramas 
 of the da j^ 
 
 " Been to breakfast ?" He frowned reproach- 
 fully. "Why didn't you call me ? I wanted to 
 get up, just as I used to, at sunrise." 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BOADB. 99 
 
 " We thought you was tired, and so we 
 didn't—" 
 
 " Tired ! Just wait till you see me help Grant 
 pitch hay or something. Hasn't finished his hay- 
 ing, has he?" 
 
 " No, I guess not. He will to-day if it don't 
 rain again." 
 
 "Well, breakfast is all ready — Howard," said 
 Laura, hesitating a little on his name. 
 
 " Good ! I am ready for it. Bacon and eggs, as 
 I'm a jay ! Just what I was wanting. I was say- 
 ing to myself. ' Now if they'll only get bacon and 
 eggs and hot biscuits and honey — ' Oh, say, 
 mother, I heard the bees humming this morning ; 
 same noise they used to make when I was a boy, 
 exactly. Must be the same bees. — Hey, you 
 young rascal ! come here and have some breakfast 
 with your uncle." 
 
 "I never saw her take to any one so quick," 
 Laura smiled. Howard noticed her in particular 
 for the first time. She had on a clean calico 
 dress and a gingham apron, and she looked 
 strong and fresh and handsome. Her head was 
 intellectual, her eyes full of power. She seemed 
 anxious to remove the impression of her un- 
 pleasant looks and words the night before. In- 
 deed it would have been hard to resist Howard's 
 sunny good-nature. 
 
 The baby laughed and crowed. The old 
 
100 MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 motlier could not take her dim eyes off the face of 
 her son, but sat smiling at him as he ate and 
 rattled on. "When he rose from the table at last, 
 after eating heartily and praising it all, he said, 
 with a smile : 
 
 " Well, now I'll just telephone down to the ex- 
 press and have my trunk brought up. I've got 
 a few little things in there you'll enjoy seeiag. 
 But this fellow," indicating the baby, " I didn't 
 take into account. But never mind ; Uncle 
 How'll make that all right." 
 
 " You ain't goin' to lay it up agin Grant, be 
 you, my son ?" Mrs. McLane faltered, as they 
 went out into the best room. 
 
 " Of course not ! He didn't mean it. Now 
 can't you send word down and have my trunk 
 brought up ? Or shall I have to walk down ?" 
 
 " I guess I'll see somebody goin' down," said 
 Laura. 
 
 "All right. Now for the hay-field," he smiled, 
 and went out into the glorious morning. 
 
 The circling hills the -same, yet not the same 
 as at night. A cooler, tenderer, more subdued 
 cloak of color upon them. Far down the valley 
 a cool, deep, impalable, blue mist lay, under 
 which one divined the river ran, under its elms 
 and basswoods and wild grapevines. On the 
 shaven slopes of the hills cattle and sheep were 
 feeding, their cries and bells coming to the ear 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 101 
 
 with a sweet suggestiveness. There was some- 
 thing immemorial in the sunny slopes dotted 
 with red and brown and gray cattle. 
 
 Walking toward the haymakers, Howard felt a 
 twinge of pain and distrust. Would he ignore- it 
 all and smile — 
 
 He stopped short. He had not seen Grant 
 smile in so long — he couldn't quite see him smil- 
 ing. He had been cold and bitter for years. 
 When he came up to them, Grant was pitching 
 on ; the old man was loading, and the boy was 
 raking after. 
 
 " Good-morning," Howard cried cheerily. The 
 old man nodded, the boy stared. Grant growled 
 something, withoiit looking up. These " finical " 
 things of saying good-morning and good-night 
 are not much practised in such homes as Grant 
 McLane's. 
 
 " Need some help ? I'm ready to take a hand. 
 Got on my regimentals this morning." 
 
 Grant looked at him a moment. 
 
 "You look like it." 
 
 " Gimme a hold on that fork, and I'll show you. 
 I'm not so soft as I look, now you bet." 
 
 He laid hold upon the fork in Grant's hands, 
 who released it sullenly and stood back sneering. 
 Howard struck the fork into the pile in the old 
 way, threw his left hand to the end of the polished 
 handle, brought it down into the hollow of his 
 
102 MAIN- TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 thigli, and laid out his strengtli till the handle 
 bent like a bow. " Oop she rises !" he called 
 laughingly, as the whole pile began slowly to 
 rise, and finally rolled upon the high load. 
 
 " Oh, I ain't forgot how to do it," he laughed, 
 as he looked around at the boy, who was studying 
 the jacket and hat with a devouring gaze. 
 
 Grant was studying him too, but not in admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " I shouldn't say you had," said the old man, 
 tugging at the forkful. 
 
 " Mighty funny to come out here and do a little 
 of this. But if you had to come here and do it 
 all the while, you wouldn't look so white and 
 soft in the hands," Grant said, as they moved on 
 to another pile. " Give me that fork. You'll be 
 spoiling your fine clothes." 
 
 " Oh, these don't matter. They're made for 
 this kind of thing." 
 
 " Oh, are they ? I guess I'll dress in that kind 
 of a rig. "What did that shirt cost? I need 
 one." 
 
 " Six dollars a pair ; but then it's old." 
 
 "And them pants," he pursued ; " they cost six 
 dollars too, didn't they ?" 
 
 Howard's face darkened. He saw his brother's 
 purpose. He resented it. " They cost fifteen 
 dollars, if you want to know, and the shoes cost 
 six-fifty. This ring on my cravat cost sixty dol- 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLEB ROADS. 103 
 
 lars, and the suit I had on last niglit cost eighty- 
 five. My suits are made by Breckstein, on Fifth 
 Avenue and Twentieth Street, if you want to 
 patronize him," he ended brutally, spurred on 
 by the sneer in his brother's eyes. " I'll intro- 
 duce you." 
 
 " Good idea," said Grant, with a forced, mock- 
 ing smile. " I need just such a get-up for 
 haying and .corn-ploughing. Singular I never 
 thought of it. Now my pants cost eighty-five 
 cents, s'penders fifteen, hat twenty, shoes one- 
 fifty ; stockin's I don't bother about." 
 
 He had his brother at a disadvantage, and he 
 grew fluent and caustic as he went on, almost 
 changing places with Howard, who took the rake 
 out of the boy's hands and followed, raking up 
 the scatterings. 
 
 "Singular we fellers here are discontented 
 and mulish, ain't it? Singular we don't believe 
 your letters when you write, sayin', ' I just about 
 make a live of it'? Singular we think the 
 country's goin' to hell, we fellers, in a two-dollar 
 suit, wadin' around in the mud or sweatin' around 
 in the hay-field, while you fellers lay around New 
 York and smoke and wear good clothes and 
 toady to millionaires?" 
 
 Howard threw down the rake and folded his 
 arms. " My God ! you're enough to make a 
 man forget the same mother bore us !" 
 
104 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " I guess it wouldn't take mucli to make you 
 forget that. You ain't put mucli thought on me 
 nor her for ten years." 
 
 The old man cackled, the boy grinned, and 
 Howard, sick and weak with anger and sorrow, 
 turned away and walked down toward the brook. 
 He had tried once more to get near his brother, 
 and had failed. Oh, God ! how miserably, piti- 
 ably ! The hot blood gushed all over him as he 
 thought of the shame and disgrace of it. 
 
 He, a man associating with poets, artists, 
 sought after by brilliant women, accustomed to 
 •^ -sdef erence even from such people, to be sneered 
 ' at, outfaced, shamed, shoved aside, by a man in a 
 stained hickory shirt and patched overalls, and 
 that man his brother ! He lay down on the bright 
 grass, with the sheep all around him, and writhed 
 and groaned with the agony and despair of it. 
 ./ And worst of all, underneath it was a con- 
 sciousness that Grant was right in distrusting 
 him. He had neglected him ; he had said, " I 
 guess they're getting along all right." He had 
 put them behind him when the invitation to spend 
 summer on the Mediterranean or in the Adiron- 
 dacks, came. 
 
 " What can I do ? What can I do ?" he groaned. 
 
 The sheep nibbled the grass near him, the 
 jays called pertly, "Shame, shame," a quail 
 piped somewhere op the hillside, and the brook 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 105 
 
 sung a soft, soothing melody that took away at 
 last the sharp edge of his pain, and he sat up 
 and gazed down the valley, bright with the sun 
 and apparently filled with happy and prosperous 
 people. 
 
 Suddenly a thought seized him. He stood up 
 so suddenly the sheep fled in affright. He leaped 
 the brook, crossed the flat, and began searching 
 in the bushes on the hillside. " Hurrah !" he 
 said, with a smile. 
 
 He had found an old road which he used to 
 travel when a boy — a road that skirted the edge 
 of the valley, now grown up to brush, but still 
 passable for footmen. As he ran lightly along 
 down the beautiful path, under oaks and hick- 
 ories, past masses of poison-ivy, under hanging 
 grapevines, through clumps of splendid hazel- 
 nut bushes loaded with great sticky, rough, 
 green burs, his heart threw off part of its load. 
 
 How it all came back to him ! How many days, 
 when the autumn sun burned the frost off the 
 bushes, had he gathered hazel-nuts here with his 
 boy and girl friends — Hugh and Shelley Mc- 
 Turg, Kome Sawyer, Orrin Mcllvaine, and the 
 rest ! What had become of them all ? How he 
 had forgotten them ! 
 
 This thought stopped him again, and he fell 
 into a deep muse, leaning against an oak-tree 
 and gazing into the vast fleckless space above. 
 
106 MAIN-TRAVELLEB ROADS. 
 
 The thrilling, inscrutable mystery of life fell upon 
 him like a blinding light. "Why was he living in 
 the crush and thunder and mental unrest of a 
 great city, while his companions, seemingly his 
 equal, in powers, were milking cows, making 
 butter, and growing corn and wheat in the silence 
 and drear monotony of the farm ? 
 
 His boyish sweethearts ! their names came 
 back to his ear now, with a dull, sweet sound 
 as of faint bells. He saw their faces, their 
 pink sunbonnets tipped back upon their necks, 
 their brown ankles flying with the swift action of 
 the scurrying partridge. His eyes softened ; he 
 took off his hat. The sound of the wind and the 
 leaves moved him almost to tears. 
 
 A woodpecker gave a shrill, high-keyed, sus- 
 tained cry. " Ki, ki, ki !" and he started from his 
 revery, the dapples of sun and shade falling 
 upon his lithe figure as he hurried on down the 
 path. 
 
 He came at last to a field of corn that ran to 
 the very wall of a large weather-beaten house, the 
 sight of which made his breathing quicker. It 
 was the place where he was born. The mystery 
 y of his life began there. In the branches of those 
 poplar and hickory trees he had swung and 
 sung in the rushing breeze, fearless as a squir- 
 rel. Here was the brook where, like a larger 
 Kildee, he with Grant had waded after crawfish, 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 107 
 
 or had stolen upon some wary trout, rongli-cut 
 pole in hand. 
 
 Seeing some one in the garden, he went down 
 along the corn-row through the rustling ranks of 
 green leaves. An old woman was picking ber- 
 ries, a squat and shapeless figure. 
 
 " Good-morning," he called cheerily. 
 
 " Morgen," she said, looking up at him with a 
 startled and very red face. She was German in 
 every line of her body. 
 
 " Ich bin Herr McLane," he said, after a pause. 
 
 " So ?" she replied, with a questioning inflec- 
 tion. 
 
 "Tah ; ich bin Herr Grant's Bruder." 
 
 "Ach, So!" she said, with a downward in- 
 flection. " Ich no spick Inglish. No spick 
 IngUs." 
 
 , " Ich bin durstig," he said. Leaving her pans, 
 she went with him to the house, which was what 
 he wanted to see. 
 
 " Ich bin hier geboren." 
 
 " Ach, so !" She recognized the little bit of 
 sentiment, and said some sentences in German 
 whose general meaning was sympathy. She 
 took him to the cool cellar where the spring 
 had been trained to run into a tank containing 
 pans of cream and milk, she gave him a cool 
 draught from a large tin cup, and then at his 
 request they went upstairs. The house was 
 
108 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 the same, btit someho-w seemed cold and empty. 
 It was clean and sweet, but it had so little evi- 
 dence of being lived in. The old part, which 
 was built of logs, was used as best room, and 
 modelled after the best rooms of the neighbor- 
 ing Yankee homes, only it was emptier, without 
 the cabinet organ and the rag-carpet and the 
 chromoes. 
 
 The old fireplace was bricked up and plastered 
 — the fireplace beside which in the far-off days 
 he had lain on winter nights, to hear his uncles 
 tell tales of hunting, or to hear them play the 
 violin, great dreaming giants that they were. 
 
 The old woman went out and left him sitting 
 there, the centre of a swarm of memories coming 
 and going like so many ghostly birds and butter- 
 flies. 
 
 A curious heartache and listlessness, a nerve- 
 less mood came on him. What was it worth, 
 anyhow — success? Struggle, strife, trampling 
 on some one else. His play crowding out some 
 other poor fellow's hope. The hawk eats the 
 partridge, the partridge eats the flies and bugs, 
 the bugs eat each other and the hawk, when he 
 in his turn is shot by man. So, in the world of 
 business, the life of one man seemed to him to be 
 drawn from the life of another man, each success 
 to spring from other failures. 
 
 He was like a man from whom all motives had 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 109 
 
 been withdrawn. He^ ^was sick, sickjt o the heart. 
 Oh, to be a boy again ! An ignorant baby, 
 pleased with a block and string, with no knowl- 
 edge and no care of the great unknown ! To lay 
 his head- again on his mother's bosom and rest ! 
 To watch the flames on the hearth ! — 
 
 Why not? Was not that the very thing to do ? 
 To buy back the old farm? It would cripple 
 him a little for the next season, but he could do 
 it. Think of it ! To see his mother back in the 
 old home, with the fireplace restored, the old ^ / 
 furniture in the sitting-room around her, and fine 
 new things in the parlor ! 
 
 His spirits rose again. Grant couldn't stand 
 out when he brought to him a deed of the farm. 
 Surely his debt would be cancelled when he had 
 seen them all back in the wide old kitchen. He 
 began to plan and to dream. He went to the 
 windows, and looked out on the yard to see how 
 much it had changed. 
 
 He'd build a new barn, and buy them a new 
 carriage. His heart glowed again, and his lips 
 softened into their usual feminine grace — lips a 
 little full and falling easily into curves. 
 
 The old German woman came in at length, 
 bringing some cakes and a bowl of milk, smiling 
 broadly and hospitably as she waddled forward. 
 
 " Ach ! Goot !" he said, smacking his lips over 
 the pleasant draught. 
 
110 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Wo ist ihre goot mann ?" lie inquired, ready 
 for business. 
 
 III. 
 
 When Grant came in at noon Mrs. McLane 
 \ met him at the door, with a tender smile on her 
 face. 
 
 "Where's Howard, Grant?" 
 
 " I don't know," he replied in a tone that im- 
 plied " I don't care." 
 
 The dim eyes clouded with quick tears. 
 
 " Ain't you seen him ?" 
 
 " Not since nine o'clock." 
 
 " Where d'you think he is ?" 
 
 " I tell yeh I don't know. He'll take care of 
 himself; don't worry." 
 
 He flung off his hat and plunged into the wash- 
 basin. His shirt was wet with sweat and covered 
 with dust of the hay and fragments of leaves. 
 He splashed his burning face with the water, 
 paying no further attention to his mother. She 
 spoke again, very gently, in reproof : 
 
 " Grant, why do you stand out against Howard 
 so?" 
 
 "I don't stand out against him," he replied 
 harshly, pausing with the towel in his hands. 
 His eyes Avere hard and piercing. " But if he 
 expects me to gush over his coming back, he's 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. Ill 
 
 fooled, that's all. He's left us to paddle our own 
 canoe all this while, and, so far as Fm concerned, 
 he can leave us alone hereafter. He looked out 
 for his precious hide mighty well, and now he 
 comes back here to play big-gun and pat us on 
 the head. I don't propose to let him come that 
 over me." 
 
 Mrs. McLane knew too well the temper of her 
 son to say any more, but she inquired about 
 Howard of the old hired man. 
 
 " He went off down the valley. He 'n' Grant 
 had s'm words, and he pulled out down toward 
 the old farm. That's the last I see of 'im." 
 
 Laura took Howard's part at the table. " Pity 
 you can't be decent," she said, brutually direct 
 as usual. " You treat Howard as if he was a — a — 
 I do' know what." 
 
 " Will you let me alone ?" 
 
 " No, I won't. If you think I'm going to set by 
 an' agree to your buUyraggin' him, you're mis- 
 taken. It's a shame ! You're mad 'cause he's 
 succeeded and you ain't. He ain't to blame for 
 his brains. If you and I'd had any, we'd 'a' suc- 
 ceeded too. It ain't our fault and it ain't his ; 
 so what's the use ?" 
 
 There was a look came into Grant's face that 
 the wife knew. It meant bitter and terrible 
 silence. He ate his dinner without another 
 word. 
 
112 MAIN-TBAVELLEB ROADS. 
 
 It was beginning to cloud up. A thin, whitish, 
 all-pervasive vapor which meant rain was dim- 
 ming the sky, and he forced his hands to their 
 utmost during the afternoon in order to get most 
 of the down hay in before the rain came. He 
 was pitching hay up into the barn when Howard 
 came by just before one o'clock. 
 
 It was windless there. The sun fell through 
 the white mist with undiminished fury, and the 
 fragrant hay sent up a breath that was hot as an 
 oven-draught. Grant was a powerful man,and there 
 was something majestic in his action as he rolled 
 the huge flakes of hay through the door. The 
 sweat poured from his face like rain, and he was 
 forced to draw his dripping sleeve across his 
 face to clear away the blinding sweat that poured 
 into his eyes. 
 
 Howard stood and looked at him in silence, 
 remembering how often he had worked there in 
 that furnace-heat, his muscles quivering, cold 
 chills running over his flesh, red shadows dancing 
 before his eyes. 
 
 His mother met him at the door, anxiously, but 
 smiled as she saw his pleasant face and cheerful 
 eyes. 
 
 "You're a little late, m' son." 
 
 Howard spent most of the afternoon sitting 
 with his mother on the porch, or under the trees, 
 lying sprawled out like a boy, resting at times 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 113 
 
 ■with sweet forgetfulness of the whole world, but 
 feeling a dull pain whenever he remembered the 
 stern, silent man pitching hay in the hot sun on 
 the torrid side of the barn. 
 
 His mother did not say anything about the 
 quarrel; she feared to reopen it. She talked 
 mainly of old times in a gentle monotone of remi- 
 niscence, while he listened, looking up into her 
 patient face. 
 
 The heat slowly lessened as the sun sank down 
 toward the dun clouds rising like a more distant 
 and majestic line of mountains beyond the west- 
 ern hills. The sound of cow-bells came irregu- 
 larly to the ear, and the voices and sounds of the 
 haying-fields had a jocund, thrilling effect on the 
 ear of the city-dweller. 
 
 He was very tender. Everything conspired to 
 make him simple, direct, and honest. 
 
 " Mother, if you'll only forgive me for staying 
 away so long, I'll surely come to see you every 
 summer." 
 
 She had nothing to forgive. She was so glad 
 to have him there at her feet — her great, hand- 
 some, successful boy ! She could only love him 
 and enjoy him every moment of the precious days. 
 If Grant would only reconcile himself to How- 
 ard ! That was the great thorn in her flesh. 
 
 Howard told her how he had succeeded. 
 
 " It was luck, mother. First I met Cooke, and 
 
MAIN-TBAYELLEI> ROADS. 
 
 he introduced me to Jake Saulsmai; of Chicago. 
 Jake asked me to go to New York witli him, and— 
 I don't know why — took a fancy to me some way. 
 He introduced me to a lot of the fellows in New 
 York, and they all helped me along. I did noth- 
 ing to merit it. Everybody helps me. Anybody 
 can succeed in that way." 
 
 The doting mother thought it not at all strange 
 that they all helped him. 
 
 At the supper-table Grant was gloomily silent, 
 ignoring Howard completely. Mrs. McLane sat 
 and grieved silently, not daring to say a word in 
 protest. Laura and the baby tried to amuse 
 Howard, and under cover of their talk the meal 
 was eaten. 
 
 The boy fascinated Howard. He "sawed 
 wood " with a rapidity and uninterruptedness 
 which gave alarm. He had the air of coaling up 
 for a long voyage. 
 
 " At that age," Howard thought, " I must have 
 gripped my knife in my right hand so, and poured 
 my tea into my saucer so. I must have buttered 
 and bit into a huge slice of bread just so, and 
 chewed at it with a smacking sound in just that 
 way. I must have gone to the length of scooping 
 up honey with my knife-blade." . 
 
 It was magically, mystically beautiful over all 
 this squalor and toil and bitterness, from five 
 till seven — a moving hour. Again the fallingsun 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 115 
 
 streamed in broad banners across the valleys ; 
 again the blue mist lay far down the Coule over 
 the river ; the cattle called from the hills in the 
 moistening, sonoroiis air ; the bells came in a 
 pleasant tangle of sound ; the air pulsed with the 
 deepening chorus of katydids and other nocturnal 
 singers. 
 
 Sweet and deep as the very springs of his life 
 was all this to the soul of the elder brother ; but 
 in the midst of it, the younger man, in ill-smell- 
 ing clothes and great boots that chafed his feet, 
 went out to milk the cows — on whose legs the flies 
 and mosquitoes swarmed, bloated with blood, — 
 to sit by the hot side of the cow and be lashed 
 with her tail as she tried frantically to keep the 
 savage insects from eating her raw. 
 
 " The poet who writes of milking the cows 
 does it from the hammock, looking on," Howard 
 soliloquized, as he watched the old man Lewis 
 racing around the filthy yard after one of the 
 young heifers that had kicked over the pail in 
 her agony with the flies and was unwilling to 
 stand still and be eaten alive. 
 
 " So, so I you beast !" roared the old man, as 
 he finally cornered the shrinking, nearly frantic 
 creature. 
 
 "Don't you want to look at the garden?" 
 asked Mrs. McLane of Howard ; and they went 
 oat among the vegetables and berries. 
 
116 MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 The bees were coming home heavily laden and 
 crawling slowly into the hives. The level, red 
 light streamed through the trees, blazed along 
 the grass, and lighted a few old-fashioned flow- 
 ers into red and gold flame. It was beautiful, 
 and Howard looked at it through his half-shut 
 y eyes as the painters do, and turned away with a 
 
 sigh at the sound of blows where the wet and 
 grimy men were assailing the frantic cows. 
 
 "There's "Wesley with your trunk," Mrs. Mc- 
 Lane said, recalling him to himself, 
 
 Wesley helped him carry the trunk in, and 
 waved off thanks. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," he said; and Howard 
 knew the Western man too well to press the mat- 
 ter of pay. 
 
 As he went in an hour later- and stood. .by the 
 trunk, the dull ache came back into his heart. 
 How he had failed ! It seemed like a bitter 
 mockery now to show his gifts. 
 
 Grant had come in from his work, and with 
 his feet released from his chafing boots, in his 
 wet shirt and milk-splashed overalls, sat at the 
 kitchen table reading a newspaper which he held 
 close to a small kerosene lamp. He paid no at- 
 tention to any one. His attitude, curiously like 
 his father's, was perfectly definite to Howard. It 
 meant that from that time forward there were to 
 be no words of any sort between them. It meant 
 
MAlN-TBA-iTELLED ROADS. Ill 
 
 that they were no longer brothers, not even ac- 
 quaintances. "How inexorable that face!" 
 thought Howard. 
 
 He turned sick with disgust and despair, and 
 would have closed his trunk without showing 
 any of the presents, only for the childish expect- 
 ancy of his mother and Laura. 
 
 "Here's something for you, mother," he said, 
 assuming a cheerful voice, as he took a fold of 
 fine silk from the trunk and held it up. " All the 
 way from Paris." 
 
 He laid it on his mother's lap and stooped and 
 kissed her, and then turned hastily away to hide 
 the tears that came to his own eyes as he saw her 
 keen pleasure. 
 
 "And here's a parasol for Laura. I don't 
 know how I came to have that in here. And 
 here's General Grant's autobiography for his 
 namesake," he said, with an effort at carelessness, 
 and waited to hear Grant rise. 
 
 " Grant, won't you come in ?" asked his mother, 
 quaveringly. 
 
 Grant did not reply nor move. Laura took 
 the handsome volumes out and laid them beside 
 him on the table. He simply pushed them one 
 side and went on with his reading. 
 
 Again that horrible anger swept hot as flame 
 over Howard. He could have cursed him. His 
 hands shook as he handed out other presents to 
 
118 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 his mother and Laura and the baby. He tried 
 to joke. 
 
 " I didn't know how old the baby was, so she'll 
 have to grow to some of these things." 
 
 But the pleasure was all gone for him and for 
 the rest. His heart swelled almost to a feeling' 
 of pain as he looked at his mother. There she 
 sat with the presents in her lap. The shining 
 \ silk came too late for her. It threw into appal- 
 ling relief her age, her poverty, her work-weary 
 frame. " My God !" he almost cried aloud, 
 " how little it would have taken to lighten her 
 life !" 
 
 Upon this moment, when it seemed as if he 
 could endure no more, came the smooth voice of 
 "William McTurg : 
 
 " Hello, folkses !" 
 
 " Hello, Uncle Bill ! Come in." 
 
 " That's what we came for," laughed a woman's 
 voice. 
 
 " Is that you, Eose ?" asked Laura. 
 
 " It's me — Rose," replied the laughing girl, as 
 she bounced into the room and greeted every- 
 body in a breathess sort of way. 
 
 " You don't mean little Eosy ?"■ 
 
 "Big Eosy now," said William. 
 
