1
_During the spring of 1914 Edith Cavell was going quietly about her
civilian duties of mercy in Brussels. A Bolshevik agitator by the
name of Lenin was hiding in Galicia sending anonymous articles to
Russian newspapers. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary
of the U.S. Navy, attended the ceremonies which began construction
of battleship number 39, "the greatest fighting machine in the
universe." Villa had the federals on the run south of the Rio
Grande. The veteran Joffre deep in Plan 17 eyed the aging but wily
von Moltke across the Rhine. Aunt Martha in her Household Hints
suggested putting ordinary glass marbles in the tea-kettle to keep
the lime from gathering._
* * * * *
But on the Brailsford farm they were building a new barn.
For twenty-four hours the Brailsfords had been stunned by the loss.
They had gone about their duties in a daze. No one had seen Sarah
crying, but her eyes were rimmed with red, and Stanley silently
mourned the loss of his big Percheron and the Jersey heifers.
Then, while the last charred timbers were still smouldering they
turned to the more consoling thought of reconstruction. They
would have a magnificent new barn with arching roof and silver
ventilators. They would have a barn which would house fifty head of
cattle besides the horses, with a hayloft twice the size of the old
one.
Peter came home every week-end to help with the work. He insisted
that the barn be piped with drinking water for the cattle, that
the steel stanchions and cement floor be of the latest design, and
that whole banks of windows replace what had previously been almost
windowless stone walls.
They worked with frantic haste for soon it would be spring, soon
there would be a quarter section to plow and plant. Already the ice
was breaking, the gulls were screaming overhead; great flights of
wild ducks and geese were wedging their way northward.
Stripped to his shirt sleeves even in the early March winds Stud
Brailsford worked early and late. He helped the carpenters to lift
the big four-by-eights and two-by-twelves into their places, drove
thirty-penny spikes as though they were finishing nails. He helped
to build the forms and pour the cement; wheeled big barrows of
sand, gravel and concrete; brought stone-boat loads of hard heads
to fill the sloping ramp.
Saws ripped through clean-smelling wood; hammers rang from dawn
until dark; wagonloads of lumber, shingles, barn-equipment and
paint came out daily from Brailsford Junction; and by the twentieth
of March the cows and horses were in their new, luxurious home.
It took all the insurance money on the old barn and nearly every
cent Stud Brailsford had in the bank. The big man was weary,
hard-hit financially, and definitely older. But he looked up
proudly at his great new barn and smiled.
Before Stud put a fork of hay in the mow they had a barn dance.
Corn meal was strewn over the wide pine boards and a four-piece
orchestra from Brailsford Junction was hired for the occasion. The
old folks danced the square dances to the squeaking of the fiddle,
and Stud who had not called the figures in fifteen years called
them that night as was his privilege since he owned the barn.
Neither he nor Sarah had gone to a dance in ten years, nevertheless
he led her proudly in the grand march and the Virginia Reel.
Later the young folks, to the scandalization of their elders,
danced the tango and the turkey trot, and they all ended the
evening with "Home, Sweet Home" and plenty of apple cider.
"I guess we can still kick up our heels," said Stanley, escorting
his wife from the barn to the kitchen door.
"Gee, you sure can rag," Early Ann told the glowing Peter.
"Maybe I can't dance so good," Gus confessed to the new school
teacher, "but I know where there's another jug of apple jack."
Almost before the paint was dry on the barn it was lambing time,
and night and day for more than a week the Brailsfords helped the
bleating ewes and their small dependents, warmed chilled lambs in
the "hospital" at the corner of the shed and gave the weakened
mothers encouraging shots of brandy. Four times there were twins
and once triplets. To Stud's dismay one little black lamb made
its appearance--a disgrace to his exceptionally pure flock of
Shropshires. As chance would have it the little black fellow was
orphaned and no ewe could be made to adopt it, so Early Ann raised
him a pet on a baby bottle.
The great old ram was kept securely locked in his pen through all
these proceedings. He looked on indifferently through the bars, his
thick white wool glowing and healthy; his massive, wide head, broad
shoulders and low-slung chassis the very essence of masculinity.
"He's got a leg on each corner," said Stanley admiringly, stopping
to pet the father of sixty-four new sons and daughters.
The pony mare and one of the Percherons dropped foals within the
next two weeks, and fawn-eyed Jersey calves arrived almost daily.
At the Oleson farm another little Swede entered the world. Sarah
and Temperance Crandall were on hand to help the midwife, but Early
Ann was strictly forbidden to go near the place until the baby was
born, washed, and placed in his hand-carved cradle. The arrival of
three small billy goats, and twelve litters of Poland China pigs
increased the blessed events on the west shore of Lake Koshkonong
to a staggering figure.
