"But the road sometimes passes a rich meadow, where the songs of larks
and bobolinks and blackbirds are tangled."
I
Rob held up his hands, from which the dough depended in ragged strings.
"Biscuits," he said, with an elaborate working of his jaws, intended to
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 Rob, mauling 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!"
"Im-mense!"
"How goes breaking?"
"Tip-top! A leette dry now; but the bulls pull the plough through two
acres a day. How's things in Boomtown?"
"Oh, same old grind."
"Judge still lyin'?"
"Still at it."
"Major Mullens still swearin' to it?"
"You hit it like a mallet. Railroad schemes are thicker 'n
prairie-chickens. You've got grit, Rob. 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
medderlarks; but we settlers have got to work."
Leaving Rob to sputter over his cooking, Seagraves 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 neighboring 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 shimmering air. The lark's
infrequent whistle, piercingly sweet, broke from the longer grass in the
swales nearby. No other climate, sky, plain, could produce the same
unnamable weird charm. 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 (junior editor of the Boomtown
Spike), 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 insubstantial as the mist through
which they made their way; even the sound of passing wagons seemed 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 getting 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 squeak of a mouse or the step of a
passing fox came as a relief to the aching sense. In the daytime,
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 Rob from the door. "The biscuit are 'most
done."
Seagraves did not speak, only nodded his head, and slowly rose. The
faint clouds in the west were getting a superb flame-color above and a
misty purple below, and the sun had pierced 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 the voices of
men speaking to their teams multiplied. Ducks in a neighboring lowland
were quacking sociably. 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
conditions of life on this sunlit Dakota prairie."
Rob, though visibly affected by the scene also, couldn't let his
biscuit spoil or go without proper attention.
"Say, ain't y' comin' t' grub?" he asked impatiently.
"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 spiked at the outer corners
for legs.
"How's that f'r a lay-out?" Rob 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."
Rob 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
his own well, built his own shanty, washed and mended his own clothing.
He could do anything, and do it well. He had a fine field of wheat, and
was finishing the ploughing of his entire quarter-section.
"This is what I call settin' under a feller's own vine an' fig
tree"--after Seagraves' compliments--"an' I like it. I'm my own boss. No
man can say 'come here' 'r 'go there' to me. I get up when I'm a min'
to, an' go t' bed when I'm a min' to."
"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."
Seagraves quoted an old rhyme:
"'The rats and the mice they made such a strife
He had to go to London to buy him a wife.'"
"Don't blush. I've probed your secret thought."
"Well, to tell the honest truth," said Rob, 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 are thick as huckleberries
back there, and I'm 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
would 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 the chickens!"
Rob'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 rine. We know a couple o' things. Now I didn't
leave Waupac County f'r fun. Did y' ever see Waupac? 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' get out, an' now I'm out here, I'm goin' t' make the most of it.
Another thing," he went on, after a pause--"we fellers workin' out back
there got more 'n' more like hands, an' less like human beings. Y' know,
Waupac is a kind of a summer resort, and the people that use' t' come in
summers looked down on us cusses in the fields an' shops. I couldn't
stand it. By God!" he said, with a sudden impulse of rage quite unusual,
"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, but listened in astonishment at his
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 other fellers, to get a
start where the cussed European aristocracy hadn't got a holt on the
people. I like it here--course I'd like the lakes an' meadows of Waupac
better--but I'm my own boss, as I say, and I'm goin' to stay my own boss
if I have 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
Rob's words, leaned his head on his hand. This working farmer had voiced
the modern idea. It was an absolute overturn of all the ideas of
nobility and special privilege born of the feudal past.
"I'd like to use your idea for an editorial, Rob," 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 upstirring of the modern
democrat against the aristocrat, against the idea of caste and the
privilege of living on the labor of others. This atom of humanity (how
infinitesimal this drop in the ocean of humanity!) was feeling the
nameless longing of expanding personality. He had declared rebellion
against laws that were survivals 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 among peasants than a servant before nobles.
"So I have good reasons f'r liking the country," Rob resumed, in a quiet
way. "The soil is rich, 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."
"And you'll still be living here alone, frying leathery slapjacks an'
chopping 'taters and bacon."
"I think I see myself," drawled Rob, "goin' around 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!" He rose. "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, when Rob came in to supper with a collar and necktie
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.
"What!" screamed Jack Adams, O'Neill, and Wilson, in one breath. "That
man?"
"That man," replied Seagraves, amazed at Rob, 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 Adams. "Where's he going to find
a girl?"
"Ask him," said Seagraves.
"I ain't tellin'," put in Rob, with his mouth full of potato.
"You're afraid of our competition."
"That's right; our competition, Jack; not your competition. Come, now,
Rob, tell us where you found her."
"I ain't found her."
"What! And yet you're goin' away t' get married!"
"I'm goin' t' bring a wife back with me ten days fr'm date."
"I see his scheme," put in Jim Rivers. "He's goin' back East somewhere,
an' he's goin' to propose to every girl he meets."
"Hold on!" interrupted Rob, holding up his fork. "Ain't quite right.
Every good lookin' girl I meet."
"Well, I'll be blanked!" exclaimed Jack, impressively; "that simply lets
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 spectacles. "I commend the courage and the resolution
of Mr. Rodemaker. I pray the lady may not
'Mislike him for his complexion,
The shadowed livery of the burning sun.'"
"Shakespeare," said Adams, at a venture.
Wilson turned to Rob. "Brother in adversity, when do you embark another
Jason on an untried sea?"
"Hay!" said Rob, winking at Seagraves. "Oh, I go to-night--night train."
"And return?"
"Ten days from date."
"I'll wager a wedding supper he brings a blonde," said Wilson, in his
clean-cut, languid speech compelling attention.
"Oh, come, now, Wilson; that's too thin! We all know that rule about
dark marryin' light."
"I'll wager she'll be tall," continued Wilson. "I'll wager you, friend
Rodemaker, she'll be blonde and tall."
The rest roared at Rob's astonishment and confusion.
The absurdity of it grew, and they went into spasms of laughter. But
Wilson remained 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.
Rob began to get uneasy.
"What is it? What is it?" said Mrs. Whiting, a jolly little matron.
Rivers put the case. "Rob's on his way back to Wisconsin t' get married,
and Wilson has offered to bet him that his wife will be a blonde and
tall, and Rob 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 commiseratingly.
"Aha! I see; I understand."
"It's the heat."
"And the Boston beans."
"Let up on him, Wilson. Don't badger a poor irresponsible fellow. I
thought something was wrong when 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."