The next morning Nils woke with the first flood of light that came with
dawn. The white-plastered walls of his room reflected the glare that
shone through the thin window shades, and he found it impossible to
sleep. He dressed hurriedly and slipped down the hall and up the back
stairs to the half-story room which he used to share with his little
brother. Eric, in a skimpy nightshirt, was sitting on the edge of the
bed, rubbing his eyes, his pale yellow hair standing up in tufts all
over his head. When he saw Nils, he murmured something confusedly and
hustled his long legs into his trousers. “I didn't expect you'd be up so
early, Nils,” he said, as his head emerged from his blue shirt.
“Oh, you thought I was a dude, did you?” Nils gave him a playful tap
which bent the tall boy up like a clasp knife. “See here: I must teach
you to box.” Nils thrust his hands into his pockets and walked about.
“You haven't changed things much up here. Got most of my old traps,
haven't you?”
He took down a bent, withered piece of sapling that hung over the
dresser. “If this isn't the stick Lou Sandberg killed himself with!”
The boy looked up from his shoe-lacing.
“Yes; you never used to let me play with that. Just how did he do it,
Nils? You were with father when he found Lou, weren't you?”
“Yes. Father was going off to preach somewhere, and, as we drove along,
Lou's place looked sort of forlorn, and we thought we'd stop and cheer
him up. When we found him father said he'd been dead a couple days. He'd
tied a piece of binding twine round his neck, made a noose in each end,
fixed the nooses over the ends of a bent stick, and let the stick spring
straight; strangled himself.”
“What made him kill himself such a silly way?”
The simplicity of the boy's question set Nils laughing. He clapped
little Eric on the shoulder. “What made him such a silly as to kill
himself at all, I should say!”
“Oh, well! But his hogs had the cholera, and all up and died on him,
didn't they?”
“Sure they did; but he didn't have cholera; and there were plenty of
hogs left in the world, weren't there?”
“Well, but, if they weren't his, how could they do him any good?” Eric
asked, in astonishment.
“Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people's hogs. He
was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig--think of that,
now!” Nils laughed all the way downstairs, and quite embarrassed little
Eric, who fell to scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While
he was parting his wet hair at the kitchen looking glass, a heavy tread
sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. “Gracious, there's
Mother. We must have talked too long.” He hurried out to the shed,
slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with the milking pails.
Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her black hair
shining from the application of a wet brush.
“Good morning, Mother. Can't I make the fire for you?”
“No, thank you, Nils. It's no trouble to make a cob fire, and I like to
manage the kitchen stove myself” Mrs. Ericson paused with a shovel full
of ashes in her hand. “I expect you will be wanting to see your brothers
as soon as possible. I'll take you up to Anders' place this morning.
He's threshing, and most of our boys are over there.”
“Will Olaf be there?”
Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between shovels.
“No; Olaf's wheat is all in, put away in his new barn. He got six
thousand bushel this year. He's going to town today to get men to finish
roofing his barn.”
“So Olaf is building a new barn?” Nils asked absently.
“Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You'll likely be here for
the barn-raising. He's going to have a supper and a dance as soon as
everybody's done threshing. Says it keeps the voters in good humour. I
tell him that's all nonsense; but Olaf has a head for politics.”
“Does Olaf farm all Cousin Henrik's land?”
Mrs. Ericson frowned as she blew into the faint smoke curling up about
the cobs. “Yes; he holds it in trust for the children, Hilda and her
brothers. He keeps strict account of everything he raises on it, and
puts the proceeds out at compound interest for them.”
Nils smiled as he watched the little flames shoot up. The door of the
back stairs opened, and Hilda emerged, her arms behind her, buttoning
up her long gingham apron as she came. He nodded to her gaily, and she
twinkled at him out of her little blue eyes, set far apart over her wide
cheekbones.
“There, Hilda, you grind the coffee--and just put in an extra handful;
I expect your Cousin Nils likes his strong,” said Mrs. Ericson, as she
went out to the shed.
Nils turned to look at the little girl, who gripped the coffee grinder
between her knees and ground so hard that her two braids bobbed and her
face flushed under its broad spattering of freckles. He noticed on her
middle finger something that had not been there last night, and that had
evidently been put on for company: a tiny gold ring with a clumsily set
garnet stone. As her hand went round and round he touched the ring with
the tip of his finger, smiling.
Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. Ericson had
disappeared. “My Cousin Clara gave me that,” she whispered bashfully.
“She's Cousin Olaf's wife.”