 Howard looked at the handsome girl and 
 smiled, saying in a nasal sort of tone, " Wal, wal ! 
 Eosy, how you've growed since I saw yeh !" 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD BO ADS. 119 
 
 " Oh, look at all this purple and fine linen ! 
 Am I left out?" 
 
 Bose was a large girl of twenty-five or there- 
 abouts, and was called an old maid. She radi- 
 ated good-nature from every line of her buxom 
 self. Her black eyes were full of drollery, and 
 she was on the best of terms with Howard at 
 once. She had been a teacher, but that did not 
 prevent her from assuming a peculiar directness of 
 speech. Of course they talked about old friends. 
 
 "Where's Eachel?" Howard inquired. Her 
 smile faded away. 
 
 " Shellie married Orrin Mcllvaine. They're 
 way out in Dakota. Shellie's havin' a hard row 
 of stumps." 
 
 There was a little silence. 
 
 "And Tommy?" 
 
 "Gone West. Most all the boys have gone West. 
 That's the reason there's so many old maids." 
 
 " Tou don't mean to say — " 
 
 " I don't need to say — I'm an old maid. Lots 
 of the girls are." 
 
 " It don't pay to marry these days." 
 
 " Are you married ?" 
 
 "Not yet." His eyes lighted up again in a 
 humorous way. 
 
 "Not yet ! That's good ! That's the way old 
 maids all talk." 
 
120 MAIN- TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me that no young fel- 
 low comes prowling around — " 
 
 " Oil, a young Dutchman or Norwegian once in 
 a while. Nobody that counts. Fact is, we're 
 getting like Boston — four women to one man ; 
 and when you consider that we're getting more 
 particular each year, the outlook is — well, it's 
 dreadful !" 
 
 " It certainly is." 
 
 "Marriage is a failure these days for most of 
 us. We can't live on the farm, and can't get a 
 liTing in the city, and there we are." She laid 
 her hand on his arm. " I declare, Howard, you're 
 the same boy you used to be. I ain't a bit afraid 
 of you, for all your success." 
 
 " And you're the same girl ? No, I can't say 
 that. It seems to me you've grown more than I 
 have — I don't mean physically, I mean mentally," 
 he explained, as he saw her smile in the defen- 
 sive way a fleshy girl has, alert to ward off a 
 joke. 
 
 They were in the midst of talk. Howard telling 
 one of his funny stories, when a wagon clattered 
 up to the door, and merry voices called loudly : 
 
 " Whoa, there, Sampson !" 
 
 " Hullo, the house !" 
 
 Rose looked at her father with a smile in her 
 black eyes exactly like his. They went to the door. 
 
 "Hullo ! What's wanted ?" 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 121 
 
 " Grant McLane live here ?" 
 
 " Yup. Eight here." 
 
 A moment later there came a laughing, chat- 
 ting squad of women to the door. Mrs. McLane 
 and Laura stared at each other in amazement. 
 Grant went out-doors. 
 
 Eose stood at the door as if she were hostess. 
 
 " Come in, Nettie. Glad to see yeh— glad to see 
 yeh ! Mrs. Mcllvaine, come right in ! Take a 
 seat Make yerself to home, do ! And Mrs. 
 Peavey ! Wal, I never ! This must be a surprise- 
 party. Well, I swan ! How many more o' ye 
 air they?" 
 
 All was confusion, merriment, hand-shakings as 
 Eose introduced them in her roguish way. 
 
 " Folks, this is Mr. Howard McLane of New 
 York. He's an actor, but it hain't spoiled him a 
 bit as / can see. How, this is Nettie Mcllvaine 
 — ^Wilson that was." 
 
 Howard shook hands with Nettie, a tall, plain 
 girl with prominent teeth. 
 
 " This is Ma Mcllvaine." 
 
 " She looks just the same," said Howard, 
 shaking her hand and feeling how hard and 
 work-worn it was. 
 
 And so amid bustle, chatter, and invitations 
 "to lay off y'r things an' stay awhile," the 
 women got disposed about the room at last. 
 Those that had rocking-chairs rocked vigor- 
 
122 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 ously to and fro to hide their embarrassment. 
 They all talked in loud voices. 
 
 Howard felt nervous under this furtive scru- 
 tiny. He wished his clothes didn't look so con- 
 foundedly dressy. Why didn't he have sense 
 enough to go and buy a fifteen-dollar suit of 
 diagonals forevery-day wear. 
 
 Rose was the life of the party. Her tongue 
 rattled on in the most delightful way. 
 
 " It's all Eose an' Bill's doin's," Mrs. Mcllvaine 
 explained. " They told us to come over an' pick 
 lip anybody we see on the road. So we did." 
 
 Howard winced a little at her familiarity of 
 tone. He couldn't help it for the life of him. 
 
 "Well, I wanted to come to-night because 
 I'm going away next week, and I wanted to see 
 how he'd act at a surprise-party again," Hose ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "Married, I s'pose," said Mrs. Mcllvaine, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 " Good land ! Why, y' mus' be thirty-five, 
 How. Must 'a' dis'p'inted y'r mam not to have a 
 young 'un to call 'er granny." 
 
 The men came clumping in, talking about hay- 
 ing and horses. Some of the older ones Howard 
 knew and greeted, but the younger ones were 
 mainly too much changed. They were all very ill 
 at ease. Most of them were in compromise dress 
 — something lying between working " rig " and 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 128 
 
 Sunday dress. Most of them had on clean shirts 
 and paper collars, and wore their Sunday coats 
 (thick woollen garments) over rough trousers. All 
 of them crossed their legs at once, and most of 
 them sought the wall and leaned back perilously 
 upon the hind legs of their chairs, eyeing Howard 
 slowly. 
 
 For the first few minutes the presents were the 
 subjects of conversation. The women especially 
 spent a good deal of talk tipon them. 
 
 Howard found himself forced to taking the 
 initiative, so he inquired about the crops and 
 about the farms. 
 
 " I see you don't plough the hills as we 
 used to. And reap ! What a job it ust to be. 
 It makes the hills more beautiful to have them 
 covered with smooth grass and cattle." 
 
 There was only dead silence to this touching 
 upon the idea of beauty. 
 
 " I s'pose it pays reasonably." 
 
 ." Not enough to kill," said one of the younger 
 men. "Tou c'n see that by the houses we live 
 in — that is, most of us. A few that came in early 
 an' got land cheap, like Mcllvaine, here — he got 
 a lift that the rest of us can't get." 
 
 " I'm a free-trader, myself," said one young 
 fellow, blushing and looking away as Howard 
 turned and said cheerily : 
 
 " So'm I." 
 
 / 
 
124 MAIN-TBAVELLED B0AB8. 
 
 The rest seemed to feel that this was a tabooed 
 subject — a subject to be talked out of doors, 
 ■where one could prance about and yell and do 
 justice to it. 
 
 Grant sat silently in the kitchen doorway, not 
 saying a word, not looking at his brother. 
 
 " Well, I don't never use hot vinegar for miae," 
 Mrs. Mcllvaiae was heard to say. "I jest use 
 hot water, an' I rinse 'em out good, and set 'em 
 bottom-side up in the sun. I do' know but what 
 hot vinegar wovM, be more cleansin'." 
 
 Rose had the younger folks in a giggle with a 
 droll telling of a joke on herself. 
 
 "How'd y' stop 'em from laffin' ?" 
 
 " I let 'em laugh. Oh, my school is a disgrace — 
 so one director says. But I like to see children 
 laugh. It broadens their cheeks." 
 
 " Tes, that's all hand-work." Laura was show- 
 ing the baby's Sunday clothes. 
 
 " Goodness Peter ! How do you find time to 
 do so much ?" 
 
 " I take time." 
 
 Howard, being the lion of the evening, tried his 
 best to be agreeable. He kept near his mother, 
 because it afforded her so much pride and satis- 
 faction, and because he was obliged to keep 
 away from Grant, who had begun to talk to the 
 men. Howard talked mainly about their affairs, 
 but still was forced more and more into talking 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 125 
 
 of life in the city. As lie told of the theatre and 
 the concerts, a sudden change fell upon them ; 
 they grew sober, and he felt deep down in the 
 hearts of these people a melancholy which was 
 expressed only elusively with little tones or sighs. 
 Their gayety was fitful. 
 
 They were hungry for the world, for art — these 
 young people. Discontented and yet hardly 
 daring to acknowledge it ; indeed, few of them 
 could have made definite statement of their 
 dissatisfaction. The older people felt it less. 
 They practically said, with a sigh of pathetic 
 resignation : 
 
 " Well, I don't expect ever to see these things 
 now." 
 
 A casual observer would have said, " What a 
 pleasant bucolic — this little surprise-party of 
 welcome !" But Howard with his native ear and 
 eye had no such pleasing illusion. He knew too 
 well these suggestions of despair and bitterness. ^ 
 He knew that, like the smile of the slave, this 
 cheerfulness was self-defence ; deep down was 
 another self. 
 
 Seeing Grant talking with a group of men over 
 by the kitchen door, he crossed over slowly and 
 stood listening. Wesley Cosgrove — a tall, raw- 
 boned young fellow with a grave, almost tragic 
 face — was saying : 
 
126 MAIN-TBAVBLLHD ROADS. 
 
 " Of course I ain't. "Who is ? A man that's 
 satisfied to live as we do is a fool." 
 
 " The worst of it is," said Grant, without see- 
 ing Howard, "a man can't get out of it during 
 his lifetime, and I don't know that he'll have 
 any chance in the next — the speculatoj'U be 
 there ahead of us." 
 
 The rest laughed, but Grant went on grimly : 
 
 " Ten years ago Wess, here, could have got 
 land in Dakota pretty easy, but now it's about 
 all a feller's life's worth" to try it. I tell you 
 things seem shuttin' down on us fellers." 
 
 ^^ Plenty o' land to rent?" suggested some one. 
 
 "Yes, in terms that skin a man alive. More 
 ihan that, farmin' ain't so free a life as it used to 
 be. This cattle-raisin' and butter-makin' makes 
 a nigger of a man. Binds him right down to the 
 grindstone, and he gets nothin' out of it — that's 
 what rubs it in. He simply wallers around in 
 the manure for somebody else. I'd like to know 
 what a man's life is warth who lives as we do ? 
 How much higher is it than the lives the niggers 
 used to live ?" 
 
 These brutally bald words made Howard'^rill 
 with emotion flike some great tragic poemy A 
 silence fell on flae group. / 
 
 "That's the God's truth, Grant," said young 
 Oosgrove, after a pause. 
 
 "A man like me is helpless," Grant was say- 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLEI) BO ADS. 127 
 
 ing. " Just like a fly in a pan of molasses. There 
 ain't any escape for him. The more he tears 
 around the more liable he is to rip his legs off." 
 
 "What can he do?" 
 
 "Nothin'." 
 
 The men listened in silence. 
 
 " Oh come, don't talk politics all night !" cried 
 Eose, breaking in. " Come, let's have a dance. 
 Where's that fiddle ?" 
 
 "Fiddle!" cried Howard, glad of a chance to 
 laugh. " Well, now ! Bring out that fiddle. Is 
 it William's?" 
 
 " Yes, pap's old fiddle." 
 
 " O Gosh ! he don't want to hear me play," pro- 
 tested William. "He's heard s' many fiddlers." 
 
 " Fiddlers ! I've heard a thousand violinists, 
 but not fiddlers. Come, give us ' Honest John.' " 
 
 William took the fiddle in his work-calloused 
 and crooked hands and began tuning it. The 
 group at the kitchen door turned to listen, their 
 faces lighting up a little. Eose tried to get a set 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Oh, good land !" said some. " We're all tuck- 
 ered out. What makes you so anxious ?" 
 
 " She wants a chance to dance with the New 
 Yorker." 
 
 " That's it exactly," Eose admitted. 
 
 " Wal, if you'd churned and mopped and cooked 
 
128 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS, 
 
 for hayin' hands as I have to-day„yoii -wouldn't 
 be so full o' nonsense." , 
 
 " Oh, bother ! Life's short. Come quick, get 
 Bettie out. Come, "Wess, never mind your hobby- 
 horse." 
 
 By incredible exertion she got a set on the 
 floor, and William got the fiddle in tune. How- 
 ard looked across at Wesley, and thought the 
 change in him splendidly dramatic. His face 
 had lighted up into a kind of deprecating, boyish 
 smile. Rose could do anything with him. 
 
 William played some of the old tunes that had 
 a thousand associated memories in Howard's 
 brain, memories of harvest-moons, of melon- 
 feasts, and of clear, cold winter nights. As he 
 danced, his eyes filled with a tender, luminous 
 light. He came closer to them all than he had 
 ^ been able to do before. Grant had gone out into 
 the kitchen. 
 
 After two or three sets had been danced, the 
 company took seats and could not be stirred 
 again. So Laura and Rose disappeared for a 
 few moments, and returning, served strawberries 
 and cream, which she "just happened to have 
 in the house/' 
 
 And then William played again. His fingers, 
 now grown more supple, brought out clearer, 
 firmer tones. As he played, silence fell on these 
 people. The magic of music sobered every face ; 
 
MAm-TEA VEILED EOADa l<39l 
 
 thfeiwomeh 'looted older laid: iniojie icai?e*M'dmj /thfel 
 m^n slouched sullenly in their chairs, oi^ leaned > 
 back against the wall. ' ! ■ . u i ■ 
 
 It seemed to Howard as if the spirit of'ti^a^edy 
 hMi '^^telrdd^this;houlse. ' Music had always Ifieen 
 
 fl,ed '^mmVp" [TTb -nrals- n6ver melancholy I excypt 
 whfenhe'playedlii-Then his efyes ^rew sonibrei, his' 
 drod)paaig >face' full of-shadowi^. "' i" ii'I nl ,i).i -i 
 
 He played on slowly, softly, wailing Sedtch' 
 tuneS and' mournful Irish sdig^.' - 'He' see^iied -to 
 find' in the soii'gs of thtese' p^dple^and esi:(^cially' 
 id' a ^ildy swee'tj 'l©V-kyyed ne^ro' song,' some' 
 ei^itesdiioni f ot his indefinable ' innfelr melan^hioly'. 
 ' "He' plaj-ledi on] forgetful of everybody, his lobg^ 
 beard swed J)iig the ivibHnj his ' toil-'Votik handk' 
 marvellously obedient to his will. '■•" ■ ' 
 
 At last he stopped, looked up with 'a faiiitj- de- 
 precElting' smile, and'feaid with a sigh : i*'! ■ I 
 
 " Well, 'folksesj time to go horhe." ' ■ ■ • > -^ I t - < ^ 
 "■'Hie'going' "v^^as 4uiet. Not mtioh laughing. 
 Howard stood at ihe' door and feaid ^ood-nigbt to 
 thtei'all^ his heart T^ty' tender.' ' I >• m' ^ '.ilt [■■ 
 
 " Come find see us," they said: ■' "' ■" ' ' '" " 
 
 "I'will," he replied cordially. '"I'll try ankiget 
 around to see evei'ybodyj and talk over old timesj 
 befor^'I'^o back!"' "'^ •■-''><>' ■ ■"• "iH'j^ 
 
 Aiter the wagons had driVen olit of the" yard) 
 
 iji )i,jl,l Lu' !•■ •,/■■ '. ■ '; "•■;. ! -I ! 1, \.-L 
 
130 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 Howard turned and put his arm about his moth- 
 er's neck. 
 
 "Tired?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " Well, now good-night. I'm going for a little 
 stroll." 
 
 His brain was too actiye to -sleep. He kissed 
 his mother good-night, and went out into the 
 road, his hat in his hand, the cool, moist wind on 
 his hair. 
 
 It was very dark, the stars being partly hidden 
 by a thin vapor. On each side the hills rose, 
 every line familiar as the face of an old friend. 
 A whippoorwill called occasionally from the hill- 
 side, and the spasmodic jangle of a bell now and 
 then told of some cow's battle with the mosqui- 
 toes. 
 
 As he walked, he pondered upon the tragedy 
 he had re-discovered in these people's lives. 
 Out here under the inexorable spaces of the sky, 
 a deep distaste of his own life took possession 
 of him. He felt like giving it all up. He thought 
 of the infinite tragedy of these lives which the 
 world loves to call "peaceful and pastoral." His 
 mind went out in the aim to help them. What 
 could he do to make life better worth living? 
 Nothing. They must live and die practically as 
 he saw them to-night. 
 
 And yet he kn6w this was a mood, and that in 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 131 
 
 a few hours tlie love and the habit of life, would 
 
 come back upon mm ana upon them ; that he 
 would go back to the city in a few days ; that 
 these people would live on and make the best 
 of it. 
 
 " TU make the best of it," he said at last, and 
 his thought came back to his mother and Grant. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The next day was a rainy day ; not a shower, 
 but a steady rain — an unusual thing in mid- 
 summer in the West. A cold, dismal day in the 
 fireless, colorles s farm-hous es. It came to Howard 
 in that peculiar reaction which surely comes 
 during a visit of this character, when thought is 
 a weariness, when the visitor longs for his own 
 familiar walls and pictures and books, and longs 
 to meet his friends, feeling at the same time the 
 tragedy of life which makes friends nearer and 
 more congenial than blood-relations. 
 
 Howard ate his breakfast alone, save Baby 
 and Laura, its mother, going about the room. 
 Baby and mother alike insisted on feeding him 
 to death. Already dyspeptic pangs were set- 
 ting in, 
 
 " Now ain't there something more I can — " 
 
 " Go.od heavens ! No !" he cried in dismay. 
 
132 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " I'm likely to die of dyspepsia now. TLis honey 
 and milk, and these delicious hot biscuits — " 
 
 " I'm afraid it ain't much like the breakfasts 
 you have in the city." 
 
 "Well, no, it ain't," he confessed. " But this is 
 the kind a man needs when he lives in the open 
 air." 
 
 She sat down opposite him, with her elbows 
 on the table, her chin in her palm, her eyes full 
 of shadows. 
 
 " I'd like to go to a city once. I never saw a 
 town bigger'n Lumberville. I've never seen a 
 play, but I've read of 'em in the magazines. It 
 must be wonderful ; they say they have wharves 
 and real ships coming up to the wharf, and peo- 
 ple getting off and on. How do they do it?" 
 
 " Oh, that's too long a story to tell. It's a lot 
 of machinery and paint and canvas. If I told 
 you how it was done, you wouldn't enjoy it so 
 well when you come on and see it." 
 
 "Do you ever expect to see me in New York?" 
 
 " Why, yes. Why not ? I expect Grant to 
 come on and bring you all some day, especially 
 Tonikins here. Tonikins, you hear, sir ? I ex- 
 pect you to come on you' forf birfday, sure." He 
 tried thus to stop the woman's gloomy confidence. 
 
 " I hate farm-life," she went on with a bitter 
 inflection. " It's nothing but fret, fret and work 
 the whole time, never going any place, never see- 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD R0AD8. 133 
 
 ing anybody but a lot of neighbors just as big 
 fools as yofl are. I spend my time fighting flies , 
 and washing dishes and churning. I'm sick of 
 it all." 
 
 Howard was silent. What could he say to such 
 an indictment ? The ceiling swarmed with flies 
 which the cold rain had driven to seek the 
 warmth of the kitchen. The gray rain was fall- 
 ing with a dreary sound outside, and down the 
 kitchen stove-pipe an occasional drop fell on the 
 stove with a hissing, angry sound. ' 
 
 The young wife went on with a deeper note : 
 
 " I lived in Lumberville two years, going to 
 school, and I know a little something of what 
 city life is. If I was a man, I bet I wouldn't ^ 
 wear my life out on a farm, as Grant does. I'd 
 get away and I'd do something. I wouldn't care 
 what, but I'd get away." 
 
 There was a certain volcanic energy back of all 
 the woman said, that made Howard feel she'd 
 make the attempt, fahe didn't know that the 
 struggle for a plac&HiO stand on this planet was 
 eating the heart and soul out of m^n and women 
 in the city, just as in the country^ But he could 
 say nothing. If he had said in conventional ^ 
 phrase, sitting there in his soft clothing, " We ^/^ 
 must make the best of it all," the women could 
 justly have thrown the dish-cloth in his face. 
 He could say nothing. 
 
134 MAtN-TRAVBLLHD HOADS. 
 
 " I was a fool for ev6r marrying," she went on, 
 while the baby pushed a chair across the room. 
 " I made a decent living teaching, I was free to 
 come and-go, my money was my own. Now I'm 
 tied right dbwn to a churn or a dish-pan, I never 
 have a cent of my own. He's growlin' round 
 half the time, and there's no chance of his ever 
 being different. " 
 
 She stopped with a bitter sob in her throat. 
 She forgot she was talking to her husband's 
 brother. She was conscious only of his sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 As if a great black cloud had settled- down 
 upon him, Howard felt it all — the horror, hope- 
 lessness, immanent tragedy of it all. The glory 
 of nature, the bounty and splendor of the sky, 
 only made it the more benumbing. He thought 
 of a sentence Millet once wrote : 
 
 " I see very well the aureole of the dandelions, 
 and the sun also, far down there behind the 
 hills, flinging his glory upon the clouds. But 
 not alone that — I see in the plains the smoke of 
 the tired horses at the plough, or, on a stony- 
 hearted spot of ground, a back-broken man try- 
 ing to raise himself upright for a moment to 
 breathe. The tragedy is surroitnded by glories 
 — that is no invention of mine." 
 
 Howard arose abruptly and went back to his 
 little bedroom, where he walked up "and down 
 
the floor till he was calm enough to -write, and 
 then he sat down and poured it all out to " Dear- 
 est Margaret," and his first sentence was this : 
 
 " If it were not for you (just to let you know 
 the mood I'm in) — if it were not /or you, and I had 
 the world in my hands, I'd crush it like a puif- 
 ball ; evil so predominates, suffering is so uni- 
 versal and persistent, happiness so fleeting and 
 so infrequent." 
 
 He wrote on for two hours, and by the time he 
 had sealed and directed several letters he felt 
 calmer, but still terribly depressed. The rain 
 was still falling, sweeping down from the half- 
 seen hills, wreathing the wooded peaks with a 
 gray garment of mist, and filling the valley 
 with a whitish cloud. 
 
 It fell around the house drearily. It ran down 
 into the tubs placed to catch it, dripped from the 
 mossy pump, and drummed on the upturned 
 milk-pails, and upon the brown and yellow bee- 
 hives under the maple-trees. The chickens 
 seemed depressed, but the irrepressible bluejay 
 screamed amid it all, with the same insolent 
 spirit, his plumage untarnished by the wet. The 
 barnyard showed a horrible mixture of mud and 
 mire, through which Howard caught glimpses of 
 the men, slumping to and fro without more addi- 
 tional protection than a ragged coat and a shape- 
 less felt hat. 
 
.^^4#P JW?fe A%^')S4t}'^ «»P ^fgjMji^l 'tell 
 rjibi? 3t^/_Qj^(|ay:i flJftPe¥!J*^¥ii:t-a±ffficfeitM&&r'Vsi{fe 
 j|9kc9a^lKl4wiB9r^qP?Etenlslwati<K3[(W 
 .^i^g^ Jtp,qqrr§!&t:apj; nii^t^ke,/^t§te ^Mfi\l^^ 
 
 ^al. "irianpstiui oa 
 
 ' 9i{ Tfej P^P^ I ^ 'the. j^^^So^feoKidx^li^cil^fPfeHon- 
 
 j^gpjj^p .of jijiq p,u,rita,nsr;40jtb?!j ^jiyHjy^xji^a^jf, 
 
 ^d ^gg^made ug 4D,f.af;^tff^qfggu^ij:^isj^^ of 
 
 flps^ersfpf ,ii?:^l^q.r4r)?f ^^]^§§-m^,-^^M> S?raiiged 
 ^n,rfp^r., di^erefatr,,wayS9if|oogixlife-ryall'. There 
 .^^j-je,no,rboal;?rTioMHS^*k^?S¥i iPi^-^ya few news- 
 papers in sight — a bare, blajj)jj((;!pjld, drab-colored 
 j^lj-^gyjijcgp tl^Qp:ai;^rpO;t a.liome. Nothing cosey, 
 ,:|;athij;g;he^rt-fW3,r]pjjng j.^figf im and horrible shed. 
 , '^'..'^Jaat fire thieydpiiig? It can't be they're at 
 jvoifk,,^iie]^,af day^fi^i^his," Howard said, standing 
 at-,t|i,e.iv^in4pw. ^ 
 
 ;',fj'I[liey-^nd plenty to do, even on rainy days," 
 ^4}g^f Jpd^l^is mother. " Grant always has some 
 Jg1^Tto-)S|etthe men at. It's the only way to live." 
 r,r," ^]1 go out and see them." He turned sud- 
 d,enly. " Mother, why should Grant treat me 
 so ? Have I deserved it ?" 
 
 Mrs. McLane sighed in pathetic hopelessness. 
 "I don't know, Howard. I'm worried about 
 
MAW-TRAVELLED ROADS. 1^1 
 
 Grant. He gets more an' more down-hearted an' 
 gloomy every day. Seem's if he'd go crazy. He 
 don't care how he looks any more, won't dress 
 up on Sunday. Days an' days he'll go aroun' 
 not sayin' a word. I was in hopes you could 
 help him, Howard." 
 
 " My coming seems to have had an opposite 
 effect. He hasn't spoken a word to me, except 
 when he had to, since I came. Mother, what do 
 you say to going home with me to New York ?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't do that!" she cried in terror. 
 " I couldn't live in a big city — never !" 
 
 " There speaks the truly rural mind," smiled 
 Howard at his mother, who was looking up at 
 him through her glasses with a pathetic forlorn- 
 ness which sobered him again. " Why, mother, 
 you could live in Orange, New Jersey, or out in 
 Connecticut, and be just as lonesome as you are 
 here. Tou wouldn't need to live in the city. 
 I could see you then every day or two." 
 • " Well, I couldn't leave Grant an' the baby, 
 anyway," ■ she replied, not realizing how one 
 could live in New Jersey and do business daily 
 in New York. 
 