Stud Brailsford, deep in the spring plowing, had no time to think
of any woman. He bought a brooder and an incubator for Sarah,
and evenings he went into the cellar to tinker with the new
contraptions. In due time flotillas of fluffy ducklings, eight
hundred scrambling, peeping chicks, and a dozen long-necked,
awkward, yellow-green goslings were in evidence on every hand.
One night the orchard was taken in a single onslaught by the rush
of spring. The fragrant white billow swept over apple, cherry,
plum, and Sarah's flowering crab. Underneath the laden trees the
dandelions bloomed, and the bees came to plunder.
Once again spring was upon the land.
2
It might have occurred to Stanley--but never did--that throughout
the spring the boy had seemed curiously devoted to the farm,
unwilling to miss a single week-end in the country. It should have
seemed strange to Brailsford that when the "Trailer" went bankrupt
in May, Peter took the loss of his job so philosophically. But all
that Stud thought, when he thought about the matter at all, was now
his boy was back at last, that he had sown his wild oats and was
ready to settle down, and that during the coming season he would
make him thrashing boss again.
3
On the morning of June 28, 1914--the day that Gavro Princip shot
the Archduke Ferdinand at Serajevo--Stud Brailsford awoke just
before dawn. Ducks were quacking, geese hissing in the barnyard.
Roosters were heralding the dawn, answered across the lake by other
roosters. A cow bawled at her calf, the wind rustled in the corn.
Ten miles away a train whistled, and rumbled across the river
bridge. To Stud's simple mind the world had never seemed more
peaceful. The smell of coffee, toast and sausage drifted up from
the kitchen. The first streaks of color were showing in the east,
reflected on the surface of the lake.
Stud did not know that Europe was an armed camp, that civilization
was about to be blown to bits, that Wisconsin farm boys, whistling
as they went to the barns that morning, would soon be lying in the
mud of Flanders. Stud had never heard of the Archduke Ferdinand nor
of Serajevo. You could not have convinced him that a shot fired
by a Serb in remote Bosnia could affect his prosperous dairy farm
on Crabapple Point in the Fertile Rock River valley of Southern
Wisconsin.
It was Sunday. Peter and Gus were already up and doing the chores.
Stud could lie abed for another half hour if he wished. He could
go swimming in the lake, or merely lie in the hammock under the
trees, listening to the birds and taking life easy. Such indolence
was all but unbelievable to the big farmer who for the past three
and one-half months had been working sixteen hours a day, laboring
evenings and holidays, even breaking God's commandment by plowing
on Sunday. But at last the crops were planted; the corn was
knee-high, and the twenty acres of tobacco were a rich, healthy
green.
Stud yawned, stretched like a big cat, rolled out of bed and donned
clean blue shirt and overalls. Carrying his shoes and socks in his
hand he padded down the stairs, enjoying the feeling of the cool,
smooth wood under his bare feet. Sarah and Early Ann were busy over
the kitchen stove, the spot where they spent many a Sabbath.
"Sleepy-head," taunted Early Ann. "Chores are most done."
For the first time since the burning of the barn Stud really
noticed the girl. My, she was pretty! After breakfast he saw her
take sunbonnet and milkpail and start up the path toward the
strawberry patch beyond the hill. Ten minutes after she was out of
sight, he followed.
Sarah Brailsford guessed where he was going, and why, but she did
not raise a finger to stop him. Gus Gunderson knew by second nature
what was up. Stud, chewing a stem of Timothy, climbed the hill,
skirted the orchard, and there he found them.
For a moment Stanley Brailsford was dumbfounded. Then a slow smile
spread over his face. Briefly he stayed to watch Early Ann and
Peter sitting on the grassy bank with their arms around each other,
looking off across the lake.
Slowly old Brailsford retraced his steps, saying to no one
in particular, "Grandchildren. Ho, ho! I never thought of
grandchildren. Wonder what it'll be like to be a grandfather?"
He was still chuckling when he sat down beside Sarah on the front
porch.
"You know, when Peter and Early Ann get married, I'm going to build
them a house on Cottonwood Hill."
"I think that would be real nice," said Sarah. "It's the prettiest
view in southern Wisconsin."
"I hope they have a dozen children, Mother. I'd like about seven
boys and five girls. They'll be blue-ribbon babies if that pair
breeds 'em."
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
-Obvious print and punctuation errors fixed.
-A Table of Contents was not in the original work; one has been
produced and added by Transcriber.