 "Well, then, how would you like to go back 
 into the old house ?" he said, facing her. 
 
 The patient hands fell to the lap, the dim 
 eyes fixed in searching glance on his face. There 
 was a wistful cry in the voice. 
 
iS§ MAiiT-TBAriitLJsi) ^OAM. 
 
 " Oil, Howard ! Do you mean — " 
 
 He came and sat down by her, and put his arm 
 about her and hugged her hard. " I mean, you 
 dear, good, patient, work-weary old mother, I'm 
 going to buy back the old farm and put you in it." 
 
 There was no refuge for her now except in 
 tears, and she put up her thin, trembling old 
 hands about his neck, and cried in that easy, 
 placid, restful way age, has. 
 
 Howard could not speak. His throat ached 
 with remorse and pity. He saw his forgetfulness 
 of them all once more without relief, — the black 
 thing it was ! 
 
 " There, there mother, don't cry !" he said, 
 torn with anguish by her tears. Measured by 
 man's tearlessness, her weeping seemed terrible to 
 him. " I didn't realize how things were going 
 here. It was all my fault — or, at least, most of it. 
 Grant's letter didn't reach me. I thought you 
 were still on the old farm. But no matter ; it'^ 
 all over now. Come, don't cry any more, mother 
 dear. I'm going to take care of you How." 
 
 It had been years since the poor, lonely woman 
 had felt such warmth of love. Her sons had been 
 like her husband, chajgz-olexpressing their affec- 
 tion; and like mosC Puritan families, there was 
 little of caressing amOng them." Sitting there with 
 the rain on the roof and driving through the trees, 
 they planned getting back into the old house. 
 
kAm-TttAVMLLSn nOADB. 139 
 
 Howard's plan seemed to her full of splendor and 
 audacity. She began to understand his power 
 and wealth now, as he put it into concrete form 
 before her. 
 
 " I wish I could eat Thanksgiving dinner there 
 with you," he said at last, " but it can't be 
 thought of. HoweYer, I'll have you all in there 
 before I go home. I'm going out now and tell 
 Grant. Now don't worry any more ; I'm going 
 to fix it all up with him, sure." He gave her a 
 parting hug. 
 
 Laura advised him not to attempt to get to the 
 barn; but as he persisted in going, she hunted up 
 an old rubber coat for him. " You'll mire down 
 and spoil your shoes," she said, glancing at his 
 neat calf gaiters. 
 
 "Darn the difference!" he laughed in his old 
 way. " Besides, I've got rubbers." 
 
 "Better go round by the fence," she advised, 
 as he stepped out into the pouring rain. 
 
 How wretchedly familiar it all was ! The miry 
 cow-yard, with the hollow trampled out around the 
 horse-trough, the disconsolate hens standing un- 
 der the wagons and sheds, a pig wallowing across 
 its sty, and for atmosphere the- desolate, falling 
 rain. It was so familiar he felt a pang of the old 
 rebellious despair which seized him on such days 
 in his boyhood. 
 
 Catching up courage, he stepped out on the 
 
 ^ 
 
140 MAIN TRAVELLED ROAD^. 
 
 grass, opened the gate and entered th.e barn- 
 yard. A narrow ribbon of turf ran around the 
 fence, on which he could walk by clinging with 
 one hand to the rough boards. In this way he 
 slowly made his way around the periphery, and 
 came at last to the open barn-door without much 
 harm. 
 
 It was a desolate interior. In the open floor- 
 way Grant, seated upon a half-bushel, was mend- 
 ing a harness. The old man was holding the 
 trace in his hard brown hands; the boy was lying 
 on a wisp of hay. It was a small barn, and poor 
 at that. There was a bad smell, as of dead rats, 
 about it, and the rain fell through the shingles 
 here and there. To the right, and below, the 
 horses stood, looking up with their calm and 
 beautiful eyes, in which the whole scene was 
 idealized. 
 
 Grant looked up an instant and then w.ent on 
 with his work. 
 
 " Did yeh wade through ?" grinned Lewis, ex- 
 posing his broken teeth. 
 
 " No, I kinder circumambiated the pond." He 
 sat down on the little tool-box near Grant. 
 "Tour barn is. a good deal like that in 'The 
 Arkansas Traveller.' Needs a new roof. Grant." 
 His voice had a pleasant sound, full of the ten- 
 derness of the scene through which he had just 
 been. " In fact, you need a new barn." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED B0AB8. 141 
 
 " I need a good many things more'n I'll ever 
 get," Grant replied shortly. 
 
 "How long did you say you'd been on this 
 farm?" 
 
 " Three years this fall." 
 
 " I don't s'pose you've been able to think of 
 buying — Now hold on, Grant," he cried, as 
 Grant threw his head back. " For God's sake, 
 don't get mad again ! Wait till you see what I'm 
 driving at." 
 
 " I don't see what you're drivin' at, and I 
 don't care. All I want you to do is to leti'ufei 
 alone. That ought to be easy enough for' you. '^ 
 
 "I tell you, I didn't get your letter.-"! did'n'-t 
 know you'd lost the old farm." Howard waS de-j 
 termined not to quarrel. " I didn''t feuppos^-l-J'''- 
 
 " Ton might 'a' come to see." ' ' ' •■'•ri „i .i..ilj 
 
 "Well, I'll admit that. ' All ' I can feayini Ex- 
 cuse is that since I got to ma'naging plays I've 
 kept looking ahead to niaking'a big' hit and get- 
 ting a barrel of mohey^ust as 'tHe old' miners 
 used to hope 'and' watch.' Besides, you dbn't 
 understahd how mu'chi pileSsure there is' on iae. 
 A hundred different' people pulling and hauling 
 to'have me go here or gothere; or do thisordo 
 that. When it' isn't yachting,' it's canoeingy br^-'' 
 
 He stopped. His heart gave) a painful throbj 
 and a fehiverTarl thToiigh hiitn. Again he Saw his 
 life, sorifeh, so bright, so' free,' deO ovfetn ^aigainst 
 
142 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 the routine life in the little low kitchen, the bar- 
 ren sitting-room, and this still more horrible 
 barn. Why should his brother sit there in wet 
 and grimy clothing mending a broken trace, 
 while he enjoyed all the light and civilization of 
 the age ? 
 
 He looked at Grant's fine figure, his great 
 strong face ; recalled his deep, stern, masterful 
 voice. " Am I so much superior to him ? Have 
 not circumstances made me and destroyed him ?" 
 
 "Grant, for God's sake, don't sit there like 
 that ! I'll admit I've been negligent and careless. 
 I can't understand it all myself. But let me do 
 something for you now. I've sent to New York 
 for five thousand dollars. I've got terms on the 
 old farm. Let me see you all back there once 
 more before I return." 
 
 " I don't want any of your charity." 
 
 "It ain't charity. It's only justice to you." 
 He rose. " Come now, let's get at an understand- 
 ing. Grant. I can't go on this way. I can't go 
 back to New York and leave you here like this." 
 
 Grant rose too. " I tell you, I don't ask 
 your help. You can't fix this thing up with 
 money. If you've got more brains 'n I have, why 
 it's all right. I ain't got any right to take any- 
 thing that I don't earn." 
 
 " But you don't get what you do earn. It ain't 
 your fault. I begin to see it now, Beiug the 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 143 
 
 oldest, I liad the best chance. I was going to 
 town to school while you were ploughing and 
 husking corn. Of course I thought you'd be 
 going soon, yourself. I had three years the start 
 of you. If you'd been in my place, you might 
 have met a man like Cooke, you might have gone 
 to New York aud have been where I am." 
 
 " Well, it can't be helped now. So drop it." 
 
 " But it must be !" Howard said, pacing about, 
 his hands in his coat-pockets. Grant had stopped 
 work, and was- gloomily looking out of the door 
 at a pig nosing in the mud for stray grains of 
 wheat at the granary door : 
 
 " Good God ! I see it all now," Howard burst 
 out in an impassioned tone. " I went ahead with 
 my education, got my start in lifgifthen father 
 died, and you took up his burcjen^ Circumstan- 
 ces made me and crushed you.^ That's all there 
 is about that. Luck made me and cheated you. 
 It ain't right." 
 
 His voice faltered. Both men were now obliv- 
 ious of their companions and of the scene. Both 
 were thinking of the days when they both planned 
 great things in the way of an education, two am- 
 bitious, dreamful boys. 
 
 " I used to think of you. Grant, when I pulled 
 out Monday morning in my best suit — cost fif- 
 teen dollars in those days." He smiled a little 
 at the recollection. " While you in overalls and 
 
144 MAm^TRAVmXm) ROADS. 
 
 ail old '-wammts ' was ''going 'ou<i into tte' fi^lii' 
 fo' plougHj ■ or I 'husk' corn ' in ' tHe ikud!. ""■ If ma'de' 
 m^ feel nnfedsy,' but,' as I said,' I kept saying" to' 
 itiy^elfi'''His tum'Ucome in a ^eaiT'or two.' -Btit: 
 it 'didn't."' . ' n. :.,.,.! I ,- IJ n.,, ].., 
 
 His • voiofe' choked. 'He ValOiled' to 'tHe" door;' 
 stood a momdn^,! came babk;" His'ey^s were' full' 
 ofteiarg:"!. ■•'' "-u i-.ii ■-! -i ' "■- )i H ■ '/ 
 , 1 *'■ I' 'tell I you,i 'old ' man; ' inaiiy ' d,^ 'tiittife' in ■ my 
 boardiig-lioiiSe db^vn to the didiy.'whfeii I Ih'orighti 
 of 'the i<!)lly times I %a^ hWing> my heart hurt' 
 ihe. "But I said r ' It's do uye'to cry. "Better gb 
 on and do the best you'cain, and then" hielp tfaein' 
 aifterwalrds.' There'll ohly be one more taiisetAble 
 member of the family if ydu stay' at home.' Be- 
 sid'ifej it seeined right to me to liave'firbl; chancie. 
 But' I ' 'never thought you'd: 'be' -shut ■ off; ' '(jrrkatl ' 
 If I ha;d, I never would have gonteon. Co'me;'old 
 man, I T^an^i you 'to believe tHat'." His' Voice Was' 
 very tender now and almost humble. ' ' ' ' • ' i " • J 
 
 "I don't know as I blaiiie yeh fir 'that, 'Hd's^," 
 sMd- Gran^t, slowly. It was the first time' he had' 
 balled 'HdWard by his boyish nicknaine. ' His' 
 voiee wa's soft6r,'too, and higher in key. But he 
 looked steadily away. . m . i.j): i 
 
 ' "I'veht'td NeV'Tbtk: "People i liked my wbrk. 
 I ' 'w^als very'sudce'sfeful;' Grant; more' successful 
 th'flh i yoii irealize! i I could have' hBlped"ybu'a1;' 
 ainy tiine;" -There'snouse lying "a'boiif it. ' Add I^ 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 145 
 
 ought to have done it ; but some way — it's no ex- 
 cuse, I don't mean it for an excuse, only an ex- 
 planation — some way I got in with the boys. I 
 don't mean I was a drinker and all that. But I 
 bought pictures and kept a horse and a yacht, and 
 of course I had to pay my share of all expeditions, 
 and — oh, what's the use !" 
 
 He broke off, turned, and threw his open palms 
 out toward his brother, as if throwing aside the 
 last attenipt at an excuse. 
 
 " I did neglect you, and it's a damned shame ! 
 and I ask your forgiveness. Come, old man !" 
 
 He held out his hand, and Grant slowly ap- 
 proached and took it. There was a little silence. 
 Then Howard went on, his voice trembling, the 
 tears on his face. 
 
 " I want you to let me help you, old man. 
 That's the way to forgive me. Will you ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you can help me." 
 
 Howard squeezed his hand. " That's right, old 
 man. Now you make me a boy again. Course I 
 can help you. I've got ten-r" 
 
 " I don't mean that. How." Grant's voice was 
 very grave. " Money can't give me a chance 
 now." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean life ain't worth very much to me. 
 I'm too old to take a new start. I'm a dead fail- 
 ure. I've come to the Qoaclusion that life's a, I 
 
146 MAIN-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 r\ 
 
 failure for ninety-nine per cent of us. You can't 
 
 %elp me now. It's too late." 
 
 " Tlie two men stood there, face to face, hands 
 clasped, the one fair-skinned, full-lipped, hand- 
 some in his neat suit ; the other tragic, sombre in 
 
 ; his softened mood, his large, long, rugged Scotch 
 
 iface bronzed with sun and scarred with wrinkles 
 that had histories, like sabre-cuts on a veteran, 
 
 I the record of his battles. 
 
 I 
 
AMONG THE CORN-EOWS. 
 
 '' But the road sometimes passes a rich meadow, where 
 the songs of larlcs and hob-o'-Unks and blackbirds are 
 tangled. " 
 
 EoB held up his hands, from which the dough 
 depended in ragged strings. 
 
 "Biscuits," he said, with an elaborate working 
 of his jaws, intended td convey the^idea that they 
 were going to be specially delicious. 
 
 Seagraves laughed, but did not enter the 
 shanty door. " How do you like baching it ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't mention it !" entreated Eob, maul- 
 ing the dough again. "Come in an' sit down. 
 What in thunder y' standin' out there for?" 
 
 " Oh, I'd rather be where I can see the prairie. 
 Great weather !" 
 
 "Jm-mense!" 
 
 " How goes breaking ?" 
 
 " Tip-top ! A leetle dry now ; but the bulls pull 
 .the plough through two acres a day. How's 
 things in Boom town?" 
 
 "Oh, same old grind." 
 
 « Judge still lyin' ?" 
 
 147 
 
148 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS 
 
 " Still at it." 
 
 " Major Mullens still swearin' to it ?" 
 
 " Ton hit it like a mallet. . Bailroad schemes 
 are thicker'n prairie-chickens. Ton've got grit, 
 Eob. I don't have anything but crackers and 
 sardines over to my shanty, and here you are 
 making soda-biscuit:'' 
 
 " I have t' do it. Couldn't break if I didn't. 
 You editors c'n take things easy, lay around on 
 the prairie, and watch the plovers and medder- 
 larks ; but we settlers have got to work." 
 
 Leaving Eob to sputter over his cooking, Sea- 
 graves took his slow way off down toward the 
 oxen grazing in a little hollow. The scene was 
 characteristically, wonderfully beautiful. It was 
 about five o'clock in a day in late June, and the 
 level plain was green and yellow, and infinite in 
 reach as a sea ; the lowering sun was casting 
 over its distant swells a faint impalpable mist, 
 through which the breaking teams on the neigh- 
 boring claims ploughed noiselessly, as figures in 
 a dream. The whistle of gophers, the faint, 
 wailing, fluttering cry of the falling plover, the 
 whir of the swift-winged prairie-pigeon, or the 
 quack of a lonely duck, came through the shim- 
 mering air. The lark's infrequent whistle, pierc- 
 ingly sweet, broke from the longer grass in the 
 swales near by. No other climate, sky, plain, 
 could produce the same unnamable weird charm, 
 
MAIN-TBAVMLLBD BOADB. 149 
 
 No tree to wave, no grass to rustle ; scarcely a 
 sound of domestic life ; only the faint melancholy 
 soughing of the wind in the short grass, and the 
 voices of the wild things of the prairie. 
 
 Seagraves, an impressionable young man (jun- 
 ior editor of the Boomtown SpiJce), threw himself 
 down on the sod, pulled his hat-rim down over 
 his eyes, and looked away over the plain. It was 
 the second year of Boomtown's existence, and 
 Seagraves had not yet grown restless under its 
 monotony. Around him the gophers played 
 saucily. Teams were moving here and there 
 across the sod, with a peculiar noiseless, effortless 
 motion, that made them seem as calm, lazy, and 
 unsubstantial as the mist through which they 
 made their way; even the sound of passing 
 wagons was a sort of low, well-fed, self-satisfied 
 chuckle. 
 
 Seagraves, " holding down a claim" near Rob, 
 had come to see his neighboring " bach " because 
 feeling the need of company ; but now that he 
 was near enough to hear him prancing about get- 
 ting supper, .he was content to lie alone on a 
 slope of the green sod. 
 
 The silence of the prairie at night was well- . 
 nigh terrible. Many a night, as Seagraves lay in 
 his bunk against the side of his cabin, he would 
 strain his ear to hear the slightest sound, and be 
 listening thus sometimes for minutes before the 
 
150 MAIN-TRAVELLBD BOADB. 
 
 squeaE of a mouse or the step of i a passing fox 
 came as a relief to tlie aching sense. - In the day- 
 time, however, and especially on a morning, the 
 prairie was another thing. The pigeons, the 
 larks, the cranes, the multitudinous voices of the 
 ground-birds and -snipes and insects, made the 
 air pulsate with sound — a chorus that died away 
 into an infinite murmur of music. 
 
 " Hello, Seagraves !" yelled Eob from the door. 
 "The biscuit are 'most done." 
 
 Seagraves did not speak, only nodded his head, 
 and slowly rose. The faint clouds in the'Tvest 
 were getting a superb flame-color above and a 
 misty purple below, and the sun had shot them 
 with lances of yellow light. As the air grew 
 denser with moisture, the sounds of neighboring 
 life began to ^reach the ear. Children screamed 
 and laughed, and afar off a woman was singing a 
 lullaby. The rattle of wagons and voices of men 
 speaking to their teams multiplied. Ducks in a 
 neighboring lowland were quacking. The whole 
 scene took hold upon Seagraves with irresistible 
 power. 
 
 "It is American," he exclaimed. "No other 
 land or time can match this mellow air, this 
 . wealth of color, much less the strange social con- 
 ditions of life on this sunlit Dakota prairie." 
 
 Eob, though visibly affected by the scene also. 
 
MAIN-t'RAVkLtilD ROAM. 151 
 
 CoTjldn't let his biscuit spoil, or go without proper 
 attention. 
 
 " Say, ain't y' comin' t' grub ?" he asked, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " In a minute," replied his friend, taking a last 
 wistful look at the scene. " I want one more 
 look at the landscape." 
 
 " Landscape be blessed ! If you'd been breakin' 
 all day— Come, take that stool an' draw up," 
 
 "No; I'll take the candle-box." 
 
 " Not much. I know what manners are, if I 
 am a bull-driver." 
 
 Seagraves took the three-legged and rather 
 precarious-looking stool and drew up to the 
 table, which was a flat broad box nailed up 
 against the side of the wall, with two strips of 
 board nailed at the o,uter corners for legs. 
 
 "How's that fr a lay-out?" Eob inquired 
 proudly. 
 
 " Well, you have spread yourself ! Biscuit and 
 canned peaches and sardines and cheese. "Why, 
 this is — is — prodigal." 
 
 " It ain't nothin' else." 
 
 Eob was from one of the finest counties of 
 Wisconsin, over toward Milwaukee. He was of 
 German parentage, a middle-sized, cheery, wide- 
 awake, good-looking young fellow — a typical' 
 claim-holder. He was always confident, jovial, 
 and full of plans for the future. He had dug/ 
 
153 MAIN-TBAVBLLBD MOADS. 
 
 his own well, built his own shanty, washed and 
 mended his own clothing. He could do any- 
 thing, and do it well. He had a fine field of 
 wheat, and was finishing the ploughing of his en- 
 tire quarter section. 
 
 " This is what I call settin' under a feller's own 
 vine an' fig-tree" — after Seagraves's compliments 
 — " an' I like it. I'm my own boss. No man can 
 say ' come here ' 'n' ' go there ' to me. I get up 
 when I'm a min' to, an' go t' bed when I'm a min' 
 t'." 
 
 " Some drawbacks, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " Yes. Mice, f 'r instance, give me a devilish 
 lot o' trouble. They get into my flour-barrel, 
 eat up my cheese, an' fall into my well. But it 
 ain't no use t' swear." 
 
 " 'Tlie rats and the mice they made such a strife 
 He had to go to London to buy him a wife,' " 
 
 quoted Seagraves. " Don't blush. I've probed 
 your secret thought." 
 
 " Well, to tell the honest truth," said Eob, a 
 little sheepishly, leaning across the table, "I 
 ain't satisfied with my style o' cookin'. It's good, 
 but a little too plain, y' know. I'd like a change. 
 ', It ain't much fun to break all day, and then go to 
 \work an' cook y'r own supper." 
 ^ " No, I should say not." 
 
 " This fall I'm going back to "Wisconsin. Girls 
 
MAIN-TUAVELLED BOADS. 153 
 
 are thick as huckleberries back there, and I'm 1 
 goin' t' bring one back, now you hear me." /' 
 
 " Good ! That's the plan," laughed Seagraves, 
 amused at a certain timid and apprehensive look 
 in his companion's eye. "Just think what a 
 woman 'd do to put this shanty in shape ; and 
 think how nice it would be to take her arm and 
 saunter out after supper, and look at the farm, 
 and plan and lay out gardens and paths, and 
 tend th« chickens!" 
 
 Eob's manly and self-reliant nature had the . 
 settler's typical buoyancy and hopefulness, as 
 well as a certain power of analysis, which enabled 
 him now to say : " The fact is, we fellers holdin' 
 down claims out here ain't fools clear to the ririe. 
 We know a couple o' things. Now I didn't leave 
 Waupac County f'r fun. Did y' ever see WauT^ 
 pac ? Well, it's one o' the handsomest counties 
 the sun ever shone on, full o' lakes and rivers 
 and groves of timber. I miss 'em all out here, 
 and I miss the boys an' girls ; but they wa'n't no 
 chance there f'r a feller. Land that was good 
 was so blamed high you couldn't touch it with a 
 ten-foot pole from a balloon. Rent was high, if \ 
 you wanted t' rent, an' so a feller like me had t' 1 
 get out, an' now I'm out here, I'm goin' t' make j 
 the most of it. Another thing," he went, on, after 7 
 a pause — " we fellers workin' out back there got 
 more 'n' more like hands, an' less like human be- 
 
154 MAiN-TBAVELtBD ROAM. 
 
 iiigs. T' know, Wanpac is a kind of a summer 
 resort, and the people tliat use' t' come in sum- 
 mers looked down on us cusses in tlie fields an' 
 shops. I couldn't stand it. By God !" he said, 
 with a sudden impulse of rage quite unlike him, 
 " I'd rather live on an iceberg and claw crabs f r 
 a livin' than have some feller passin' me on the 
 road an' callin' me 'fellah! ' " 
 
 Seagraves knew what he meant, and listened 
 in astonishment at this outburst. 
 
 " I consider myself a sight better 'n' any man 
 who lives on somebody else's hard work. I've 
 never had a cent I didn't earn with them hands." 
 He held them up, and broke into a grin. 
 " Beauties, ain't they ? But they never wore gloves 
 , that some other poor cuss earned." 
 
 Seagraves thought them grand hands, worthy 
 to grasp the hand of any man or woman living. 
 
 "Well, so I come West, just like a thousand 
 srs, to get a start where the cussed 
 
 .r^eaii aristocracy hadn't got a holt on the 
 peopileT I like it here — course I'd like the lakes 
 an' meadows of Waupec better — but I'm my own 
 boss, as I say, an' I'm goin' to stay my own boss 
 if I haf to live on crackers an' wheat coffee to do 
 it ; that's the kind of a hair-pin I am." 
 
 In the pause which followed, Seagraves, plunged 
 deep into thought by Bob's words, leaned his 
 head on his hand. This working farmer had 
 
MAlN-TRArELLEl> ttOAM. 165 
 
 voiced the modern idea. It was an absolute 
 overturn of all tlie ideas of nobility and special 
 privilege born of tlie feudal past. Eob had 
 spoken upon impulse, but that impulse appeared 
 to Seagraves to be right. 
 
 " I'd like to use your idea for an editorial, Eob," 
 he said. 
 
 " My ideas !" exclaimed the astounded host, 
 pausing in the act of filling his pipe. " My ideas ! 
 Why, I didn't know I had any." 
 
 "Well, you've given me some, anyhow." 
 
 Seagraves felt that it was a wild, grand upstir- \ 
 ring of the modern democrat against the aristo- ) 
 cratic, against the idea of caste and the privilege / 
 of living on the labor of others. This atom off 
 humanity (how infinitesimal this drop in the 
 ocean of humanity !) was feeling the nameless 
 longing of expanding personality, and had already 
 pierced the conventions of society, and declared 
 as nil the laws of the land — laws that were sur- 
 vivals of hate and prejudice. He had exposed 
 also the native spring of the emigrant by uttering 
 the feeling that it is better to be an equal auiong 
 peasants than a servant before nobles. ^ 
 
 " So I have good reasons f'r liking the coun- 
 try," Bob resumed, in a quiet way. " The soil is 
 riSi, the climate good so far, an' if I have a 
 couple o' decent crops you'll see a neat upright 
 goin' up here, with a porch and a bay-winder." 
 
"> 
 
 156 MAIN-TRAVELLEB ROADS. 
 
 " And you'll still be livin' here alone, frying 
 leathery slapjacks an' chopping' taters and bacon." 
 
 "I think I see myself," drawled Eob, "goin' 
 aronnd all summer wearin' the same shirt without 
 washin', an' wipin' on the same towel four straight 
 weeks, an' wearin' holes in my socks, an' eatin' 
 musty ginger-snaps, mouldy bacon, an' canned 
 Boston beans f'r the rest o' my endurin' days ! 
 Oh yes ; I guess not 1 Well, see y' later. Must 
 go water my bulls." 
 
 " As he went off down the slope, Seagraves smiled 
 to hear him sing : 
 
 " I wish that some kind-hearted girl 
 "Would pity on me take, 
 And extricate me from the mess I'm in. 
 The angel— how I'd bless her, 
 If this her home she'd make, 
 In my little old sod shanty on the plain! " 
 
 The boys nearly fell off their chairs in the 
 Western House dining-room, a few days later, at 
 seeing Rob come into supper with a collar and 
 neck-tie as the finishing touch of a remarkable 
 outfit. 
 
 " Hit him, somebody !" 
 
 " It's a clean collar !" 
 
 " He's started f'r Congress !" 
 
 " He's going to get married," put in Seagraves, 
 in a tone that brought conviction. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 157 
 
 "Wliat!" screamed Jack Adams, O'Neill, and 
 Wilson, in one breath. " That man ?" 
 
 "That man," replied Seagraves, amazed at 
 Eob, who coolly took his seat, squared his elbows, 
 pressed his collar down at the back, and called 
 for the bacon and eggs. 
 
 The crowd stared at him in a dead silence. 
 
 " Where's he going to do it ?" asked Jack Ad- 
 ams. " Where's he going to find a girl ?" 
 
 " Ask him," said Seagraves. 
 
 " I ain't tellin'," put in Eob, with his mouth 
 full of potato. 
 
 " Tou're afraid of our competition." 
 
 " That's right ; our competition. Jack ; not your 
 competition. Come, now, Kob, tell us where you 
 found her." 
 
 "I ain't found her." 
 
 " What ! And yet you're goin' away t' get mar- 
 ried !" 
 
 " I'm goin' t' bring a wife back with me ten 
 days fr'm date." 
 
 " I see his scheme," put in Jim Eivers. " He's 
 goin' back East somewhere, an' he's goin' to pro- 
 pose to every girl he meets." 
 
 " Hold on !" interrupted Eob, holding up his 
 fork. " Ain't quite right. Every good-lookin' girl 
 I meet." 
 
 " Well, I'll be blanked !" exclaimed Jack, im- 
 
158 MAIN-TBAVBLLED ROADS. 
 
 patiently ; " that simply let's me out. Any man 
 with such a cheek ought to — " 
 
 " Succeed," interrupted Seagraves. 
 
 " That's what I say," bawled Hank Whiting, 
 the proprietor of the house. " You fellers ain't 
 got any enterprise to yeh. Why don't you go to 
 work an' help settle the country like men ? 
 'Cause y' ain't got no sand. Girls are thicker'n 
 huckleberries back East. I say it's a dum 
 shame !" 
 
 " Easy, Henry," said the elegant bank-clerk, 
 Wilson, looking gravely about through his spec- 
 tacles. " I commend the courage and the resolu- 
 tion of Mr. Eodemaker. I pray the lady may not 
 
 " ' Mislike him for his complexion, 
 
 The shadowed livery of the burning sun.' " 
 
 " Shakespeare," said Adams, at a venture. 
 
 " Brother in adversity, when do you embark ? 
 Another Jason on an untried sea." 
 
 " Hay !" said Eob, winking at Seagraves. " Oh, 
 I go to-night — night train." 
 
 "And return?" 
 
 " Ten days from date." 
 
 " I'll wager a wedding suppel: ne . brings a 
 blonde," said Wilson, in his clean-cut, languid 
 speech. 
 
 " Oh, come, now, Wilson ; that's too thin ! We 
 all know that rule about dark marryin' light." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 169 
 
 "I'll wager she'll be tall," continued Wilson. 
 "I'll wager you, friend Kodemaker, she'll be 
 blonde and tall." 
 
 The rest roared at Kob's astonishment and 
 confusion. The absurdity of it grew, and they 
 went into spasms of laughter. But Wilson re- 
 mained impassive, not the twitching of a muscle 
 betraying that he saw anything to laugh at in the 
 proposition. 
 
 Mrs. Whiting and the kitchen-girls came in, 
 wondering at the merriment. Eob began to get 
 uneasy. 
 
 " What is it ? What is it ?" said Mrs. Whiting, 
 a jolly little matron. 
 
 Elvers put the case. " Eob's on his way back 
 to Wisconsin t' get married, and Wilson has of- 
 fered to bet Jiim that his wife will be a blonde 
 and tall, and Eob dassent bet !" And they roared 
 again. 
 
 " Why, the idea ! the man's crazy !" said Mrs. 
 Whiting. 
 
 The crowd looked at each other. This was 
 hint enough ; they sobered, nodding at each 
 other. 
 
 "Aha ! I see ; I understand." 
 
 "It's the heat." 
 
 " And the Boston beans," 
 
 " Let up on him, Wilson, Don't badger a poor 
 
160 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 irresponsible fellow. I thought something was 
 wrong wlien I saw the collar." 
 
 " Oh, keep it up !" said Rob, a little nettled 
 by their evident intention to " have fun " with 
 him. 
 
 " Soothe him — soo-o-o-o-the him !" said Wilson. 
 " Don't be harsh." 
 
 Eob rose from the table. " Go to thunder ! 
 you make me tired." 
 
 " The fit is on him again !" 
 
 He rose disgustedly and went out. They fol- 
 lowed him in single file. The rest of the town 
 "caught on." Frank Graham heaved an apple 
 at him, and joined the procession. Eob went 
 into the store to buy some tobacco. They fol- 
 lowed, and perched like crows on the counters 
 till he went out ; then they followed him, as be- 
 fore. They watched him check his trunk ; they 
 witnessed the purchase of the ticket. The town 
 had turned out by this time. 
 
 " Waupac !" announced the one nearest the 
 victim. 
 
 " Waupac !" said the next man, and the word 
 was passed along the street up town. 
 
 " Make a note of it," said Wilson : " Waupac — 
 a county where a man's proposal for marriage 
 is honored upon presentation. Sight drafts." 
 
 Rivers struck up a song, while Eob stood 
 around, patiently bearing the jokes of the crowd ; 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 161 
 
 " We're lookin' rather seedy now, 
 While holdin' down our claims, 
 And our vittles are not always of the best, 
 And the mice play slyly round us , 
 
 As we lay down to sleep 
 In our little old tarred shanties on the claim. 
 
 " Yet we rather like the novelty 
 Of livin' in this way, 
 
 Though the bill of fare is often rather tame ; 
 An' we're happy as a clam 
 On the land of Uncle Sam 
 In our little old tarred shanty on the claim." 
 
 The train drew up at length, to the immense 
 relief of Eob, whose stoical resignation was be- 
 ginning to weaken. 
 
 " Don't y' wish y' had sand ?" he yelled to the 
 crowd as he plunged into the car, thinking he 
 was rid of them. 
 
 But no ; their last stroke was to follow him 
 into the car, nodding, pointing to their heads, 
 and whispering, managing in the half-minute the 
 train stood at the platform to set every person in 
 the car staring at the " crazy man." Eob groaned, 
 and puUed his hat down over his eyes — an action 
 which confirmed his tormentors' words and 
 made several ladies click their tongues in sym- 
 pathy— "Tick! tick! poor fellow!" 
 
 " All abo-o-o-a-rd /" said the conductor, grin- 
 ning his appreciation at the crowd, and the train 
 was off. 
 
162 MAm-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Oh, won't we make him groan when he gets 
 back !" said Barney, the young lawyer who sang 
 the shouting tenor. 
 
 "We'll meet him with the timbrel and the 
 harp. Anybody want to wager ? I'ye got two to 
 one on a short brunette," said WUson. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Follow it far enough and it may pass the bend in the 
 river where the water laughs eternally over its shallows" 
 
 A COEN-FIELD in July is a hot place. The soil is 
 hot and dry ; the wind comes across the lazily 
 murmuring leaves laden with a warm sickening 
 smell drawn from the rapidly-growing, broad- 
 flung banners of the corn. The sun, nearly ver- 
 tical, drops a flood of dazzling light and heat 
 upon the field over which the cool shadows run, 
 v^only to make the heat seem the'more intense. 
 Julia Peterson, faint with fatigue, was toiling 
 back and forth between the corn-rows, holding 
 the handles of the double-shovel corn-plough, 
 ,while her little brother Otto- rode the steaming 
 I horse. Her heart was full of bitterness, and her 
 I face flushed with heat, and her muscles aching 
 \with fatigue. The heat grew terrible. The corn 
 came to her shoulders, and not a breath seemed 
 to reach her, while the sun, nearing the noon 
 
MAIN-TRAVBLLED BO ABB. 163 
 
 mark, lay pitilessly upon her shoulders, protected 
 only by a calico dress. Tlie dust rose under her 
 feet, and as she was wet with perspiration it 
 soiled her till with a woman's instinctive clean- 
 liness, she shuddered. Her head throbbed 
 dangerously. What matter to her that the king- 
 bird pitched jovially from the maples to catch a 
 wandering blue-bottle fly, that the robin was 
 feeding its young, that the bobolink was singing? 
 AJl these things, if she saw them, only threw her 
 bondage to labor into greater relief. 
 
 Across the field, in another patch of corn, she 
 could see her father — a big, gruff- voiced, wide- 
 bearded Norwegian — at work also with a plough. 
 The corn must be ploughed, and so she toiled on, 
 the tears dropping from the shadow of the ugly 
 sun-bonnet she wore. Her shoes, coarse and 
 square-toed, chafed her feet ; her hands, large 
 and strong, were browned, or more properly 
 hurnt, on the backs by the sun. The horse's 
 harness " creaA- cracked " as he swung steadily 
 and patiently forward, the moisture pouring 
 from his sides, his nostrils distended. 
 
 The field ran down to a road, and on the other 
 side of the road ran a river — a broad, clear, 
 shallow expanse at that point, and the eyes of 
 the boy gazed longingly at the pond and the 
 cool shadow each time that he turned at the 
 fence. 
 
164 MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 "Say, Jule, I'm goin' in! Come, can't I? 
 Come — say !" lie pleaded, as they stopped at the 
 fence to let the horse breathe. 
 
 " I've let you go wade twice." 
 
 " But that don't do any good. My legs is all 
 smarty, 'cause ol' Jack sweats so." The boy 
 turned around on the horse's back, and slid back 
 to his rump. "I can't stand it!" he burst out, 
 sliding off and darting under the fence. " Father 
 can't see." 
 
 The girl put her elbows on the fence, and 
 watched her little brother as he sped away to 
 the pool, throwing off his clothes as he ran, 
 whooping with uncontrollable delight. Soon she 
 could hear him splashing about in the water a 
 short distance up the stream, and caught glimpses 
 of his little shiny body and happy face. How 
 cool that water looked ! And the shadows there 
 by the big basswood ! How that water would 
 cool her blistered feet ! An impulse seized her, 
 and she squeezed between the rails of the fence, 
 and stood in the road looking up and down to 
 see that the way was clear. It was not a main- 
 travelled road ; no one was likely to come ; why 
 not? 
 
 She hurriedly took off her shoes and stockings 
 — how delicious the cool, soft velvet of the grass ! 
 — and sitting down on the bank under the great 
 basswood, whose roots formed an abrupt bank, 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 166 
 
 she slid her poor blistered, chafed feet into the 
 water, her bare head leaned against the huge 
 tree-trunk. 
 
 And now as she rested, the beauty of the scene 
 came to her. Over her the wind moved the 
 leaves. A jay screamed far off, as if answering 
 the cries of the boy. A kingfisher crossed and 
 recrossed the stream with dipping sweep of his 
 wings. The river sang with its lips to the peb- 
 bles. The vast clouds went by majestically, far 
 above the tree-tops, and the snap and buzzing 
 and ringing whir of July insects made a cease- 
 less, slumberous undertone of song solvent of all 
 else. The tired girl forgot her work. She began 
 to dream. This would not last always. Some 
 one would come to release her from such drudg- 
 ery. This was her constant, tenderest, and most 
 secret dream. He would be a Yankee, not a 
 Norwegian ; the Yankees didn't ask their wives 
 to work in the field. He would have a home. 
 Perhaps he'd live in town — perhaps a merchant ! 
 And then she thought of the drug clerk in Bock 
 Biver who had looked at her — A voice broke in 
 on her dream, a fresh, manly voice. 
 
 " Well, by jinks ! if it ain't Julia ! Just the 
 one I wanted to see !" 
 
 The girl turned, saw a pleasant-faced young 
 fellow in a derby hat and a fifteen-dollar suit of 
 diagonals. 
 
\ 
 
 166 MAIN-TRAVELLED BOABE 
 
 " Eob Eodemaker ! How come — " 
 
 She remembered her situation, and flushed, 
 looked down at the water, and remained perfectly 
 stiU. 
 
 "Ain't ye goin' to shake hands? Y' don't 
 seem Tery glad t' see me." 
 
 She began to grow angry. " If you had any 
 eyes you'd see ! " 
 
 Eob looked over the edge of the bank, whistled, 
 turned away. " Oh, I see ! Excuse me 1 Don't 
 blame yeh a bit, though. Good weather f'r 
 corn," he went on, looking up at the trees. 
 " Corn seems to be pretty well forward," he con- 
 tinued, in a louder voice, as he walked away, 
 still gazing into the air. " Crops is looking fi: st- 
 class in Boomtown. Hello ! This Otto ? H'yare 
 y' little fecamp ! Get on to that horse agin. 
 Quick, 'r I'll take y'r skin off an' hang it on the 
 fence. What y' been doing ?" 
 
 " Ben in swimmin', Jimminy, ain't it fun ! 
 When 'd y' get back ?" said the boy, grinning. 
 
 "Never you mind," replied Eob, leaping the 
 fence by laying his left hand on the top rail. 
 " Get^ on to that horse." He tossed the boy up 
 on the horse, hung his coat on the fence. " I 
 s'pose the ol' man makes her plough same as 
 usual?" 
 
 "Tup," said Otto. 
 
 "Dod ding a man that'll do that! I don't 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED S0AD8. 167 
 
 mind if it's necessary, but it ain't necessary in 
 his case." He continued to mutter in this way 
 as he went across to the other side of the field. 
 As they turned to come back, Eob went up and 
 looked at the horse's mouth. " Gettin' purty 
 near of age. Say, who's sparkin' Julia now — 
 anybody ?" ^ 
 
 "Nobody 'cept some ol' Norwegians. She 
 won't have them. Por wants her to, but she 
 won't." 
 
 " Good f'r her. Nobody comes t' see her Sun- 
 day nights, eh ?" 
 
 " Nope, only 'Tias Anderson an' Ole Hoover ; 
 but she goes off an' leaves 'em." 
 
 " Chk !" said Eob, starting old Jack across the 
 field. 
 
 It was almost noon, and Jack moved reluct- 
 antly. He knew the time of day as well as the 
 boy. He made this round after distinct protest. 
 
 In the mean time Julia, putting on her shoes 
 and stockings, went to the fence and watched 
 the man's shining white shirt as he moved across 
 the corn-field. There had never been any spe- 
 cial tenderness between them, but she had always 
 Kked him. They had been at school together. 
 She wondered why he had come back at this time 
 of the year, and wondered how long he would 
 stay. How long had he stood looking at her ? 
 She flushed again at the thought of it. But he 
 
168 MAIN-TBAVELLBD BO ABB. 
 
 wasn't to blame J it was a public road. She 
 might have known better. 
 
 She stood under a little popple-tree, whose 
 leaves shook musically at every zephyr, and her 
 eyes through half-shut lids roved over the sea of 
 deep-green glossy leaves, dappled here and there 
 by cloud-shadows, stirred here and there like 
 v^water by the wind, and out of it all a longing to 
 be free from such toil rose like a breath, filling 
 her throat, and quickening the motion of her 
 heart. Must this go on forever, this life oi heat 
 and dust and labor ? What did it all mean ? 
 
 The girl laid her chin on her strong red wrists, 
 and looked up into the blue spaces between the 
 vast clouds — aerial mountains dissolving in a 
 shoreless azure sea. How cool and sweet and 
 restful they looked ! If she might only lie out on 
 the billowy, snow-white, sunlit edge ! The voices 
 of the driver and the ploughman recalled her, 
 and she fixed her eyes again upon the slowly- 
 nodding head of the patient horse, on the boy 
 turned half about on the horse, talking to the 
 white-sleeved man, whose derby hat bobbed up 
 and down quite curiously, like the horse's head. 
 Would she ask him to dinner ? What would her 
 people say? 
 
 " Phew ! it's hot !" was the greeting the young 
 fellow gave as he came up. He smiled in a frank, 
 boyish way as he hung his hat on the top of a 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED ROADS. 169 
 
 stake and looked up at her. " D' y' know, I kind 
 o' enjoy getting at it again. Fact. It ain't no 
 work for a girl, though," he added. 
 
 " "When 'd you get back ?" she asked, the flush 
 not yet out of her face. Eob was looking at her 
 thick, fine hair and full Scandinavian face, rich as 
 a rose in color, and did not reply for a few sec- 
 onds. She stood with her hideous sun-bonnet 
 pushed back on her shoulders. A kingbird was 
 chattering overhead. 
 
 " Oh, a few days ago." 
 
 " How long y' goin' t' stay ?" 
 
 " Oh, I d' know. A week, mebbe." 
 
 A far-off halloo came pulsing across the shim- 
 mering air. The boy screamed " Dinner !" and 
 waved his hat with an answering whoop, then 
 flopped off the horse like a turtle off a stone into 
 water. He had the horse unhooked in an instant, 
 and had flung his toes up over the horse's back, 
 in act to climb on, when Rob said : 
 
 " H'yare, young feller ! wait a minute. Tired ?" 
 he asked the girl, with a tone that was more than 
 kindly ; it was almost tender. 
 
 " Yes," she replied in a low voice. "My shoes 
 hurt me." 
 
 " Well, here y' go," he replied, taking his stand 
 by the horse, and holding out his hand like a step. 
 She colored and smiled a little as she lifted her 
 foot into his huge, hard, sunburned hand. 
 
170 MAIN-TRAVELLBD ROADS. 
 
 " Oop-a-daisy !" he called. She gave a spring 
 and sat the horse like one at home there. 
 
 Bob had a deliciously unconscious, abstracted, 
 business-like air. He really left her nothing to 
 do but enjoy his company, while he went ahead 
 and did precisely as he pleased. 
 
 " We don't raise much corn out there, an' so I 
 kind o' like to see it once more." 
 
 " I wish I didn't Ijave to see another hill of 
 corn as long as I live !" replied the girl, bitterly. 
 
 " Don't know as I blame yeh a bit. But, all the 
 same, I'm glad you was working in it to-day," he 
 thought to himself, as he walked beside her horse 
 toward the house. 
 
 " Will you stop to dinner ?" she inquired 
 bluntly, almost surlily. It was evident that there 
 were reasons why she didn't mean to press him 
 to do so. 
 
 " You bet I will," he replied ; " that is, if you 
 want I should." 
 
 " You know how we live," she replied, eva- 
 sively. " If you c'n stand it, why — " She broke 
 off abruptly. 
 
 Yes, he remembered how they lived in that big, 
 square, ^rty, white frame house. It had been 
 three or four years since he had been in it, but 
 the smell of the cabbage and onions, the pene- 
 trating, peculiar mixture of odors, assailed his 
 memory as something unforgettable. 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLED MO ADS. 171 
 
 " I guess I'll stop," lie said, as she hesitated^ 
 She said no more, but tried to act as if she were 
 not in any way responsible for what came after- 
 ward. 
 
 "I guess I c'n stand f'r one meal what you 
 stand all the while," he added. 
 
 As she left them at the well and went to the 
 house he saw her limp painfully, and the memory 
 of her face so close to his lips as he helped her 
 dowTi from the horse gave him pleasure, at the 
 same time that he was touched by its tired and 
 gloomy look. Mrs. Peterson came to the door of 
 the kitchen, looking just the same as ever. Broad- 
 faced, unwieldy, flabby, apparently wearing the 
 same dress he remembered to have seen her in 
 years before, — a dirty drab-colored thing, — she 
 looked as shapeless as a sack of wool. Her Eng- 
 lish was limited to, "How de do, Eob ?" 
 
 He washed at the pump, while the girl, in the 
 attempt to be hospitable, held the clean towel for 
 him. 
 
 " Tou're purty well used up, eh ?" he said to 
 her. 
 
 "Yes; it's awful hot out there." 
 
 " Can't you lay off this afternoon ? It ain't 
 right." 
 
 " No. He won't listen to that." 
 
 " Well, let me take your place." 
 
 " No ; there ain't any use o' that." 
 
172 MAIN-TEAVELLMD ROADS. 
 
 Peterson, a brawny wide-bearded Norwegian, 
 came up at this moment, and spoke to Kob in a 
 sullen, gruff way. 
 
 " He ain't very glad to see me," said Bob, 
 winking at Julia. " He aia't b'ilin' over with en- 
 thusiasm ; but I c'n stand it, for your sake," he 
 added, with amazing assurance ; but the girl had 
 turned away, and it was wasted. 
 
 At the table he ate heartily of the "bean 
 swaagen," which filled a large wooden bowl in 
 the centre of the table, and which was ladled into 
 smaller wooden bowls at each plate. Julia had 
 ' tried hard to convert her mother to Yankee ways, 
 and had at last given it up in despair. Rob kept 
 on safe subjects, mainly asking questions about 
 the crops of Peterson, and when addressing the 
 girl, inquired of the schoolmates. By skilful 
 questioning, he kept the subject of marriage up- 
 permost, and seemingly was getting an inventory 
 of the girls not yet married or engaged. 
 
 It was embarrassing for the girl. She was 
 all too well aware of the difference between 
 her home and the home of her schoolmates and 
 friends. She knew that it was not pleasant for 
 her " Yankee" friends to come to visit her when 
 they could not feel sure of a welcome from the 
 tireless, silent, and grim-visaged old Norse, if, 
 indeed, they could escape insult. Julia ate her 
 food mechanical lyj^, and it could hardly be said 
 
MAIN-TBAYELLED ROADB. 173 
 
 tliat she enjoyed the brisk talk of the young 
 man, his eyes were upon her so constantly and 
 his smile so obviously addressed to her. She 
 rose as soon as possible, and going outside, took 
 a seat on a chair under the trees in the yard. 
 She was not a coarse or dull girl. In fact, she ■ 
 had developed so rapidly by contact with the 
 young people of the neighborhood that she no 
 longer found pleasure in her own home. She 
 didn't believe in keeping up the old-fashioned 
 Norwegian customs, and her life with her mother 
 was not one to breed love or confidence. She^ 
 was more like a hired hand. The love of the 
 mother for her "Tulyie" was sincere though 
 rough and inarticulate, and it was her jealousy 
 of the young " Yankees" that widened the chasm 
 between the girl and herself — an inevitable result. 
 
 Eob followed the girl out into the yard, and 
 threw himself on the grass at her feet, perfectly 
 unconscious of the fact that this attitude was ex- 
 ceedingly romantic and becoming to them both. 
 He did it because he wanted to talk to htT, and 
 the grass was cool and easy : there wasn't any 
 other chair, anyway. 
 
 "Do they keep up the ly-ceum and the so- 
 ciables same as ever ?" 
 
 " Tes. The others go a good 'eal, but I don't. 
 We're gettin' such a stock round us, and father 
 
174 MAIN-TBAVELLED SOAHS. 
 
 thinks he needs me s' much, I don't git out much. 
 I'm gettin' sick of it." 
 
 " I sh'd think y' would," he replied, his eyes 
 on her face. 
 
 '^ "I c'd stand the churnia' and house- work, but 
 when it comes t' workin' out-doors in the dirt an' 
 hot sun, gettin' all sunburned and chapped up, 
 it's another thing. An' then it seems as if he 
 gets stingier 'n' stingier every year. I ain't had 
 a new dress in — I d' — know — how — long. He 
 says it's all nonsense, an' mother's just about as 
 bad. SJie don't want a new dress, an' so she 
 'thinks I don't." The girl was feeling the influ- 
 ence of a sympathetic listener, and was making 
 up for her long silence. "I've tried t' go out 
 t' work, but they won't let me. They'd have 
 t' pay a hand twenty dollars a month f'r the 
 work I do, an' they like cheap help ; but I'm not 
 goin' t' stand it much longer, I can tell you that." 
 
 Eob thought she was very handsome as she sat 
 there with her eyes fixed on the horizon, while 
 these rebellious thoughts found utterance in her 
 quivering, passionate voice. 
 
 " Tulie ! Kom heat !" roared the old man from 
 the well. 
 
 A frown of anger and pain came into her face. 
 She looked at Eob. "That means more work." 
 
 " Say ! let me go out in your place. Come, 
 now ; what's the use — " 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 176 
 
 " No ; it -wouldn't do no good. It ain't t'-day 
 s' mucli ; it's every day, and — " 
 
 " TuKe /" called Peterson again, with a string 
 of impatient Norwegian. 
 
 "Well, all right, only I'd like to—" 
 
 "Well, good-by," she said, with a little touch 
 of feeling. " When d'ye go back ?" 
 
 "I don't know. I'll see y' again before I go. 
 Good-by." 
 
 He stood watching her slow, painful pace till 
 she reached the well, where Otto was standing 
 with the horse. He stood watching them as they 
 moved out into the road and turned down toward 
 the field. He felt that she had sent him away ; 
 but still there was a look in her eyes which was 
 not altogether — 
 
 He gave it up in despair at last. He was not 
 good at analyses of this nature ; he was used to 
 plain, blunt expressions. There was a woman's 
 subtlety here quite beyond his reach. 
 
 He sauntered slowly off up the road after his 
 talk with Julia. His head was low on his breast ; 
 he was thinking as one who is about to take a 
 decided and important step. 
 
 He stopped at length, and turning, watched 
 the girl moving along in the deeps of the corn. 
 Hardly a leaf was stirring ; the untempered sun- 
 light fell in a burning flood upon the field ; the 
 grasshoppers rose, snapped, buzzed, and fell; 
 
176 MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. ' 
 
 the locust uttered its dry, heat-intensifying cry. 
 The man lifted his head. 
 
 " It's a d — n shame !" he said, beginning rap- 
 idly to retrace his steps. He stood leaning on 
 the fence, awaiting the girl's coming very much 
 as she had waited his on the round he had made 
 before dinner. He grew impatient at the slow 
 gait of the horse, and drummed on the rail while 
 he whistled. Then he took off his hat, and dusted 
 it nervously. As the horse got a little nearer he 
 wiped his face carefully, pushed his hat back on 
 his head, and climbed over the fence, where he 
 stood with elbows on the middle rail as the girl 
 and boy and horse came to the end of the furrow. 
 
 " Hot, ain't it ?" he said, as she looked up. 
 
 " Jimminy Peters, it's awful !" pu£fed the boy. 
 The girl did not reply till she swung the plough 
 about after the horse, and set it upright into the 
 next row. Her powerful body had a superb 
 swaying motion at the waist as she did this — a 
 motion which affected Bob vaguely but mas- 
 sively. 
 
 "I thought you'd gone," she siaid, gravely, 
 pushing back her bonnet till he could see her 
 face dewed with sweat, and pink as a rose. She 
 had the high cheek-bones of her race, but she 
 had also their exquisite fairness of color. 
 
 " Say, Otto," asked Bob, alluringly, " wan' to go 
 swimming ?" 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 177 
 
 "You bet!" replied Otto. 
 
 "Well, I'll go a round if—" 
 
 The boy dropped off the horse, not waiting to 
 hear . any more. Eob grinned ; but the girl 
 dropped her eyes, then looked away. 
 
 " Got rid o' him mighty quick. Say, Julyie, I 
 hate like thunder t' see you out here ; it ain't 
 right. I wish you'd — I wish — " 
 
 She could not look at him now, and her bosom 
 rose and fell with a motion that was not due to 
 fatigue. Her moist hair matted around her fore- 
 head gave her a boyish look. 
 
 Eob nervously tried again, tearing splinters 
 from the fence. " Say, now, I'll tell yeh what I 
 came back here fer — t' git married ; and if you're 
 willin', I'll do it to-night. Come, now, whaddy 
 y' say?" 
 
 "What 've I got t' do 'bout it?" she finally 
 asked, the color flooding her face, and a faint 
 smile coming to her lips. " Go ahead. I ain't 
 got anything — " 
 
 Bob put a splinter in his mouth and faced her. 
 " Oh, looky here, now, Julyie ! you know what I 
 mean. I've got a good claim out near Boom- 
 town — a rattlin' good claim ; a shanty on it four- 
 teen by sixteen — no tarred paper about it ; and a 
 suUer to keep butter in ; and a hundred acres o' 
 wheat just about ready to turn now. I need a 
 wife." 
 
178 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 Here he straightened up, threw away the 
 splinter, and took off his hat. He was a very 
 pleasant figure as the girl stole a look at him. 
 His black laughing eyes were especially earnest 
 just now. His voice had a touch of pleading. 
 The popple-tree over their heads murmured ap- 
 plause at his eloquence, then hushed to listen. 
 A cloud dropped a silent shadow down upon 
 them, and it sent a little thrill of fear through 
 Eob, as if it were an omen of failure. As the 
 girl remained silent, looking away, he began, man- 
 fashion, to desire her more and more as he feared 
 to lose her. He put his hat on the post again, 
 and took out his jack-knife. Her calico dress 
 draped her supple and powerful figure simply 
 ^ but naturally. The stoop in her shoulders, given 
 by labor, disappeared as she partly leaned upon 
 the fence. The curves of her muscular arms 
 showed through her sleeve. 
 
 "It's all-fired lonesome f'r me out there on 
 that claim, and it ain't no picnic f'r you here 
 Now if you'll come out there with me, you needn't 
 do anything but cook f'r me, and after harvest we 
 can git a good lay-out o' furniture, an' I'll lath 
 and plaster the house, an' put a little hell [ell] 
 in the rear." He smiled, and so did she. He 
 felt encouraged to say : " An' there we be, as snug 
 as y' please. We're close t' Boomtown, an' we 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 179 
 
 can go down there to cliurcli sociables an' things, 
 and they're a jolly lot there." 
 
 The girl was still silent, but the man's simple 
 enthusiasm came to her charged with passion 
 and a sort of romance such as her hard life had 
 known little of. There was something enticing 
 about this trip to the West. 
 
 " What '11 my folks say ?" she said at last. 
 
 A virtual surrender, but Kob was not acute 
 enough to see it. He pressed on eagerly : 
 
 " I don't care. Do you ? They'll jest keep y' 
 ploughin' corn and milkin' cows till the day of 
 judgment. Come, Julyie, I ain't got no time to 
 fool away. I've got t' get back t' that grain. It's 
 a whoopin' old crop, sure's y'r born, an' that 
 means sompin purty scrumptious in furniture 
 this fall. Come, now." He approached her and 
 laid his hand on her shoulder very much as he 
 would have touched Albert Seagraves or any 
 other comrade. " Whady y' say ?" 
 
 She neither started, nor shrunk nor looked at 
 him. She simply moved a step away. " They'd 
 never let me go," she replied bitterly. " I'm too . 
 cheap a hand. I do a man's work, an' get no 
 pay at all." 
 
 "Tou'U have half o' all I c'n make," he put in. 
 
 " How long c'n you wait ?" she asked, looking 
 down at her dress. 
 
 "Just two minutes," he said, pulling out his 
 
180 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 watch. "It ain't no use t' wait. The old man 
 '11 be jest as mad a week from now as he is to- 
 day. Why not go now ?" 
 
 " I'm of age day after to-morrow," she mused, 
 wavering, calculating. 
 
 " You c'n be of age to-night if you'll jest call 
 on old Square Hatfield with me." 
 
 "All right, Eob," the girl said, turning and 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 . " That's the talk !" he exclaimed, seizing it. 
 •'An' now a kiss, to bind the bargain, as the fel- 
 lah says." 
 
 " I guess we c'n get along without that." 
 
 " No, we can't. It won't seem like an engage- 
 ment without it." 
 
 " It ain't goin' to seem much like one anyway," 
 she answered, with a sudden realization of how 
 far from her dreams of courtship this reality was. 
 
 " Say, now, Julyie, that ain't fair ; it ain't 
 treatin' me right. Tou don't seem to understand 
 that I like you, but I do." 
 
 Hob was carried quite out of himself by the 
 time, the place, and the girl. He had said a 
 very moving thing. 
 
 The tears sprang involuntarily to the girl's 
 ' eyes " Do you mean it ? If y' do, you may." 
 
 She was trembling with emotion for the first 
 time. The sincerity of the man's voice had gone 
 deep. 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLBD R0AB8. 181 
 
 He put his arm around her almost timidly and 
 kissed her on the cheek, a great love for her 
 springing up in his heart. "That settles it," 
 he said. "Don't cry, Julyie. You'll never be 
 sorry for it. Don't cry. It kind o' hurts me to 
 see it." 
 
 He didn't understand her feelings. He was 
 only aware that she was crying, and tried in a 
 bungling way to soothe her. But now that she 
 had given way, she sat down in the grass and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 " Yvlyie! " yelled the old Norwegian, like a 
 distant fog-horn. 
 
 The girl sprang up ; the habit of obedience 
 was strong. 
 
 " No ; you set right there, and I'll go round," 
 he said. " Otto .'" 
 
 The boy came scrambling out of the wood 
 half dressed. Kob tossed him upon the horse, 
 snatched Julia's sun-bonnet, put his own hat on 
 her head, and moved off down the corn-rows, 
 leaving the girl smiling through her tears as he 
 whistled and chirped to the horse. Farmer Pe- 
 terson, seeing the familiar sun-bonnet above the 
 corn-rows, went back to his work, with a sentence 
 of Norwegian trailing after him like the tail of a 
 kite — something about lazy girls who didn't earn 
 the crust of their bread, etc. 
 
 Eob was wild with delight. " Git up there 
 
/ 
 
 182 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 Jack ! Hay, you old corn-crib ! Say, Otto, can 
 you keep your mouth shet if it puts money in 
 your pocket ?" 
 
 "Jest try me 'n' see," said the keen-eyed little 
 scamp. 
 
 "Well, you keep quiet about my being here 
 this afternoon, and I'll put a dollar on y'r 
 tongue — hay ? — what ? — understand ? " 
 
 " Show me y'r dollar," said the boy, turning 
 about and showing his tongue. 
 
 "All right. Begin to practise now by not 
 talkin' to me." 
 
 EiOb went over the whole situation on his way 
 back, and when he got in sight of the girl his 
 plan was made. She stood waiting for him with 
 a new look on her face. Her suUenness had 
 given way to a peculiar eagerness and anxiety to 
 believe in him. She was already living that free 
 t life in a far-off wonderful country. No more 
 ; would her stern father and sullen mother force 
 I her to tasks which she hated. She'd be a mem- 
 ber of a new firm. She'd work of course, but it 
 would be because she wanted to, and not because 
 Y she was forced to. The independence and the 
 1 love promised grew more and more attractive. 
 She laughed back with a softer light in her eyes 
 when she saw the smiling face of Rob looking at 
 her from her sun-bonnet. 
 
 "Now you mustn't do any more o' this," he 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 183 
 
 said. "You go back to the house an' tell y'r 
 mother you're too lame to plough any more to- 
 day, and it's too late, anyhow. To-night!" he 
 whispered quickly. "Eleven! Here!" 
 
 The girl's heart leaped with fear. " I'm afraid." 
 
 " Not of me, are yeh ?" 
 
 "No, I'm not afraid of you, Eob." 
 
 " I'm glad o' that. I — I want you to — to liTce 
 me, Julyie ; won't you ?" 
 
 "I'll try," she answered, with a smile. 
 
 " To-night, then," he said, as she moved away. 
 
 "To-night. Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 He stood and watched her till her tall figure 
 was lost among the drooping corn-leaves. There 
 was a singular choking feeling in his throat. The 
 girl's voice and face had brought up so many 
 memories of parties and picnics and excursions 
 on far-off holidays, and at the same time such 
 suggestions of the future. He already felt that 
 it was going to be an unconscionably long time 
 before eleven o'clock. 
 
 He saw her go to the house, and then he turned 
 and walked slowly up the dusty road. Out of 
 the May-weed the grasshoppers sprang, buzzing 
 and snapping their dull red wings. Butterflies, 
 yellow and white, fluttered around moist places 
 in the ditch, and slender striped water-snakes 
 glided across the stagnant pools at sound of foot- 
 steps. 
 
184 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 But the mind of the man was far away on his 
 claim, building a new house, with a woman's 
 advice and presence. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was a windless night. The katydids and an 
 occasional cricket were the only sounds Eob 
 could hear as he stood beside his team and 
 strained his ear to listen. At long intervals a 
 little breeze ran through the corn like a swift 
 serpent, bringing to the nostrils the sappy smell 
 of the growing corn. The horses stamped un- 
 easily as the mosquitoes settled on their shining 
 limbs. The sky was full of stars, but there was 
 no moon. 
 
 "What if she don't come?" he thought. "Or 
 carCt come ? I can't stand that. I'll go to the 
 old man, an' say, ' Looky here — 'Sh !" 
 
 He listened again. There was a rustling in the 
 corn. It was not like the fitful movement of the 
 wind; it was steady, slower, and approaching. 
 It ceased. He whistled the wailing, sweet cry 
 of the prairie-chicken. Then a figure came out 
 into the road — a woman — Julia ! 
 
 He took her in his arms as she came panting 
 up to him. 
 
 "Eobl" 
 
 "Julyie!" 
 ****** 
 
MAIN-TBAVMLLED S0AD8. 185 
 
 A few words, the dull tread of swift horses, the 
 rising of a silent train of dust, and then the wind 
 wandered in the growing corn. The dust fell, a 
 dog barked down the road, and the katydids 
 sang to the liquid contralto of the river in its 
 shallows. 
 
THE KETUKN OF A PKIVATE. 
 
 On the road leading " hack to God's country" and wife 
 and tobies. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thk nearer the tra.ii drew toward La Crosse, 
 the soberer the little group of " vets " became. 
 On the long way from New Orleans they had be- 
 guiled tedium with jokes and friendly chaff ; or 
 with planning with elaborate detail what they 
 were going to do now, after the war. A long 
 journey, slowly, irregularly, yet persistently 
 pushing northward. When they entered on 
 Wisconsin Territory they gave a cheer, and 
 another when they reached Madison, but after 
 that they sank into a dumb expectancy. Com- 
 rades dropped off at one or two points beyond, 
 until there were only four or five left who were 
 bound for La Crosse County. 
 
 Three of them were gaunt and brown, the 
 fourth was gaunt and pale, with signs of fever 
 and ague upon him. One had a great scar down 
 his temple ; one limped ; and they all had un- 
 
 186 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 187 
 
 naturally large bright eyes, showing emaciation. 
 There were no bands greeting them at the sta- 
 tions, no banks of gayly-dressed ladies waving 
 handkerchiefs and shouting " Bravo !" as they 
 came in on the caboose of a freight train into the 
 towns that had cheered and blared at them on 
 their way to war. As they looked out or stepped 
 upon the platform for a moment, as the train 
 stood at the station, the loafers looked at them 
 indifferently. Their blue coats, dusty and grimy, 
 were too familiar now to. excite notice, much less 
 a friendly word. They were the last of the army 
 to return, and the loafers were surfeited with 
 such sights. 
 
 The train jogged forward so slowly that it 
 seemed likely to be midnight before they should 
 reach La Crosse. The little squad of " vets " 
 grumbled and swore, but it was no use, the train 
 would not hurry ; and as a matter of fact, it was 
 nearly two o'clock when the engine whistled 
 " down brakes." 
 
 Most of the group were farmers, living in dis- 
 tricts several miles out of the town, and all were 
 poor. 
 
 "Now, boys," said Private Smith, he of the 
 fever and ague, " we are landed in La Crosse in 
 the night. We've got to stay somewhere till 
 mornin'. Now I ain't got no two dollars to waste 
 on a hotel. I've got a wife and children, so I'm 
 
188 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 goin' to roost on a bench, and take the cost of a 
 bed out of my hide." 
 
 " Same here," put in one of the other men. 
 " Hide'll grow on again, dollars come hard. It's 
 goin' to be mighty hot skirmishin' to find a dol- 
 lar these days." 
 
 " Don't think they'll be a deputation of citizens 
 waitin' to 'scort us to a hotel, eh ?" said another. 
 His sarcasm was too obvious to require an 
 answer. 
 
 Smith went on : " Then at daybreak we'll start 
 f'r home, at least I will." 
 
 "Well, I'll be dummed if I'll take two dollars 
 out o' my hide," one of the younger men said. 
 " I'm goin' to a hotel, ef I don't never lay up a 
 cent." 
 
 "That'll do f'r you," said Smith; "but if you 
 had a wife an' three young 'uns dependin' on 
 yeh-" 
 
 " "Which I ain't, thank the Lord ! and don't in- 
 tend havin' while the court knows itself." 
 
 The station was deserted, chill, and dark, as 
 they came into it at exactly a quarter to two in 
 the morning. Lit by the oil lamps that flared a 
 dull red light over the dingy benches, the wait- 
 ing-room was not an inviting place. The younger 
 man went off to look up a hotel, while the rest 
 remained and prepared' to canip down on the 
 floor and benches. Smith was attended to ten- 
 
MAIN-TRAVMLLED ROADS. 189 
 
 d§rly by the other men, who spread their blank- 
 ets on the bench for him, and by robbing them- 
 selves made quite a comfortable bed, though the 
 narrowness of the bench made his sleeping pre- 
 carious. 
 
 It was chill, though August, and the two men 
 sitting with bowed heads grew stiff with cold and 
 weariness, and were forced to rise now and again, 
 and walk about to warm their stiffened limbs. It I 
 didn't occur to them, probably, to contrast their 1 
 coming home with their going forth, or with the 
 coming home of the generals, colonels, or even 
 captains — but to Private Smith, at any rate, there 
 came a sickness at heart almost deadly, as he lay 
 there on his hard bed and went over his situa-, 
 tion. 
 
 In the deep of the night, lying on a board in 
 the town where he had enlisted three years ago, 
 all elation and enthusiasm gone out of him, he 
 faced the fact that with the joy of home-coming 
 was mingled the bitter juice of care. He saw 
 himself sick, worn out, taking up the work on his 
 half-cleared farm, the inevitable mortage stand- 
 ing ready with open jaw to swallow half his earn- 
 ings. He had given three years of his life for a \ 
 mere pittance of pay, and now — 
 
 Morning dawned at last, slowly, with a pale 
 yellow dome of light rising silently above the 
 bluffs which stand like some huge battlemented 
 
190 MAm-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 castle, just east of the city. Out to the left the 
 great river swept on its massive yet silent way 
 to the south. Jays called across the river from 
 hillside to hillside, through the clear, beautiful 
 air, and hawks began -to skim the tops of the 
 hills. The two vets were astir early, but Private 
 Smith had fallen at last into a sleep, and they 
 went out without waking him. He lay on his 
 knapsack, his gaunt face turned toward the ceil- 
 ing, his hands clasped on his breast, with a curi- 
 ous pathetic effect of weakness and appeal. 
 
 An engine switching near woke him at last, and 
 he slowly sat up and stared about. He looked 
 out of the window, and saw that the sun was 
 lightening the hills across the river. He rose 
 and brushed his hair as well as he could, folded 
 his blankets up, and went out to find his com- 
 panions. They stood gazing silently at the river 
 and at the hills. 
 
 "Looks nat'cherl, don't it?" they said, as he 
 came out. 
 
 "That's what it does," he replied. "An' it 
 looks good. D'yeh see that peak ?" He pointed 
 at a beautiful symmetrical peak, rising like a 
 slightly truncated cone, so high that it seemed 
 the very highest of them all. It was lighted by 
 the morning sun till it glowed like a beacon, and 
 a light scarf of gray morning fog was rolling up 
 its shadowed side. 
 
MAIN-TMAVELLED ROADS. ■ 191 
 
 "My farm's just beyond tliat. Now, ef I can 
 only ketcli a ride, we'll be liome by dinner-time." 
 
 " I'm talkin' about breakfast," said one of the 
 others. 
 
 " I guess it's one more meal o' hardtack f'r 
 me," said Smith. 
 
 They foraged around, and finally found a res- 
 taurant with a sleepy old German behind the 
 counter, and procured some coffee, which they 
 drank to wash down their hardtack. 
 
 " Time'U come," said Smith, holding up a piece 
 by the corner, "when this'U be a curiosity." 
 
 "I hope to God it will! I bet I've chawed 
 hardtack enough to shingle every house in the 
 coolly. I've chawed it when my lampers was 
 down, and when they wasn't. I've took it dry, 
 soaked, and mashed. I've had it wormy, musty, 
 sour, and blue-mouldy. I've had it in little bits 
 and big bits ; 'fore coffee an' after coffee. I'm 
 ready f'r a change. I'd like t' git hol't jest about 
 now o' some of the hot biscuits my wife c'n make 
 when she lays herself out f'r company." 
 
 " Well, if you set there gablin', you'll never see 
 yer wife." 
 
 "Come on," said Private Smith. "Wait a 
 moment, boys ; less take suthin'. It's on me." 
 He led th^m to the rusty tin dipper which hung 
 on a nail beside the wooden water-pail, and they 
 grinned and drank. (Things were primitive in 
 
192 MAIN-TBAVELLED BOADB. 
 
 La Crosse then.) Then shouldering their blank- 
 ets and muskets, which they were " taking home 
 to the boys," they struck out on their last march. 
 
 " They called that coffee, Jayvy," grumbled 
 one of them, "but it never went by the road 
 where government Jayvy resides. I reckon I 
 know coffee from peas." 
 
 They kept together on the road along the turn- 
 pike, and up the winding road by the river, which 
 they followed for some miles. The river was 
 very lovely, curving down along its sandy beds, 
 pausing now and then \inder broad basswood 
 trees, or running in dark, swift, silent currents 
 under tangles of wild grape-vines, and drooping 
 alders, and haw-trees. At one of these lovely 
 spots the three vets sat down on the thick green 
 sward to rest, " on Smith's account." The leaves 
 of the trees were as fresh and green as in June, 
 the jays called cheery greetings to them, and 
 kingfishers darted to and fro, with swooping, 
 noiseless flight. 
 
 " I tell yeh, boys, this knocks the swamps of 
 Loueesiana into kingdom come." 
 
 " Tou bet. All they c'n raise down there is 
 snakes, niggers, and p'rticler hell." 
 
 "An' fightin' men," put in the older man. 
 
 " An' fightin' men. If I had a good hook an' 
 line I'd sneak a pick'rel out o' that pond. Say, 
 remember that time I shot that alligator — " 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 193 
 
 " I guess we'd better be crawlin' along," inter- 
 rupted Smith, rising and shouldering his knap- 
 sack, with considerable effort, which he tried to 
 hide. 
 
 " Say, Smith, lemme give you a lift on that." 
 
 " I guess I c'n manage," said Smith, grimly. 
 
 " 'Course. But, yeh see, I may not have a 
 chance right off to pay yeh back for the times 
 ye've carried my gun and hull caboodle. Say, 
 now, gimme that gun, anyway." 
 
 " All right, if yeh feel like it, Jim," Smith re- 
 plied, and they trudged along doggedly in the 
 sun, which was getting higher and hotter each 
 half-mile. 
 
 " Ain't it queer there ain't no teams comin' 
 along." 
 
 ""Well, no, seein's it's Sunday." 
 
 " By jinks, that's a fact ! It is Sunday. I'll 
 git home in time f'r dinner, sure. She don't hev 
 dinner usially till about one on Sundays." And he 
 fell into a muse, in which he smiled. 
 
 " Well, I'll git home jest about six o'clock, jest 
 about when the boys are milkin' the cows," said 
 old Jim Cranby. " I'll step into the barn, an' 
 then I'll say, ' 'Re.ah ! why ain't this milkin' done 
 before this time o' day? An' then won't they 
 yell !" he added, slapping his thigh in great glee. 
 
 Smith went on. " I'll jest go up the path. Old 
 Eover'U come down the road to meet me. He 
 
194 MAIN-TBAVBLLED ROADS. 
 
 won't bark ; he'll know me, an' he'll come down 
 waggin' his tail an' showin' his teeth. That's his 
 way of laughin'. An' so I'll walk up to the kit- 
 chen door, an' I'll say ' Dinner f 'r a hungry man ! ' 
 An' then she'll jump up, an' — " 
 
 He couldn't go on. His voice choked at the 
 'thought of it. SaunderSj the third man, hardly 
 uttered a word. He walked silently behind the 
 others. He had lost his wife the first year he 
 was in the army. She died of pneumonia caught 
 in the autumn rains, while working in the fields 
 in his place. 
 
 I They plodded along till at last they came to a 
 parting of the ways. To the right the road con- 
 tinued up the main valley ; to the left it went 
 over the ridge. 
 
 " "Well, boys," began Smith, as they grounded 
 their muskets and looked away up the valley, 
 " here's where we shake hands. We've marched 
 together a good many miles, an' now I s'pose 
 we're done." 
 
 "Tes, I don't- think we'll do any more of it f'r 
 a while. I don't want to, I know." 
 
 " I hope I'll see yeh, once in a while, boys, to 
 talk over old times." 
 
 " Of course," said Saunders, whose voice 
 trembled a little, too. "It ain't exactly like 
 dyin'." 
 
 "But we'd ought'r go home with you," said the 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLBD ROADS. 195 
 
 younger man. " You never'll climb that ridge 
 with all them things on yer back." 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right ! Don't worry about me. 
 Every step takes me nearer home, yeh see. Well, 
 good-by, boys." 
 
 They shook hands. " Good-by. Good luck !" 
 
 " Same to you. Lemme know how you find 
 things at home." 
 
 He turned once before they passed out of 
 sight, and waved his cap, and they did the 
 same, and all yelled. Then all marched away 
 with their long, steady, loping, veteran step. 
 The solitary climber in blue walked on for a 
 time, with his mind filled with the kindness of 
 his comrades, and musing upon the many jolly 
 days they had had together in camp and field. 
 
 He thought of his chum, Billy Tripp. Poor 
 Billy ! A " minie" ball fell into his breast one 
 day, fell wailing like a cat, and tore a great 
 ragged hole in his heart. He looked forward to 
 a sad scene with Billy's mother and sweetheart. 
 They would want to know all about it. He tried 
 to recall all that Billy had said, and the particu- 
 lars of it, but there was little to remember, just 
 that wild wailing sound high in the air, a dull 
 slap, a short, quick, expulsive groan, and the 
 boy lay with his face in the dirt in the ploughed 
 field they were marching across. 
 
 That was all. But all the scenes he had since 
 
196 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 been through had not dimmed the horror, the 
 terror of that moment, when his boy comrade 
 fell, with only a breath between a laugh and a 
 death-groan. Poor handsome Billy! "Worth 
 millions of dollars was his young life. 
 
 These sombre recollections gave way at length 
 to more cheerful feelings as he began to approach 
 his home coule. The fields and houses grew 
 familiar, and in one or two he was greeted by 
 people seated in the doorway. But he was in no 
 mood to talk, and pushed on steadily, though he 
 stopped and accepted a drink of milk once at 
 the well-side of a neighbor. 
 
 The sun was getting hot on that slope, and his 
 step grew slower, in spite of his iron resolution. 
 He sat down several times to rest. Slowly he 
 crawled up the rough, reddish-brown road, which 
 wound along the hillside, under great trees, 
 through dense groves of jack oaks, with tree-tops 
 far below him on his left hand, and the hills far 
 above him on his right. He crawled along like 
 some minute wingless variety of fly. 
 
 He ate some hardtack, sauced with wild ber- 
 ries, when he reached the summit of the ridge, 
 and sat there for some time, looking down into 
 his home coule. 
 
 Sombre, pathetic figure ! His wide, round, 
 gray eyes gazing down into the beautiful valley, 
 seeing and not seeing, the splendid cloud-shad- 
 
MAm-TBAVELLBD ROADS. 197 
 
 ows sweeping over the western hills and across 
 the green and yellow wheat far below. His head 
 drooped forward on his palm, his shoulders took 
 on a tired stoop, his cheek-bones showed pain- 
 fuUj'. An observer might have said, "He is 
 looking down upon his own grave." 
 
 II. 
 
 Sunday comes in a Western wheat-harvest with 
 such sweet and sudden relaxation to man and 
 beast that it would be holy for that reason, if 
 for no other. And Sundays are usually fair in 
 harvest-time. As one goes out into the field in 
 the hot morning sunshine, with no sound abroad 
 save the crickets and the indescribably pleasant, 
 silken rustling of the ripened grain, the reaper 
 and the very sheaves in the stubble seem to be 
 resting, dreaming. 
 
 Around the house, in the shade of the trees, 
 the men sit, smoking, dozing, or reading the pa- 
 pers, while the women, never resting, move about 
 at the housework. The men eat on Sundays 
 about the same as on other days, and breakfast 
 is no sooner over and out of the way than dinner 
 begins. 
 
 But at the Smith farm there were no men doz- 
 
198 MAIN-TBAVELLED B0AD8. 
 
 ing or reading. Mrs. Smith was alone witli her 
 three children, Mary, nine, Tommy, six, and little 
 Ted, just past four. Her farm, rented to a neigh- 
 bor, lay at the head of a coule or narrow guUey, 
 made at some far-off post-glacial period by the 
 vast and angry floods of water which gullied 
 these tremendous furrows in the level prairie — 
 furrows so deep that undisturbed portions of 
 the original level rose like hills on either side, — 
 rose to quite considerable mountains. 
 
 The chickens wakened her as usual that Sab- 
 bath morning from dreams of her absent hus- 
 band, from whom she had not heard for weeks. 
 The shadows drifted over the hills, down the 
 slopes, across the wheat, and up the opposite 
 wall in leisurely way, as if, being Sunday, they 
 could " take it easy," also. The fowls clustered 
 about the housewife as she went out into the 
 yard. Fuzzy little chickens swarmed out from 
 the coops where their clucking and perpetually 
 disgruntled mothers tramped about, petulantly 
 thrusting their heads through the spaces between 
 the slats. 
 
 A cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a 
 calf answered from a little pen near by, and a pig 
 scurried guiltily out of the cabbages. Seeing all 
 this, seeing the pig in the cabbages, the tangle of 
 grass in the garden, the broken fence which she 
 had mended again and again — the little woman, 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 199 
 
 hardly more tKan a girl, sat down and cried. The 
 bright Sabbath morning "was only a mockery 
 without him ! -x 
 
 A few years ago they had bought this farm, ] 
 paying part, mortgaging the rest in the usual / 
 way. Edward Smith was a man of terrible en- / 
 ergy. He worked " nights and Sundays," as the>> 
 saying goes, to clear the farm of its brush and of N 
 its insatiate mortgage. In the midst of his her- I 
 culean struggle came the call for volunteers, and 
 with the grim and unselfish devotion to his coun- 
 try which made the Eagle Brigade able to " whip 
 its weight in wild-cats," he threw down his 
 scythe and his grub-axe, turned his cattle loose, 
 and became a blue-coated cog in a vast machine 
 for killing men, and not thistles. While the mill- 
 ionnaire sent his money to England for safe-keep- 
 ing, this man, with his girl-wife and three babies, 
 left them on a mortgaged farm, and went away 
 to fight for an idea. It was foolish, but it was 
 sublime for all that. 
 
 That was three years before, and the young 
 wife, sitting on the well-curb on this bright Sab- 
 bath harvest morning, was righteously rebellious. 
 It seemed to her that she had borne her share of 
 the country's sorrow. Two brothers had been 
 killed, the renter in whose hands her husband 
 had left the farm had proved a villain, one 
 year the farm was without crops, and now the 
 
200 MAIN-TRAVELLBD HOADS. 
 
 /over-ripe grain was waiting tlie tardy hand of the 
 ( neighbor who had rented it, and who was cutting 
 yhis own grain first. 
 
 About six weeks before, she had received a let- 
 ter saying, " We'll be discharged in a little 
 while." But no other word had come from him. 
 She had seen by the papers that his army was 
 being discharged, and from day to day other 
 soldiers slowly percolated in blue streams back 
 into the State and county, but still Tier private 
 did not return. 
 
 Each week she had told the children that he 
 was coming, and she had watched the road so 
 long that it had become unconscious, and as she 
 stood at the well, or by the kitchen door, her 
 eyes were fixed unthinkingly on the road that 
 wound down the coule. Nothing wears on the 
 human soul like waiting. If the stranded mar- 
 iner, searching the sun-bright seas, could once 
 give up hope of a ship, that horrible grinding 
 on his brain would cease. It was this waiting, 
 hoping, on the edge of despair, that gave Emma 
 Smith no rest. 
 
 Neighbors said, with kind intentions, "He's 
 sick, maybe, an' can't start north just yet. He'll 
 come along one o' these days." 
 
 " Why don't he write ?" was her question, 
 which silenced them all. This Sunday morning 
 it seemed to her as if she couldn't stand it any 
 
main-thavblled roam. 201 
 
 longer. Tlie house seemed intolerably lonely. 
 So she dressed the little ones in their best calico 
 dresses and home-made jackets, and closing up 
 the house, set off down the coule to old Mother 
 Gray's. 
 
 " Old Widder Gray " lived at the " mouth of 
 the coolly." She was a widow woman with a 
 large family of stalwart boys and laughing girls. 
 She was the visible incarnation of hospitality 
 and optimistic poverty. With Western -'open- 
 heartedness she fed every mouth that asked food 
 of her, and worked herself to death as cheerfully 
 as her girls danced in the neighborhood harvest 
 dances. 
 
 She waddled down the path to meet Mrs. 
 Smith with a smile on her face that would have 
 made the countenance of a convict expand. 
 
 " Oh, you little dears ! Come right to yer 
 granny. Gimme a kiss ! Come right in, Mis' 
 Smith. How are yeh, anyway ? Nice mornin', 
 ain't it? Come in an' set down. Everything's 
 in a clutter, but that won't scare you any." 
 
 She led the way into the " best room," a sunny, 
 square room, carpeted with a faded and patched 
 rag carpet, and papered with a horrible white- 
 and-green-striped wall-paper, where a few ghastly 
 effigies of dead members of the family hung in 
 variously-sized oval walnut frames. The house 
 resounded with singing, laughter, whistling. 
 
202 MAm-TBAVELLED B0AD8. 
 
 tramping of boots, and scufflings. Half-grown 
 boys came to the door and crooked their fingers 
 at the children, -who ran out, and were soon 
 heard in the midst of the fun. 
 
 "Don't s'pose you've heard from Ed?" Mrs. 
 Smith shook her head. "He'll turn up some 
 day, when you ain't lookin' for 'm." The good 
 old soul had said that so many times that poor 
 Mrs. Smith derived no comfort from it any longer. 
 
 " Liz heard from Al the other day. He's 
 comin' some day this week. Anyhow, they 
 expect him." 
 
 " Did he say anything of — " 
 
 " No, he didn't," Mrs. Gray admitted. " But 
 then it was only a short letter, anyhow. Al 
 ain't much for ritin,' anyhow. But come out and 
 see my ii,ew cheese. I tell yeh, I don't believe I 
 ever had better luck in my life. If Ed should 
 come, I want you should take him up a piece of 
 this cheese." 
 
 It was beyond human nature to resist the in- 
 fluence of that noisy, hearty, loving household, 
 and in the midst of the singing and laughing the 
 wife forgot her anxiety, for the time at least, and 
 laughed and sang with the rest. 
 
 About eleven o'clock a wagon-load more drove 
 up to the door, and Bill Gray, the widow's old- 
 est son, and his whole family from Sand Lake 
 Coule, piled out amid a good-natured uproar, as 
 
MAIN-TBAVBLLBD ROADS. ' 203 
 
 characteristic as it was ludicrous. Everyone 
 talked at once, except Bill, who sat in the wagon 
 with his wrists on his knees, a straw in his mouth, 
 and an amused twinkle in his blue eyes. 
 
 "Ain't heard nothin' o' Ed, I s'pose?" he 
 asked in a kind of bellow. Mrs. Smith shook 
 her head. Bill, with a delicacy very striking in 
 such a great giant, rolled his quid in his mouth, 
 and said : 
 
 " Didn't know but you had. I hear two or 
 three of the Sand Lake boys are comin'. Left 
 New Orleenes some time this week. Didn't 
 write nothin' about Ed, but no news is good news 
 in such cases, mother always says." 
 
 "Well, go put out yer team," said Mrs. Gray, 
 " an' go'n bring me in some taters, an', Sim, you 
 go see if you c'n find some corn. Sadie, you put 
 on the water to b'ile. Come now, hustle yer 
 boots, all o' yeh. If I feed this yer crowd, we've 
 got to have some raw materials. If y' think I'm 
 goin' to feed yeh on pie — " 
 
 The children went off into the fields, the girls 
 put dinner on to " b'ile," and then went to change 
 their dresses and fix their hair. " Somebody 
 might come," they said. 
 
 " Land sakes, I hope not ! I don't know where 
 in time I'd set 'em, 'less they'd eat at the secont 
 table," Mrs. Gray laughed, in pretended dismay. 
 
 The two older boys, who had served their time 
 
S04 ■ MAIN-TBAVELLED ROAM. 
 
 in the army, lay out on the grass before the 
 house, and whittled and talked desultorily about 
 the war and the crops, and planned buying a 
 threshing-machine. The older girls and Mrs. 
 Smith helped enlarge the table and put on the 
 dishes, talking all the time in that cheery, inco- 
 herent, and meaningful way a group of such 
 women have, — a conversation to be taken for its 
 spirit rather than for its letter, though Mrs. Gray 
 at last got the ear of them all and dissertated at 
 length on girls. 
 
 " Girls in love ain't no use in the whole blessed 
 week," she said. " Sundays they're a-lookin' 
 down the road, expectin' he'll come. Sunday af- 
 ternoons they can't think o' nothin' else, 'cause 
 he's here. Monday mornin's they're sleepy and 
 kind o' dreamy and slimpsy, and good f'r nothin' 
 on Tuesday and "Wednesday. Thursday they git 
 absent-minded, an' begin to look off towards 
 Sunday agin, an' mope aroua' and let the dish- 
 water git cold, right under their noses. Friday 
 they break dishes, and go off in the best room an' 
 snivel, an' look out o' the winder. Saturdaj-s 
 they have queer spurts o' workin' like all p's- 
 sessed, an' spurts o' frizzin' their hair. An' Sun- 
 day they begin it all over agin." 
 
 The girls giggled and blushed all through this 
 tirade from their mother, their broad faces and 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 205 
 
 powerful frames anytliing but suggestive of lack- 
 adaisical sentiment. But Mrs. Smith said : 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Gray, I hadn't ought to stay to 
 dinner. You've got — " 
 
 " Now you set right down ! If any of them 
 girls' beaus comes, they'll have to take what's 
 left, that's all. They ain't s'posed to have much 
 appetite, nohow. No, you're goin' to stay if they 
 starve, an' they ain't no danger o' that." 
 
 At one o'clock the long table was piled with 
 boiled potatoes, cords of boiled corn on the cob, 
 squash and pumpkin pies, hot biscuit, sweet 
 pickles, bread and butter, and honey. Then one 
 of the girls took down a conch-shell from a nail, 
 and going to the door blew a long, fine, free 
 blast, that showed there was no weakness of lungs 
 in her ample chest. 
 
 Then the children came out of the forest of corn, 
 out of the crick, out of the loft of the barn, and 
 out of the garden. The men shut up their jack- 
 knives, and surrounded the horse-trough to souse 
 their faces in the cold, hard water, and in a few 
 moments the table was filled with a merry crowd, 
 and a row of wistful-eyed youngsters circled the 
 kitchen wall, where they stood first on one leg 
 and then on the other, in impatient hunger. 
 
 " They come to their feed f 'r all the world jest 
 like the pigs when y' holler ' poo — ee ! ' See 'em 
 scoot !" laughed Mrs. Gray, every wrinkle on her 
 
206 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 face sMning with delight. " Now pitch, in, Mrs. 
 Smith," she said, presiding over the table. " Ton 
 know these men critters. They'll eat every grain 
 of it, if yeh give 'em a chance. I swan, they're 
 made o' India-rubber, their stomachs is, I know 
 it." 
 
 "Haf to eat to work," said Bill, gnawing a cob 
 with a swift, circular motion that rivalled a corn- 
 sheller in results. 
 
 "More like workin' to eat," put in one of the 
 girls, with a giggle. "More eat 'n' work with you." 
 " You needn't say anything, Net. Any one 
 that'll eat seven ears — " 
 
 " I didn't, no such thing. You piled your cobs 
 on my plate." 
 
 " That'll do to tell Ed Varney. It won't go 
 down here, where we now yeh." 
 
 "Good land! Eat all yeh want! They's 
 plenty more in the fiel's, but I can't afford to 
 give you young 'uns tea. The tea is for us 
 women-folks, and 'specially f'r Mis' Smith an' 
 Bill's wife. We're agoin' to tell fortunes by it." 
 
 One by one the men filled up and shoved back, 
 and one by one the children slipped into their 
 places, and by two o'clock the women alone re- 
 mained around the debris-covered table, sipping 
 their tea and telling fortunes. 
 
 As they got well down to the grounds in the 
 cup, they shook them with a circular motion in 
 
MAIN-TRAVBLLED ROADS. 201 
 
 the hand, and then turned them bottom-side-up 
 quickly in the saucer, then twirled them three or 
 four times one way, and three or four times the 
 other, during a breathless pause. Then Mrs. 
 Gray lifted the cup, and, gazing into it with pro- 
 found gravity, pronounced the impending fate. 
 
 It must be admitted that, to a critical observer, 
 she had abundant preparation for hitting close to 
 the mark ; as when she told the girls that " some- 
 body was coming." " It is a man," she went on 
 gravely. "He is cross-eyed — " 
 
 " Oh, you hush !" 
 
 " He has red hair, and is death on b'iled corn 
 and hot biscuit." 
 
 The others shrieked with delight. 
 
 " But he's goin' to get the mitten, that red- 
 headed feller is, for I see a feller comin' up be- 
 hind him." 
 
 " Oh, lemme see, lemme see !" cried Nettie. 
 
 " Keep off," said the priestess, with a lofty ges- 
 ture. " His hair is black. He don't eat so much, 
 and he works more." 
 
 The girls exploded in a shriek of laughter, and 
 pounded their sister on the back. 
 
 At last came Mrs. Smith's turn, and she was 
 trembling with excitement as Mrs. Gray again 
 composed her jolly face to what she considered a 
 proper solemnity of expression. 
 
 " Somebody is comin' to you" she said after a 
 
208 MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 long pause. "He's got a musket on his back. 
 He's a soldier. He's almost here. See ?" 
 
 She pointed at two little tea-stems, which 
 formed a faint suggestion of a man with a musket 
 on his back. He had climbed nearly to the edge 
 of the cup. Mrs. Smith grew pale with excite- 
 ment. She trembled so she could hardly hold 
 the cup in her hand as she gazed into it. 
 
 " It's Ed," cried the old woman. " He's on the 
 way home. Heavens an' earth ! There he is 
 now !" She turned and waved her hand out 
 toward the road. They rushed to the door, and 
 looked where she pointed. 
 
 A man in a blue coat, with a musket on his 
 back, was toiling slowly up the hill, on the sun- 
 bright, dusty road, toiling slowly, with bent head 
 half hidden by a h«avy knapsack. So tired it 
 seemed that walking was indeed a process of fall- 
 ing. So eager to get home he would not stop, 
 would not look aside, but plodded on, amid the 
 cries of the locusts, the welcome of the crickets, 
 and the rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting back 
 to God's country, and his wife and b^ibies ! 
 
 Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the 
 children at the same time, the little wife, almost 
 hysterical, snatched her hat and ran out into the 
 yard. But the soldier had disappeared over the 
 hill into the hollow beyond, and, by the time she 
 had found the children, he was too far away for 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 209 
 
 her voice to reach him. And besides, she was 
 not sure it was her husband, for he had not 
 turned his head at their shouts. This seemed so 
 strange. "Why didn't he stop to rest at his old 
 neighbor's house? Tortured by hope and.doubt, 
 she hurried up the ®oule as fast as she could 
 push the baby-wagon, the blue-coated figure just 
 ahead pushing steadily, silently forward up the 
 coule. 
 
 When the excited, panting little group came in 
 sight of the gate, they saw the blue-coated figure 
 standing, leaning upon the rough rail fence, his 
 chin on his palms, gazing at the empty house. 
 His knapsack, canteen, blankets, and musket lay 
 upon the dusty grass at his feet. 
 
 He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, 
 hungry eyes devoured the scene. The rough 
 lawn, the little unpainted house, the field of clear 
 yellow wheat behind it, down across which 
 streamed the sun, now almost ready to touch the 
 high hill to the west, the crickets crying merrily, 
 a cat on the fence near by, dreaming, unmindful 
 of the stranger in blue. 
 
 How peaceful it all was. O God ! How far 
 removed from all camps, hospitals, battle-lines. 
 A little cabin in a Wisconsin coule, but it was ma- 
 jestic in its peace. How did he ever leave it for 
 those years of tramping, thirsting, killing ? 
 
 Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the 
 
210 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 silent figure, Mrs. Smith hurried up to the fence. 
 Her feet made no noise in the dust and grass, and 
 they were clo^e upon him before he knew of them. 
 /The oldest boy ran a little ahead. He will never 
 forget that figure, that face. It will always re- 
 main as something epic, that return of the private. 
 He fixed his eyes on the pale face, covered with 
 a ragged beard. 
 
 " Who are you, sir ?" asked the wife, or, rather, 
 started to ask, for he turned, stood a moment, 
 and then cried : 
 
 " Emma !" 
 
 « Edward !" 
 
 The children stood in a curious row to see their 
 mother kiss this bearded, strange man, the 
 elder girl sobbing sympathetically with her mo- 
 ther. Illness had left the soldier partly deaf, 
 and this added to the strangeness of his manner. 
 
 But the boy of six years stood away, even after 
 the girl had recognized her father and kissed him. 
 The man turned then to the baby, and said in a 
 curiously unpaternal tone : 
 
 " Come here, my little man; don't you know 
 me ?" But the baby backed away under the fence 
 and stood peering at him critically. 
 
 " My little man !" What meaning in those 
 words ! This baby seemed like some other 
 woman's child, and not the infant he had left in 
 his wife's arms. The war had come between him 
 
MAIN- TRAVELLED MO ADS. 211 
 
 and liis baby — lie was only " a strange man, with 
 big eyes, dressed in blue, with mother hanging 
 to his arm, and talking in a loud voice." 
 
 "And this is Tom," he said, drawing the oldest 
 boy to him. " He'll come and see me. He knows 
 his poor old pap when he comes home from the 
 war." 
 
 The mother heard the pain and reproach iu his 
 voice, and hastened to apologize. 
 
 " You've changed so, Ed. He can't know yeh. 
 This is papa, Teddy ; come and kiss him, — Tom 
 and Mary do. Come, won't you?" But Teddy 
 still peered through the fence with solemn eyes, 
 well out of reach. He resembled a half-wild 
 kitten that hesitates, studying the tones of one's 
 voice. 
 
 " I'll fix him," said the soldier, and sat down 
 to undo his knapsack, out of which he drew three 
 enormous and very red apples. After giving one 
 to each of the older children, he said : 
 
 " Notv I guess he'll come. Eh, my little man ? 
 Now come see your pap." 
 
 Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted 
 by the over-zealous Tommy, and a moment later 
 was kicking and squalling in his father's arms. 
 Then they entered the house, into the sitting- 
 room, poor, bare, art-forsaken little room, too, 
 with its rag-carpet, its square clock, and its two 
 
212 MAIN-TEAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 or three cliromos and pictures from Harper's 
 Weekly pinned about. 
 
 " Emma, I'm all tired out," said Private Smith, 
 as he flung himself down on the carpet as he 
 used to do, while his wife brought a pillow to put 
 under his head, and the children stood about, 
 munching their apples. 
 
 " Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips ; 
 and Mary, you get the tea-kettle on, and I'll go 
 and make some biscuit." 
 
 And the soldier talked. Question after ques- 
 tion he poured forth about the crops, the cattle, 
 the renter, the neighbors. He slipped his heavy 
 government brogan shoes off his poor, tired, 
 blistered feet, and lay out with utter, sweet rel- 
 axation. He was a free man again, no longer a 
 soldier under command. At supper he stopped 
 once, listened, and smiled. " That's old Spot. I 
 know her voice. I s'pose that's her calf out there 
 in the pen. I can't milk her to-night, though, 
 I'm too tired ; but I tell you, I'd like a drink o' 
 her milk. What's become of old Eove ?" 
 
 " He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess." 
 There was a moment of sadness for them all. It 
 was some time before the husband spoke again, 
 in a voice that trembled a little. 
 
 " Poor old feller ! He'd a known me a half a 
 mile away. I expected him to come down the 
 hill to meet me. It 'ud 'a' been more like comin' 
 
MAlN-TBAVBLLSD BOADB. Sl3 
 
 home if I could 'a' seen him comin' down the 
 road an' Avaggin' his tail, an' laughin' that way he 
 has. I tell yeh, it kin' o' took hold o' me to see 
 the blinds down, an' the house shut up." 
 
 " But, yeh see, we — we expected you'd write 
 again 'fore you started. And then we thought 
 we'd see yflu if you did come," she hastened to 
 explain. 
 
 ",Well, I ain't worth a cent on writin'. Besides, 
 it's just as well yeh didn't know when I was 
 comin'. I tell yeh, it sounds good to hear them 
 chickens out there, an' turkeys, an' the crickets. 
 Do you know they don't have just the same kind 
 o' crickets down South. Who's Sam hired 't 
 help cut yer grain ?" 
 
 " The Ramsey boys." 
 
 " Looks like a good crop ; but I'm afraid I 
 won't do much gettin' it cut. This cussed fever 
 an' ague has got me down pretty low. I don't 
 know when I'll get red of it. I'll bet I've took 
 twenty-five pounds of quinine, if I've taken a bit. 
 Gimme another biscuit. I tell yeh, they taste 
 good, Emma. I ain't had anything like it — Say, 
 if you'd 'a' heard me braggin' to th' boys about 
 your butter 'n' biscuits, I'll bet your ears 'ud' 'a' 
 burnt." 
 
 The Private's wife colored with pleasure. 
 " Oh, you're always a-braggin' about your things. 
 Everybody makes good butter." 
 
214 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 " Tes ; old lady Snyder, for instance." 
 " Oh, well, she ain't to be mentioned. She's 
 Dutch." 
 
 " Or old Mis' Snively. One more cup o' tea, 
 Mary. That's my girl ! I'm feeling better 
 already. I just b'lieve the matter with me is, I'm 
 starved.'" 
 
 ^ This was a delicious hour, one long to be re- 
 membered. They were like lovers again. But 
 their tenderness, like that of a typical American, 
 
 ^found utterance in tones, rather than in words. 
 He was praising her when praising her biscuit, 
 and she knew it. They grew soberer when he 
 showed where he had been struck, one ball burn- 
 ing the back of his hand, one cutting away a lock 
 of hair from his temple, and one passing through 
 the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered to think 
 how near she had come to being a soldier's 
 widow. Her waiting no longer seemed hard. 
 This sweet, glorious hour effaced it all. 
 
 Then they rose, and all went out into the gar- 
 den and down to the barn. He stood beside her 
 while she milked old Spot. They began to plan 
 fields and crops for next year. Here was the 
 
 ''^epic figure which Whitman has in mind, and 
 which he calls the "common American soldier." 
 With the livery of war on his limbs, this man 
 was facing his future, his thoughts holding no 
 
 ^scent of battle. Clean, clear-headed, in spite of 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 215 
 
 physical weakness, Edward Smith, Private, I 
 turned future-ward with a sublime courage. 
 
 His farm was mortgaged, a rascally renter had 
 run away with his machinery, "departing be- 
 tween two days," his children needed clothing, 
 the years were coming upon him, he was sick 
 and emaciated, but his heroic soul did not quail. 
 With the same courage with which he faced his 
 southern march, he entered upon a still more 
 hazardous future. 
 
 Oh, that mystic hour ! The pale man with big 
 eyes standing there by the well, with his young 
 wife by his side. The vast moon swinging above 
 the eastern peaks ; the cattle winding down the 
 pasture-slopes with jangling bells ; the crickets 
 singing ; the stars blooming out sweet and far 
 and serene ; the katydids rhythmically calling ; 
 the little turkeys crying querulously, as they set- 
 tled to roost in the poplar-tree near the open 
 gate. The voices at the well drop lower, the lit- 
 tle ones nestle in their father's arms at last, and 
 Teddy falls asleep there. 
 
 The common soldier of the American voluntee^ 
 army had returned. His war with the South was ' 
 over, and his fight, his daily running fight, with 
 nature and against the injustice of his fellow-men 
 was begun again. In the dusk of that far-off/ 
 valley his figure looms vast, his personal pecu- 
 
21 6 MAIN-TBAVELLEI} BO ADS. 
 
 (/'liarities fade away, he ri ses into a magnificent 
 tjpe^^ ' 
 
 He is a gray-haired man of sixty now, and on 
 the brown hair of his wife the white is also show- 
 ing. They are fighting a hopeless battle, and 
 I must fight till God gives them furlough. 
 
 7 
 
UNDEE THE LION'S PAW. 
 
 "■^ Along tins main-travelled road trailed an endless line of 
 prairie-seJiooners, coming into sight at the east, and pass- 
 ing out of sight over the swell to the west. We children 
 used to wonder where they were going and why they went.'''' 
 
 It was the last of autumn and first day of win- 
 ter coming together. All day long the ploughmen 
 on their prairie farms had moved to and fro on 
 their wide level field through the falling snow, 
 which melted as it fell, wetting them to the skin 
 — all day, notwithstanding the frequent 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 marvellous uncom- 
 plaining 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 and wings extended, sailed down the 
 wind, soon lost to sight. 
 
 Yet the ploughman behind his plough, though 
 the snow lay on his ragged great-coat, and the 
 cold clinging mud rose on his heavy boots, fetter- 
 
 217 
 
218 MAIN-TRAVBLLED BO ABB. 
 
 ing Mm like gyves, whistled in tlie very beard of 
 tlie gale. As day passed, tlie snow, ceasing to melt, 
 lay along the ploughed land, and lodged in the 
 depth of the stubble, till on each slow round the 
 last furrow stood out black and shining as jet be- 
 tween the ploughed 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 " finishr 
 ing a land." He rode on his sulky- plough 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 tufi', but got a be did. Tchkl 
 tchh 1 Step along, Pete ! Don't let Kate git y'r 
 single-tree 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' 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 changing to rain again. The tired and 
 hungry man could see the light from the kitchen 
 shining through the leafless hedge, and lifting a 
 
MAIN.THAVELLED ROADS. 219 
 
 great shout, he yelled, "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 carefully 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. 
 
 " Well, ye see," began the stranger, in a dep- 
 recating tone, " we'd like t' git in f'r the night. 
 We've tried every house f'r the last two miles, 
 but they hadn't any room f'r us. My wife's jest 
 about sick, 'n' the children are cold and hun- 
 
 gry-" 
 
 " Oh, y' want a stay all night, eh?" 
 " Yes, sir ; it 'ud be a great accom — " 
 " Waal, I don't make it a practice t' turn any- 
 buddy away hungry, not on sech nights 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, moved past the well 
 to the block beside the path. Council stood at 
 the side of the " schooner " and helped the chil- 
 dren out — two little half-sleeping children — and 
 then a small woman with a babe in her arms. 
 " There ye go !" he shouted, jovially, to the 
 
220 MAIN-TBAVELLED liOADS. 
 
 ahildren. "Now we're all right. Run right 
 along to the house there, an' tell Mam' Council 
 you wants sumpthin' t' eat. Eight this way, 
 Mis' — keep right oif 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 fra- 
 grant 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 coarse-look- 
 ing woman, took the children in her arms. 
 " Come right in, you little rabbits. 'Most asleep, 
 hay ? 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 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 hay-mow 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 travelled all the 
 way from Clear Lake t'-day in this mud ! Waal ! 
 waal ! No wonder you're all tired out. Don't 
 
MAIN-ritAVELLED ROADS. 221 
 
 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 Coun- 
 cil as I git older I don't seem t' 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 chil- 
 dren 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 chil- 
 dren. " 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 am 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 
 
222 MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 fell down upon the sleeping baby in ber arms. 
 Tbe world was not so desolate and cold and 
 hopeless, after all. 
 
 " No^ 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 in 
 it?" 
 
 She broke o£f and peered down at the face of 
 the babe. 
 
 " Two months 'n' five days," said the mother, 
 with a mother's exactness. 
 
 " Te don't say ! I want t' know ! The dear 
 little pudzy-wudzy !" she went on, stirring it up 
 in the neighborhood of the ribs with her fat fore- 
 finger. 
 
 " 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. " Sarah, this 
 is Mr. Haskins from Kansas. He's been eat up 
 'n' drove out by grasshoppers." 
 
 " Glad t' see yeh ! Pa, empty that 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 face, though hard and set, 
 was pathetic somehow. You . would have felt 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 233 
 
 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." 
 
 " W-a-a-l, set right up, Mr. Haskins ; wade 
 right into what we've got ; 'tain't much, but we 
 manage to live on it — she gits fat on it," laughed 
 Council, poirtting 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-stove, 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's 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, any- 
 how," Haskins said, partly rising and glancing, 
 at his wife. " I was ust t' northern Ingyannie, 
 where we have lots a timber 'n' lots o' rain, 'n' I 
 didn'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 
 running, did they ?" 
 
 " Eat ! They -pdped us out. They chawed 
 
224 MAIN-TBAYELLED HO ADS. 
 
 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 sitt'n' 'round on the bedpost, 
 six feet long, workin' their jaws. They eet the 
 fork-handles. They got worse 'n' worse till they 
 jest rolled on one another, piled up like snow in 
 Vinter. Well, it ain't no use ; if I was t' talk all 
 winter I couldn't tell nawthin'. But all the while 
 I couldn't help thinkin' of all that land back here 
 that nobuddy was usin', that I ought a had 'stead 
 o' bein' out there in that cussed country." 
 
 " Waal, why didn't ye stop an' settle here ?" 
 asked Ike, who had come in and was eating his 
 supper. 
 
 " Fer the simple reason that you fellers wantid 
 ten 'r fifteen dollars an acre fer the bare land, 
 and I hadn'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' 
 
MAIN-TBAVSLLED ROADS. 225 
 
 small-boned, and then since my last child I hain't 
 got up again fairly. I don't like t' complain— N 
 Tim has about all he can bear now — but they was / 
 days this week when I jest wanted to lay right/ 
 down an' die." J 
 
 "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 
 ploughin' 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 generovis quilts of the spare bed, Has- 
 kins 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." 
 
226 MAIN-TRAVELLED B0AD8. 
 
 II. 
 
 Jim Butlek was one of those men called in the 
 
 west "land poor." Early in the history of Koct 
 
 Eiver 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, working over 
 
 ^butter, and carting his goods to and from the 
 
 station. But a change c^me 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 
 
 \ time forward he believed in land speculation as 
 
 y 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 as good as the wheat," he was accus- 
 
 ' / tomed to say. 
 
 ■ Farm after farm fell into his hands, until he 
 
 was recognized as one of the leading land-owners 
 
 / of the county. His mortgages were scattered all 
 
 ' over Cedar County, and as they slowly but surely 
 
 fell in he sought usually to retain the former 
 
 owner as tenant. 
 
 / He was not ready to foreclose ; indeed, he had 
 
 ' the name of being one of the "easiest" men in 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED SO ADS. 227 
 
 the town. He let the debtor off again and again, I 
 extending the time whenever possible. J 
 
 " I don't want y'r land," he said. "All I'm after 
 is the int'rest on my money — that's all. Now if 
 j' want 'o stay on the farm, why, I'll give y' a 
 good chance. I can't have the land layin' va- 
 cant." And in many cases the owner remained 
 as tenant. 
 
 In the mean time he had sold his store ; he 
 couldn't spend time in it ; he was mainly occu- 
 pied now with sitting around town on rainy days, 
 smoking and "gassin' with the boys," or in riding 
 to and from his farms. In fishing time he fished 
 a good deal. Doc Grimes, Ben Ashley, and Cal 
 Cheatham were his cronies on these fishing ex- 
 cursions or hunting trips in the time of chickens 
 or partridges. In winter they went to northern 
 Wisconsin to shoot deer. 
 
 In spite of all these signs of easy life, Butler 
 persisted in saying he " hadn't money enough to 
 pay taxes on his land," and was careful to con- 
 vey the impression that he was poor in spite of 
 his twenty farms. At one time he was said to be 
 worth fifty 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 
 
228 MAIN-TBAVELLMD ROADS. 
 
 ^ 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 Bntler. 
 
 This was the farm which Council advised Has- 
 kins to apply for ; and the next day Council 
 hitched up his team and drove down town to see 
 Butler. 
 
 " You jest lem me do the talkin'," he said. 
 " "We'll find him wearin' out his pants on some 
 salt-barrel somewe'rs ; and if he thought you 
 ivanted 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 cas- 
 ually. 
 
 "Hello, But; lyin' agin, hay?" 
 
 " Hello, Steve ! how goes it ?" 
 
 " Oh, so-so. Too dang much rain these days. 
 I thought it was goin' t' freeze f 'r good last night. 
 Tight squeak if I git m' ploughin' done. How's 
 farmin' with you these days ?" 
 
 " Bad. Ploughin' ain't half done," 
 
 " It 'ud be a religious idee f'r you t' go out an' 
 take a hand y'r self." 
 
 " 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 bea hot an' cold on the 
 
MAIN-TBAVMLLBD JiOADB. S29 
 
 idee o' comin' West f'r 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 price — two-fifty." 
 
 "Waal, that ain't bad. Wait on 'im till 'e 
 thrashes ?" 
 
 Haskins listened eagerly to his important ques- 
 tion, 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." 
 
 " My relation '11 need all he's got t' git his 
 crops in," said Council, in the same indifferent 
 way. 
 
 " Well, all right ; say wait," concluded Butler. 
 
 " All right ; this is the man. Haskina, this is 
 Mr. Butler — no relation to Ben — the hardest 
 working man in Cedar county." 
 
 On the way home Haskins said : " I ain't much 
 better off. I'd like that farm ; it's a good farm, 
 but it's all run down, an' so'm I. I could make a 
 good farm of it if I had half a show. But I can't 
 stock it n'r seed it." 
 
 " Waal, now, don't you worry," roared Council 
 in his ear. " We'll pull y' through somehow till 
 
230 MAIN-TBAVELLBD JiOADS. 
 
 next harvest. He's agreed t' hire it ploughed, an' 
 you can earn a hundred dollars ploughin' an' y' c'n 
 git the seed o' me, an' pay me back when y' can." 
 
 Haskins was silent with emotion, but at last he 
 said, "I ain't got nothin' t' live on." 
 
 " Now don't you worry 'bout that. You jest 
 make your headquarters at ol' Steve Council's. 
 Mother '11 take a pile o' comfort in havin' y'r wife 
 an children 'round. Y' see Jane's married off 
 lately, an' Ike's away a good 'eal, so we'll be darn 
 glad t' have ye stop with us this winter. Nex' 
 spring we'll see if y' can't git a start agin ;" and 
 he chirruped to the team, which sprang forward 
 with the rumbling, clattering wagon. 
 
 " Say, looky here, Council, you can't do this. I 
 never saw — " shouted- Haskins in his neighbor's 
 ear. 
 
 Council moved about uneasily in his seat, and 
 stopped his stammering gratitude by saying: 
 " Hold on, now ; don't make such a fuss over a 
 little thing. When I see a man down, an' things 
 3.11 on top of 'm, I jest like t' kick em off an' help 
 m up. That's the kind of religion I got, an' it's 
 about the only kind." 
 
 They rode the rest of the way home in silence. 
 And when the red light of the lamp shone out 
 into the darkness of the cold and windy night, 
 and he thought of this refuge for his children 
 and wife, Haskins could have put his arm around 
 
MAtN-TRAVSLLBD ROADS. 231 
 
 the neck of his burly companion and squeezed 
 him like a lover ; but he contented himself with 
 saying: "Steve Council, you'll git y'r pay f'r this 
 some day." 
 
 "Don't want any pay. My religion ain't run 
 on such business principles." 
 
 The wind was growing colder, and the ground 
 was covered with a white frost, as they turned 
 into the gate of the Council farm, and the chil- 
 dren came rushing out, shouting " Papa's come !" 
 They hardly looked like the same children who 
 had sat at the table the night before. Their tor- 
 pidity under the influence of sunshine and Mother 
 Council had given way to a sort of spasmodic 
 cheerfulness, as insects in winter revive when 
 laid on the earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 Haskins worked like a fiend, and his wife, like the 
 heroic woman that she was, bore also uncomplain- 
 ingly the most terrible burdens. They rose early 
 and toiled without intermission till the darkness 
 fell on the plain, then tumbled into bed, every 
 bone and muscle aching with fatigue, to rise with 
 the sun next morning to the same round of the 
 same ferocity of labor. 
 
 The eldest boy, now nine years old, drove a 
 
A 
 
 232 MAIN-TRAVMLLBD HOAM. 
 
 team all through the spring, ploughing and seed- 
 j'ing, milked the cows, and did chores innumera- 
 ble, in most ways taking the place of a man ; an 
 infinitely pathetic but common figure — this boy — 
 on the American farm, where there is no law 
 against child labor. To see him in his coarse 
 clothing, his huge boots, and his ragged cap, as 
 he staggered with a pail of water from the well, or 
 trudged in the cold and cheerless dawn out into 
 the frosty field behind his team, gave the city- 
 bred visitor a sharp pang of sympathetic pain. 
 Yet Haskins loved his boy, and would have saved 
 him from this if he could, but he could not. 
 
 By June the first year the result of such Her- 
 culean toil began to show on the farm. The yard 
 was cleaned up and sown to grass, the garden 
 ploughed and planted, and the house mended. 
 Council had given them four of his cows. 
 
 " Take 'em an' run 'em on shares. I don't want 
 a milk s' many. Ike's away s' much now, Sat'd'ys 
 an' Sund'ys, I can't stand the bother anyhow." 
 
 Other men, seeing the confidence of Council in 
 the new-comer, had sold him tools on time ; and 
 as he was really an able farmer, he soon had 
 round him many evidences of his care and thrift. 
 At the advice of Council he had taken the farm 
 for three years, with the privilege of re-renting or- 
 buying at the end of the term. 
 
 " It's a good bargain, an' y' want 'o nail it," 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 233 
 
 said Council. " If you have any kind ov a crop, 
 you can pay y'r debts, an' keep seed an' bread." 
 
 The new hope which now sprang up in the 
 heart of Haskius and his wife grew great almost 
 as a pain by the time the wide field of wheat be- 
 gan to wave and rustle and swirl in the winds of 
 July. Day after day he would snatch a few 
 moments after supper to go and look at it. 
 
 " Have ye seen the wheat t'-day, Nettie ?" he 
 asked one night as he rose from supper. 
 
 " No, Tim, I ain't had time." 
 
 " Well, take time now. Le's go look at it." 
 
 She threw an old hat on her head — Tommy's 
 hat — and looking almost pretty in her thin sad 
 way, went out with her husband to the hedge. 
 
 " Ain't it grand, Nettie ? Just look at it." 
 
 It was . grand. Level, russet here and there, 
 heavy-headed, wide as a lake, and full of multitu- 
 dinous whispers and gleams of wealth, it stretched 
 away before the gazers like the fabled field of the 
 cloth of gold. 
 
 " Oh, I think — I hope we'll have a good crop, 
 Tim ; and oh, how good the people have been to 
 us!" 
 
 " Tes ; I don't know where we'd be t'-day if it 
 hadn't ben f'r Council and his wife." 
 
 " They're the best people in the world," said 
 the little woman, with a great sob of gratitude. 
 
 " We'll be in the field on Monday, sure," said 
 
234 MAlN-TttArBLLBD ROADS. 
 
 Haskins, griping the rail on the fence as if already- 
 at the work of the harvest. 
 
 The harvest came, bounteous, glorious, but the 
 winds came and blew it into tangles, and the rain 
 matted it here and there close to the ground, in- 
 creasing the work of gathering it threefold. 
 
 Oh, how they toiled in those glorious days ! 
 Clothing dripping with sweat, arms aching, filled 
 with briers, fingers raw and bleeding, backs 
 broken with the weight of heavy bundles, Has- 
 kins and his man toiled on. Tommy drove the 
 harvester while his father and a hired man bound 
 on the machine. In this way they cut ten acres 
 every day, and almost every night after supper, 
 when the hand went to bed, Haskins returned to 
 the field, shocking the bound grain in the light 
 of the moon. Many a night he worked till his 
 anxious wife came out to call him in to rest and 
 lunch. 
 
 At the same time she cooked for the men, took 
 care of the children, washed and ironed, milked 
 the cows at night, made the butter, and some- 
 times fed the horses and watered them while her 
 [husband kept at the shocking. No slave in the 
 Roman galleys could have toiled so frightfully 
 and lived, for this man thought himself a free 
 \ man, and that he was working for his wife and 
 \babes. 
 
 When he sank into his bed with a deep groan 
 
MAHr-mAVMLLSlB HOADS. 235 
 
 of relief, too tired to change his grimy, dripping 
 clothing, he felt that he was getting nearer and 
 nearer to a home of his own, and pushing the 
 wolf of want a little farther from his door. 
 
 There is no despair so deep as the despair 
 of a homeless man or woman. To roam the 
 roads of the country or the streets of the city, to 
 feel there is no rood of ground on which the feet 
 can rest, to halt weary and hungry outside 
 lighted windows and hear laughter and song 
 within — these are the hungers and rebellions 
 that drive men to crime and women to shame. 
 
 It was the memory of this homelessness, and 
 the fear of its coming again, that spurred Timothy 
 Haskins and Nettie, his wife, to such ferocious 
 labor during that first year. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " 'M, YES ; 'm, yes ; first-rate," said Butler, as 
 his eye took in the neat garden, the pigpen, and 
 the well-filled barn-yard. " You're git'n' quite 
 a stock around yer. Done well, eh ?" 
 
 Haskins was showing Butler around the place. 
 He had not seen it for a year, having spent the 
 year in Washington and Boston with Ashley, his 
 brother-in-law, who had been elected to Congress. 
 
 " Yes, I've laid out a good deal of money dur- 
 
&36 MAm-TRAVELLED BO AM 
 
 ing the last tliree years. I've paid out three 
 hundred dollars f r fencin'." 
 
 "Um — h'm ! I see, I see," said Butler, while 
 Haskins went on. 
 
 "The kitchen there cost two hundred; the 
 barn ain't cost much in money, but I've put o lot 
 o' time on it. I've dug a new well, and I — " 
 
 " Yes, yes. I see ! You've done well. Stalk 
 worth a thousand dollars," said Butler, picking 
 his teeth with a straw. 
 
 "About that," said Haskins, modestly, "We 
 begin to feel 's if we wuz git'n' a home f'r our- 
 selves ; but we've worked hard. I tell ye we be- 
 gin to feel it, Mr. Butler, and we're goin' t' begin 
 t' ease up purty soon. We've been kind o' 
 plannin'. a trip back t' Jier folks after the fall 
 ploughin's done." 
 
 " Eggs-SLctlj !" said Butler, who was evidently 
 thinking of something else. " I suppose you've 
 kine o' kalklated on stayin' here three years 
 more ?" 
 
 " Well, yes. Fact is, I think I c'n buy the farm 
 this fall, if you'll give me a reasonable show." 
 
 "Um — m! What do you call a reasonable 
 show ?" 
 
 " Waal ; say a quarter down and three years' 
 time." 
 
 Butler looked at the huge stacks of wheat which 
 filled the yard, over which the chickens were flut- 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 237 
 
 tering and crawling, catching grasshoppers, and 
 out of which the crickets were singing innumera- 
 bly. He smiled in a peculiar way as he said, 
 " Oh, I won't be hard on yer. But what did you 
 expect to pay fr the place ?" 
 
 " Why, about what you offered it for before, 
 two thousand five hundred, or possibly the three 
 thousand dollars," he added quickly, as he saw 
 the owner shake his head. 
 
 "This farm is worth five thousand and five 
 hundred dollars," said Butler, in a careless but 
 decided voice. 
 
 " Wtvcut /" almost shrieked the astounded Has- 
 kins. "What's that? Five thousand? Why, 
 that's double what you offered it for three years 
 ago." 
 
 " Of course ; and it's worth it. It was all run 
 down then; now it's in good shape. You've laid 
 out fifteen hundred dollars in improvements, ac- 
 cording to your own story." 
 
 "But you had nothin' t' do about that. It's my \ 
 work an' my money." 
 
 " You bet it was ; but it's my land." 
 
 " But what's to pay me for all my — ?" 
 
 " Ain't you had the use of 'em ?" replied Butler, 
 smiling calmly into his face. 
 
 Haskins was like a man struck on the head 
 with a sand-bag ; he couldn't think; he stam- 
 mered as he tried to say : " But — I never 'd git 
 the use — You'd rob) me. More'n that: you 
 
238 MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 
 
 agreed-^you promised that I could buy or rent 
 at the end of three years at — " 
 , " That's all right. But I didn't say I'd letyou 
 ; carry off the improvements, nor that I'd go on 
 / renting the farm at two-fifty. The land is doubled 
 / in value, it don't matter how ; it don't enter intcx 
 j the question; an' now you can pay me five hundred 
 I dollars a year rent, or take it on your own terms 
 y at fifty-five hundred, or — git out." 
 V He was turning away when Haskins, the sweat 
 pouring from his face, fronted him, saying again : 
 " But you've done nothing to make it so. Tou 
 hain't added a cent. I put it all there myself, 
 expectin' to buy. I worked an' sweat to im- 
 prove it. I was workin' f'r myself an' babes — " 
 " Well, why didn't you buy when I offered to 
 sell ? What y' kickin'' about ?" 
 
 "I'm kickin' about payin' you twice f'r my own 
 things — my own fences, my own kitchen, my own 
 \ garden." 
 
 ^- Butler laughed. " You're too green t' eat, 
 young feller. Your improvements ! The law 
 will sing another tune." 
 
 "But I trusted your word." 
 
 / " Never trust anybody, my friend. Besides, I 
 
 y didn't promise not to do this thing. Why, man, 
 
 1 don't look at me like that. Don't take me for a 
 
 \ thief. It's the law. The reg'lar thing. Every- 
 
 ibody does it." 
 
 * " I don't care if they do. It's stealin' jest the 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BOADS. 239 
 
 same. You take three thousand dollars of my 
 money. The work o' my hands and my wife's." 
 He broke down at this point. He was not a 
 strong man mentally. He could face hardship, 
 ceaseless toil, but he could not face the cold and 
 sneering face of Butler. 
 
 " But I don't take it," said Butler, coolly. " All 
 you've got to do is to go on jest as you've been 
 a-doin', or give me a thousand dollars down, and 
 a mortgage at ten per cent on the rest." 
 
 Haskins sat down blindly on a bundle of oats 
 near by, and with stating eyes and drooping 
 head went over the situation. He was under the 
 lion's paw. He felt a horrible numbness in his 
 hear f "and limbs. He was hid in a mist, and there 
 was no path out. 
 
 Butler walked about, looking at the huge stacks 
 of grain, and pulling now and again a few hand- 
 fuls out, shelling the heads in his hands and 
 blowing the chaff away. He hummed a little 
 tune as he did so. He had an accommodating 
 air of waiting. 
 
 Haskins was in the midst of the terrible toil of 
 the last year. He was walking again in the rain 
 and the mud behind his plough, he felt the dust 
 and dirt of the threshing. The ferocious husking 
 time, with its cutting wind and biting, clinging 
 snows, lay hard upon him. Then he thought of 
 his wife, how she had cheerfully cooked and 
 baked, without holiday and without rest. 
 
/: 
 
 240 MAIN-TBAVELLED MO ADS. 
 
 "Well, what do you tliink of it?" inquired the 
 cool, mocking, insinuating voice of Butler. 
 
 ' I tliink you're a thief and a liar !" shouted 
 Haskins, leaping up. " A black-hearted houn' !" 
 Butler's smile maddened him; with a sudden leap 
 he caught a fork in his hands, and whirled it in 
 the air. " You'll never rob another man, damn 
 ye !" he grated through his teeth, a look of piti- 
 \^less ferocity in his accusing eyes. 
 
 Butler shrank and quivered, expecting the blow; 
 stood, held hypnotized by the eyes of the man 
 he had a moment before despised — a man trans- 
 formed into an avenging demon. But in the 
 deadly hush between the lift of the weapon and 
 its fall there came a gush of faint, childish laugh- 
 ter, and then across the range of his vision, far 
 away and dim, he saw the sun-bright head of his 
 baby girl, as, with the pretty tottering run of a 
 two-year-old, she moved across the grass of the 
 door-yard. His hands relaxed ; the fork fell to the 
 ground ; his head lowered. 
 
 " Make out y'r deed an' inorgige, an' git offn 
 my land, an' don't ye never cross my line agin ; 
 if y' do, I'll kill ye." 
 
 Butler backed away from the man in wild 
 haste, and climbing into his buggy with trembling 
 limbs, drove off down the road, leaving Haskins 
 seated dumbly on the sunny pile of sheaves, his 
 head sunk into his hands. 
 
MES. EIPLEY'S TEIP. 
 
 '^And in winter the winds sweep the snows across it . 
 
 The night was in windy November, and the 
 blast, threatening rain, roared around the poor 
 little shanty of "Uncle Eipley," set like a chicken- 
 trap on the vast Iowa prairie. Uncle Ethan was 
 mending his old violin, with many York State 
 "dums!" and "I gal darns!" totally oblivious 
 of his tireless old wife, who, having " finished the 
 supper-dishes," sat knitting a stocking, evidently 
 for the little grandson who lay befure the stove 
 like a cat. Neither of the old people wore glass- 
 es, and their light was a tallow candle ; they 
 couldn't a£ford "none o' them new-fangled 
 lamps." The room was small, the chairs wood- 
 en, and the walls bare — a home where poverty 
 was a never-absent guest. The old lady looked 
 pathetically little, weazened, and hopeless in her 
 ill-fitting garments (whose original color had long 
 since vanished), intent as she was on the stocking 
 in her knotted, stiffened fingers, but there was 
 a peculiar sparkle in her little black eyes, and 
 an unusual resolution in the straight line of her 
 withered and shapeless lips. Suddenly she 
 
 m 
 
242 MAIN-rBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 paused, stuck a kneedle in tlie spare knob of 
 hair at the back of her head, and looking at Eip- 
 ley, said decisively : " Ethan Eipley, you'll haff 
 to do your own cooking from now on to New- 
 Year's ; I'm goin' back to Yaark State." 
 
 The old man's leather-brown face stiffened 
 into a Ipok of quizzical surprise for a moment; 
 then he cackled, incredulously : " Ho ! Ho ! har ! 
 Sho ! be y', now ? I want to know if y' be." 
 
 " "Well, you'll find put." 
 
 " Goin' to start to-morrow, mother ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I ain't ; but I am on Thursday. I 
 want to get to Sally's by Sunday, sure, an' to 
 Silas's on Thanksgivin'." 
 
 There was a note in the old woman's voice 
 tha-t brought genuine stupefaction into the face 
 of Uncle Eipley. Of course in this case, as in all 
 others, the money consideration was uppermost. 
 
 " Howgy 'xpect to get the money, mother ? 
 Anybody died an' left yeh a pile ?" 
 
 " Never you mind where I get the money so 's 't 
 you don't haff to bear it. The land knows, if I'd 
 a-waited for you to' pay my way — " 
 
 " You needn't twit me of bein' poor, old 
 woman," said Eipley, flaming up after the man- 
 ner of many old people. " I've done my part t' 
 get along. I've worked day in and day out — " 
 
 " Oh ! I ain't done no work, have I ?" snapped 
 she, laying down the stocking and levelling a 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 243 
 
 needle at him, and putting a frightful emphasis 
 on "I." 
 
 " I didn't say you hadn't done no work." 
 
 " Yes, you did !" 
 
 " I didn't, neither. I said — " 
 
 "I Icnoiu what you said." 
 
 " I said I'd done my part .'" roared the husband, 
 dominating her as usual by superior lung power. 
 " I didn't say you hadn't done your part," he 
 added, with an unfortunate touch of emphasis on 
 " say." 
 
 " I know y' didn't say it, but y' meant it. I 
 don't know what y' call doin' my part, Ethan 
 Eipley ; but if cookin' for a drove of harvest 
 hands and thrashin' hands, takin' care o' the 
 eggs and bntter, 'n' diggin' taters an' milkin', 
 ain't my part, I don't never expect to do my part, 
 'n' you might as well know it fust 's last. I'm 
 sixty years old," she went on, with a little break in 
 her harsh voice, dominating him now by woman's 
 logic, " an' I've never had a day to myself, not 
 even Fourth o' July. If I've went a-visitin' 'r to 
 a picnic, I've had to come home an' milk 'n' get 
 supper for you men-folks. I ain't been away t' 
 stay overnight for thirteen years in this house, 
 'n' it was just so in Davis County for ten more. 
 For twenty-three years, Ethan Ripley, I've stuck 
 right to the stove an' churn without a day or a 
 night off." Her voice choked again, but she ral- 
 
J 
 
 244 MAm-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 lied, and continued impressively, " And now I'm 
 a-goin' back to Yaark State." 
 
 Ethan was vanquished. He stared at her in 
 speechless surprise, his jaw hanging. It was in- 
 credible. 
 
 " For twenty-three years," she went on, mus- 
 ingly, " I've just about promised myself every 
 year I'd go back an' see my folks." She was 
 distinctly talking to herself now, and her voice 
 had a touching, wistful cadence. " I've wanted 
 to go back an' see the old folks, an' the hills 
 where we played, an' eat apples off the old tree 
 down by the old well. I've had them trees an' 
 hills in my mind days and days— nights too^an' 
 the girls I used to know, an' my own folks — " 
 
 She fell into a silent muse, which lasted so 
 long that the ticking of the clock grew loud as a 
 gong in the man's ears, and the wind outside 
 seemed to sound drearier than usual. He re- 
 turned to the money problem, kindly, though. 
 
 " But how y' goin' t' raise the money ? I ain't 
 got no extra cash this time. Agin Eoach is paid 
 an' the mortgage interest paid we ain't got no 
 hundred dollars to spare, Jane, not by a jugful." 
 
 "Waal, don't you lay awake nights studyin' 
 on where I'm a-goin' to get the money,'' said the 
 old woman, taking delight in mystifying him. 
 She had him now, and he couldn't escape. He 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLBD BO AM. S46 
 
 strove to show his indifference, however, by play- 
 ing a tune or two on the violin. 
 
 " Come, Tukey, you better climb the wooden 
 hill," Mrs. Eipley said, a half -hour later, to the 
 little chap on the floor, who was beginning to 
 get drowsy under the influence of his grandpa's 
 fiddling. " Pa, you had orta 'a put that string in 
 the clock to-day — on the 'larm side the string 
 is broke," she said, upon returning from the 
 boy's bedroom. "I orta get up extry early to- 
 morrow, to get some sewin' done. Land knows, 
 I can't fix up much, but they is a leetle I c'n do. 
 I want to look decent." 
 
 They were alone now, and they both sat ex- 
 pectantly. 
 
 "You 'pear to think, mother, that I'm aginyer 
 goin'." 
 
 " "Waal, it would kinder seem as if y' hadn't 
 hustled yerself any t' help me git off." 
 
 He was smarting under the sense of being 
 wronged. " Waal, I'm jest as willin' you should 
 go as I am for myself; but if I ain't got no money 
 I don't see how I'm goin' to send — " 
 
 " I don't want ye to send ; nobody ast ye to, 
 Ethan Eipley. I guess if I had what I've earnt 
 since we came on this farm I'd have enough to go 
 to Jericho with." 
 
 " You've got as much out of it as I have. You 
 talk about your goin' back. Ain't I been want- 
 
246 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 in' to go back myself? And ain't I kep' still 
 'cause I see it wa'n't no use ? I guess I've worked 
 jest as long and as hard as you, an' in storms an' 
 mud an' heat, ef it comes t' that." 
 
 The -woman was staggered, but she wouldn't 
 give up ; she must get in one more thrust. 
 
 "Waal, if you'd 'a managed as well as I have, 
 you'd have some money to go with." And she 
 rose, and went to mix her bread, and set it " rais- 
 in'." He sat by the fire twanging his fiddle soft- 
 ly. He was plainly thrown into gloomy retro- 
 spection, something quite unusual for him. But 
 his fingers picking out ^he bars of a familiar tune 
 set him to smiling, and whipping his bow across 
 the strings, he forgot all about his wife's resolu- 
 tions and his own hardships. Trouble always slid 
 oiFhis back like " punkins off a haystack " anyway. 
 
 The old man still sat fiddling softly after his 
 wife disappeared in the hot and stuffy little bed- 
 room off the kitchen. His shaggy head bent low-- 
 er over his violin. He heard her shoes drop — 
 one, two. Pretty soon she called : 
 
 " Come, put up that squeakin' old fiddle, and 
 go to bed. Seems as if you orta have sense 
 enough not to set there keepin' everybody in the 
 house awake." 
 
 " You hush up," retorted he. " I'll come when 
 I git ready, not till. I'll be glad when you're 
 gone — " 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED liOADS. 24.7 
 
 "Yes, I warrant that." 
 
 With whicli amiable good-night they went off 
 to sleep, or at least she did, while he lay awake, 
 pondering on " where under the sun she was goin' 
 t' raise that money." 
 
 The next day she was up bright and early, 
 working away on her own affairs, ignoring Eipley 
 totally, the fixed look of resolution still on her 
 little old wrinkled face. She killed a hen and 
 dressed and baked it. She fried up a pan of 
 doughnuts, and made a cake She was engaged 
 on the doughnuts when a neighbor came in, one 
 of those women who take it as a personal affront 
 when any one in the neighborhood does anything 
 without asking their advice. She was fat, and 
 could talk a man blind in three minutes by the 
 watch. 
 
 " What's this I hear. Mis' Eipley ?" 
 
 "I dun know. I expect you hear about all 
 they is goin' on in this neighborhood," replied 
 Mrs. Eripley, with crushing bluntness ; but the 
 gossip did not flinch. 
 
 " Well, Sett Turner told me that her husband 
 tdd her that Eipley told Mm that you was goin' 
 back East on a risit." 
 
 "Waal, what of it?" 
 
 "Well, air yeh?" 
 
 " The Lord willin' an' the weather permitin', I 
 expect to be." 
 
248 MAIir-TRAVBLLBD ROADS. 
 
 " Good land, I want to know ! Well, well ! I 
 never was so astonished in my life. I said, says 
 I, 'It can't be.' 'Well, 'ses' e, 'tha's what she told 
 me,' ses 'e. ' But,' ses I, ' she is the last woman 
 in the world to go gallivantin' off East,' ses I. 
 An' ses he, ' But it comes from good authority,' 
 ses he. ' Well, then, it must be so,' ses I. But, 
 land sakes ! do tell me all about it. How come 
 you to make up y'r mind ? AH these years you've 
 been kind a-talkin' it over, an' now y'r actshelly 
 goin' — Waal, / Tiever ! ' I s'pose Eipley furnishes 
 the money,' ses I to him. ' Well, no,' ses 'e. ' Eip- 
 ley says he'll be blowed if he sees where the mon- 
 ey's comin' from,' ses 'e ; and ses I, ' But maybe 
 she's jest jokin',' ses I. ' Not much,' he says. S' 'e : 
 'Eipley believes she's goin' fast enough. He's 
 jest as anxious to find out as we be — ' " 
 
 Here Mrs. Doudney paused for breath ; she 
 had walked so fast and had rested so little that 
 her interminable flow of " ses I's" and " ses he's" 
 ceased necessarily. She had reached, moreover, 
 the point of most vital interest — the money. 
 
 " An' you'll find out jest 'bout as soon as he 
 does," was the dry response from the figure hov- 
 ering over the stove, and with all her manoeuvring 
 that was all she got. 
 
 All day Eipley went about his work exceeding- 
 ly thoughtful for him. It was cold, blustering 
 weather. The wind rustled among the cora-stalks 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED BO ADS. 249 
 
 with a wild and mournful sound, the geese and 
 ducks went sprawling down the wind, and horses' 
 coats were ruffled and backs raised. 
 
 The old man was husking corn alone in the 
 field, his spare form rigged out in two or three 
 ragged coats, his hands inserted in a pair of 
 gloves minus nearly all the fingers, his thumbs 
 done up in " stalls," and his feet thrust into huge 
 coarse boots. During the middle of the day the 
 frozen ground thawed, and the mud stuck to his 
 boots, and the " down ears " wet and chapped his 
 hands, already worn to the quick. T6ward night 
 it grew colder and threatened snow. In spite of 
 all these attacks he kept his cheerfulness, and 
 though he ■ was very tired, he was softencvl in 
 temper. / 
 
 Having plenty of time to think matters over, 
 he had come to the conclusion " that the old wo- 
 man needed a play-spell. I ain't likely to be no 
 richer next year than I am this one ; if I wait 
 till I'm able to send her she won't never go. I 
 calc'late I c'n git enough out o' them shoats to 
 send her. I'd kind a 'lotted on eat'n' them pigs 
 done up into sassengers, but if the ol' woman 
 goes East, Tukey an' me'U kind a haff to pull 
 through without 'em. "We'll have a turkey f'r 
 Thanksgivin', an' a chicken once 'n a while. 
 Lord ! but we'll miss the gravy on the flap-jacks. 
 A-men !" (He smacked his lips over the thought 
 
250 MAIN-TRAVELLEI) ROAM. 
 
 of the lost dainty.) "But let 'er rip! We can 
 stand it. Then there is my buffalo overcoat. I'd 
 kind a calc'lated on havin' a buffalo — but that's 
 gone up the spout along with them sassengers." 
 
 These heroic sacrifices having been determined 
 upon, he put them into effect at once. 
 
 This he was able to do, for his corn-rows ran 
 alongside the road leading to Cedarville, and his 
 neighbors were passing almost all hours of the 
 day. 
 
 It would have softened Jane Eipley's heart 
 could she have seen his bent and stiffened form 
 amid the corn-rows, the cold wind piercing to 
 the bone through his threadbare and insufficient 
 i/idthing. The rising wind sent the snow rattling 
 among the moaning stalks at intervals. The cold 
 made his poor dim eyes water, and he had to stop 
 now and then to swing his arms about his chest 
 to warm them. His voice was hoarse with shout- 
 ing at the shivering team. 
 
 That night as Mrs. Eipley was clearing the 
 dishes away she got to thinking about the de- 
 parture of the next day, and she began to soften. 
 She gave way to a few tears when little Tewks- 
 bury Gilchrist, her grandson, came up and stood 
 beside her. 
 
 " Gran'ma, you ain't goin' to stay away always, 
 areyeh?" 
 
MA1N--TBAVBLLED BO ADS. 261 
 
 " Why, course not, Tukey. What made y' think 
 that ?" 
 
 " Well, y' ain't told us nawthin' 'tall about it. 
 An' yeh kind o' look 'sif yeh was mad." 
 
 " Well, I ain't mad; I'm jest a-thinkin', Tukey. 
 Y' see I come away from them hills when I was 
 a little girl a'most; before I married y'r grandad. 
 And I ain't never been back. 'Most all my folks 
 is there, sonny, an' we've been s' poor all these 
 years I couldn't seem t' never get started. Now, 
 when I'm 'most ready t' go, I feel kind a queer — 
 'sif I'd cry." 
 
 And cry she did, while little Tewksbury stood 
 patting her trembling hands. Hearing Eipley's 
 step on the porch, she rose hastily, and dryjfig''^'' 
 her eyes, plunged at the work again. Eipley 
 came in with a big armful of wood, whi^h he 
 rolled into the wood-box with a thundering crash. 
 Then he pulled off his mittens, slapped them to- 
 gether to knock oft" the ice and snow, and laid 
 them side by side under the stove. He then re- 
 moved cap, coat, blouse, and boots, which last he 
 laid upon the wood-box, the soles turned toward 
 the stove-pipe. 
 
 As he sat down without speaking, he opened 
 the front doors of the stove, and held the palms 
 of his stiffened hands to the blaze. The light 
 brought out a thoughtful look on his large, un- 
 couth, yet kindly visage. Life had laid hard lines 
 
252 MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 on his brown skin, but it had not entirely soured 
 a naturally kind and simple nature. It had made 
 him penurious and dull and iron-muscled ; had 
 stifled all the slender flowers of his nature ; yet 
 there was warm soil somewhere hid in his heart. 
 
 " It's snowin' like all p'sessed," he remarked, 
 finally. " I guess we'll have a sleigh-ride to-mor- 
 row. I calc'late t' drive y' daown in scrumptious 
 style. If yeh must leave, why, we'll give yeh a 
 whoopin' old send-off— won't we, Tukey ? 
 
 " I've ben a-thinkin' things over kind o' t'-day, 
 mother, an' I've come t' the conclusion that we 
 have been kind a hard on yeh, without knowin' it, 
 y' see. T' see I'm kind a easy-goin,'an' little Tuke 
 he's only a child, an' we ain't c'nsidered how you 
 felt." 
 
 St 3 didn't appear to be listening, but she was, 
 and he didn't appear, on his'part, to be talking to 
 her, and he kept his voice as hard and dry as he 
 could. 
 
 " An' I was tellin' Tukey t'-day that it was a 
 dum shame our crops hadn't turned out better. 
 An' when I saw ol' Hatfield go by I hailed him, 
 an' asked him what he'd gimme for two o' m' 
 shoats. Waal, the upshot is, I sent t' town for 
 some things I calc'lated ye'd need. An' here's a 
 ticket to Georgetown, and ten dollars. Why, ma, 
 what's up ?" 
 
 Mrs. Eipley broke down, and with her hands 
 
MAIN- TRAVELLED HO ADS. 253 
 
 all wet with dish-water, as they were, covered her 
 face, and sobbed. She felt like kissing him, but 
 she didn't. Tewksbury began to whimper too ; 
 but the old man was astonished. His wife had 
 not wept for years (before him). He rose and 
 walked clumsily up to her and timidly touching 
 her hair — 
 
 " Why, mother ! What's the matter ? What 'v' 
 I done now? I was calc'latin' to sell them 
 pigs anyway. Hatfield jest advanced the money 
 on' em." 
 
 She hopped up and dashed into the bedroom, 
 and in a few minutes retiirned with a yarn mit- 
 ten, tied around the wrist, which she laid on the 
 table with a thump, saying : " I don't want yer 
 money. There's money enough to take me where 
 I want to go." 
 
 " Whee — ew ! Thunder and gimpsum root ! 
 Wher'd ye git that? Didn't dig it out of a 
 hole ?" 
 
 "No. I jest saved it— a dime at a time — see ?" 
 
 Here she turned it out on the table — some bills, 
 but mostly silver dimes and quarters. 
 
 " Thunder and scissors ! Must be two er three 
 hundred dollars there," stared he. 
 
 "They's jest seventy-five dollars and thirty 
 cents ; jest about enough to go back on. Tickets 
 is fifty-five dollars, goin' an' comin'. That leaves 
 twenty dollars for other expenses, not countiu' 
 
254 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 what I've already spent, which is six-fifty," said 
 she, recovering her self-possession. " It's plenty." 
 
 " But y' ain't calc'lated on no sleepers nor hotel 
 bills." 
 
 " I ain't goin' on no sleeper. Mis' Doudney 
 says it's jest scandalous the way things is man- 
 aged on them cars. I'm goin' on the old-fash- 
 ioned cars, where they ain't no half-dressed men 
 runnin' around." 
 
 " But you needn't be afraid of them, mother ; 
 at your age — " 
 
 "Therel you needn't throw my age an' home- 
 liness into my face, Ethan Bipley. If I hadn't 
 waited an' tended on you so long, I'd look a little 
 more's I did when I married yeh." 
 
 Eipley gave it up in despair. He didn't realize 
 fully enough how the proposed trip had unsettled 
 his wife's nerves. She didn't realize it herself. 
 
 " As for the hotel bills, they won't be none. I 
 ain't a-goin' to pay them pirates as much for a 
 day's board as we'd charge for a week's, an' have 
 nawthin' to eat but dishes. I'm goin' to take a 
 chicken an' some hard-boiled eggs, an' I'm goin' 
 right through to Georgetown." 
 
 "Well, all right; but here's the ticket I got." 
 
 "I don't want yer ticket." 
 
 "But you've got to take it." 
 
 " Wall, I hain't." 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED BO ADS. 255 
 
 "Why, yes, ye have. It's bought, an' they 
 won't take it back." 
 
 "Won't they?" She was staggered again. 
 
 "Not much they won't. I ast 'em. A ticket 
 sold is sold." 
 
 " Waal, if they won't—" 
 
 "Youbet they won't." 
 
 " I s'pose I'll hafif to use it ;" and that ended it. 
 
 They were a familiar sight as they rode down 
 the road toward town next day. As usual, Mrs. 
 Kipley sat up straight and stiff as " a half-drove 
 wedge in a white-oak log." The day was cold 
 and raw. There was some snow on the ground, 
 but not enough to warrant the use of sleighs. It 
 was "neither sleddin' nor wheelin'." The old 
 ■people sat on a board laid across the box, and 
 had an old quilt or two drawn up over their 
 knees. Tewksbury lay in the back part of the 
 box (which was filled with hay), where he jounced 
 up and down, in company with a queer old trunk 
 and a brand-new imitation-leather hand-bag. 
 There is no ride quite so desolate and uncom- 
 fortable as a ride in a lumber wagon on a cold 
 day in autumn, when the ground is frozen, and 
 the wind is strong and raw with threatening 
 snow. The wagon-wheels grind along in the 
 snow, the cold gets in under the seat at the calves 
 of one's legs, and the ceaseless bumping of the 
 bottom of the box on the feet is frightful. 
 
256 MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 
 
 There was not mucli talk on the way down, 
 and what little there was related mainly to cer- 
 tain domestic regulations to be strictly followed, 
 regarding churning, pickles, pancakes, etc. Mrs. 
 Ripley wore a shawl over her head, and carried 
 her queer little black bonnet in her hand. Tewks- 
 bury was also wrapped in a shawl. The boy's 
 teeth were pounding together like castanets by 
 the time they reached Cedarville, and every mus- 
 cle ached with the fatigue of shaking. After a 
 few purchases they drove down to the railway 
 station, a frightful little den (common in the 
 West), which was always too hot or too cold. It 
 happened to be hot just now — a fact which re- 
 joiced little Tewksbury. 
 
 "Now git my trunk stamped 'x fixed, 'r whateve]> 
 they call it," she said to Ripley, in a commanding 
 tone, which gave great delight to the inevitable 
 crowd of loafers beginning to assemble. " Now 
 remember, Tukey, have grandad kill that biggest 
 turkey night before Thanksgiving, an' then you 
 run right over to Mis' Doudney's — she's got a 
 nawful tongue, but she can bake a turkey first- 
 rate — an' she'll fix up some squash-pies for yeh. 
 You can warm up one o' them mince-pies. I wish 
 ye could be with me, but ye can't, so do the best 
 ye can." 
 
 Ripley returning now, she said : " "Waal, now, 
 I've fixed things up the best I could, I've baked 
 
MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS. 257 
 
 bread enough to last a week, an' Mis' Doudney 
 lias promised to bake for yeli." 
 
 " I don't like her bakin'." 
 
 " Waal, you'll haff to stand it till I get back, 
 11 you'll find a jar o' sweet pickles an' some crab- 
 apple sauce down suUer, 'n' you'd better melt up 
 brown sugar for 'lasses, 'n' for goodness' sake 
 don't eat all them mince-pies up the fust week, 
 'n' see that Tukey ain't froze goin' to school. An' 
 now you'd better get out for home. Good-bye, 
 an' remember them pies." 
 
 As they were riding home, Ripley roused up 
 after a long silence. 
 
 " Did she — a — kiss you good-by, Tukey ?" 
 
 "No, sir," piped Tewksbury. 
 
 "Thunder! didn't she?" After a silence. 
 " She didn't me, neither. I guess she kind a sort 
 a forgot it, bein' so flustrated, y' know." 
 
 One cold, windy, intensely bright day, Mrs. Sta- 
 cey, who lives about two miles from Cedarville, 
 looking out of the window, saw a queer little fig- 
 ure struggling along the road, which was blocked 
 here and there with drifts. It was an old woman 
 laden with a good half-dozen parcels, any one of 
 which was a load, which the wind seemed deter- 
 mined to wrench from her. She was dressed in 
 black, with a full skirt, and her cloak being short, 
 the wind had excellent opportunity to inflate her 
 
358 MAIN-TRAVELLEB ROADS. 
 
 garments and sail her off occasionally into the 
 deep snow outside the track, but she held on 
 bravely till she reached the gate. As she turned 
 in, Mrs. Stacey cried : 
 
 " Why ! it's Gran'ma Eipley, just getting back 
 from her trip. Why ! how do you do ? Come 
 in. Why ! you must be nearly frozen. Let me 
 take off your hat and veil." 
 
 " No, thank ye kindly, but I can't stop. I must 
 be gittin' back to Eipley. I expec' that man has 
 jest let ev'rything go six ways f'r Sunday." 
 
 "Oh, you must sit down just a minute and 
 warm." 
 
 " Waal, I win, but I've got to git home by sun- 
 down. Sure I don't s'pose they's a thing in the 
 house to eat." 
 
 " Oh dear ! I wish Stacey was here, so he 
 could take you home. An' the boys at school." 
 
 " Don't need any help, if 'twa'nt for these bun- 
 dles an' things. I guess I'll jest leave some of 
 'em here, an' — Here ! take one of these applesi 
 I brought 'em from Lizy Jane's suUer, back to 
 Yaark State." 
 
 " Oh ! they're delicious ! You must have had 
 
 a lovely time." 
 
 //■ " Pretty good. Bui I kep' thinkin' o Kipley 
 
 f an' Tukey all the time. I s'pose they have had 
 
 a gay time of it " (she meant the opposite of gay). 
 
 "Waal, as I told Lizy Jane, I've had my spree, 
 
MAIN-TBAVELLED ROADS. 259 
 
 an' now I've got to git back to work. They ain't 
 no rest for such as we are. As I told Lizy Jane, 
 them folks in the big houses have Thanksgivin' 
 dinners every day uv their lives, and men' an' 
 women in splendid clo's to wait on 'em, so't 
 Thanksgivin' don't mean anything to 'em; but 
 we poor critters, we make a great to-do if we 
 have a good dinner oncet a year. I've saw a pile 
 o' this world, Mrs. Stacey — a pile of it ! I didn't 
 think they was so many big houses in the world 
 as I saw b'tween here an' Chicago. Waal, I 
 can't set here gabbin' ; I must get home to Eip- 
 ley. Jest kinder stow them bags away. I'll 
 take two an' leave them three others. Good-by. 
 I must be gittin' home to Eipley. He'll want his 
 supper on time." And off up the road the in- 
 domitable little figure trudged, head held down 
 to the cutting blast, tittle snow-fly, a speck 
 on a measureless expanse, crawling along with 
 painful breathing and slipping, sliding steps — 
 " Gittin' home to Eipley an' the boy." 
 
 Eipley was out to the barn when she entered, 
 but Tewksbury was building a fire in the old 
 cook-stove. He sprang up with a cry of joy, and 
 ran to her. She seized him and kissed him, and 
 it did her so much good she hugged him close, 
 and kissed him again and again, crying hysteri- 
 cally. 
 
260 MAIN-TRA VELLMD ROADS. 
 
 " Oh, gran'ma, I'm so glad to see you ! We've 
 had an awful time since you've ben gone." 
 
 She released him, and looked around. A lot 
 of dirty dishes were on the table, the table-cloth 
 was a " sight to behold," and so was the stove — 
 Itettle-marks all over the table-cloth, splotches 
 of pancake batter all over the stove. 
 
 " Waal, I sh'd say as much," she dryly vouch- 
 safed, untying her bonnet-strings. 
 
 When Eipley came in she had on her regi- 
 mentals, the stove was brushed, the room swept, 
 and she was elbow-deep in the dish-pan. " Hullo, 
 mother ! Got back, hev yeh ?" 
 
 " I sh'd say it was about time," she replied 
 briefly, without looking up or ceasing work. 
 "Has ol' 'Grumpy' dried upyit?" This was her 
 greeting. 
 
 Her trip was a fact now ; no chance could rob 
 her of it. She had looked forward twenty-three 
 years toward it, and now she could look back at 
 it accomplished. She took up her burden again, 
 never more thinking to lay it down. ^ 
 
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