FROZEN WHEAT
For them 'at's here in airliest infant stages,
It's a hard world;
For them 'at gets the knocks of boyhood's ages,
It's a mean world;
For them 'at nothin's good enough they're gittin',
It's a bad world;
For them 'at learns at last what's right and fittin',
It's a good world.
_----James Whitcomb Riley._
THE summer was over, and the harvest, a great, bountiful harvest, was
gathered in. The industrious hum of the threshing-machine was heard
from many quarters, and the roads were dotted thick with teams
bringing in the grain to the elevators.
In the quiet field on the hillside, where the spruce trees, straight
and stiff, stand like faithful sentinels, the grass that had grown
over Bill Cavers's grave was now sere and gray; only the hardy
pansies were green still and gay with blossoms, mute emblems of the
love that never faileth.
Mrs. Cavers and Libby Anne were still living on the rented farm.
After Bill's death the neighbours, with true Western generosity, had
agreed among themselves to harvest the crop for her. The season had
been so favourable that her share of the crop would be a considerable
amount.
It was a typical autumn day in middle September. The golden and
purple flowers of the fall bespangled the roadside--wild sunflowers,
brown-centred gaillardia, wild sage, and goldenrod. The bright blue
of the cloudless sky set off the rich tints of autumn. The stubble
fields still bore the golden-yellow tinge of the harvest, and
although the maple leaves were fast disappearing before the lusty
winds of autumn, the poplars, yellow and rust-coloured, still
flickered gaily, the wild rosehaws and frost-touched milkweed still
gave a dash of colour to the shrubbery on the river-bank.
There had been an early frost that fall, which had caught the late
wheat, and now the grain which was brought into the elevators had to
be closely graded. The temptation to "plug" the wheat was strong, and
so much of it was being done that the elevator men were suspicious of
every one.
Young Tom Steadman was weighing wheat in the Farmers' Elevator while
the busy time was on, and although there was no outward hostility
between him and Bud Perkins, still his was too small a nature to
forget the thrashing that Bud had given him at the school two years
ago, and, according to Tom's code of ethics, it would be a very fine
way to get even if he could catch Bud selling "plugged" wheat.
The first load that Bud brought in Tom asked him if he had plugged
it. Bud replied quite hotly that he had not.
"I suppose," said Tom, "you stopped all that since you joined the
Church."
Bud's face flushed, but he controlled his temper and answered: "Yes,
that's what stopped me, and I'm not ashamed to say so."
The manager of the elevator, who was present, looked at him in
surprise. "Were you ever caught?" he asked.
"No," said Bud; "I was not."
"Well, then, you're a fool to ever admit that you did it," he said
severely.
"I can't help that," Bud said. "I am not going to lie about it."
"Well, it makes people suspicious of you to know you ever did it,
that's all," Mr. Johnston said.
"You are welcome to watch me. I am not asking you to take my word for
it," Bud replied.
"You're a queer lad," said the elevator man.
Bud's wheat was closely examined, and found to be of uniform quality.
The wheat went up to the dollar mark and Thomas Perkins decided to
rush his in to the elevator at once. He stayed at home himself and
filled the bags while Bud did the marketing.
All went well for a week. Contrary to his own words about being
suspicious of Bud, the elevator "boss" was, in his own mind,
confident of the boy's honesty.
One day, just as Bud's second last bag was thrown in, young Steadman
gave a cry of delight, and picked out a handful. Number II Northern
was the grading that Bud had been getting all the week. Young
Steadman showed it triumphantly to the elevator "boss" who examined
it closely. _It was frozen wheat!_
Bud was gathering up his bags when the elevator man called him over.
"Look at that," he said, holding the wheat before him.
Bud looked at it incredulously. "That's not mine," he said.
Young Steadman's eyes were on him exultingly. He had got even at
last, he thought.
"We'll have to see about this, Bud," the elevator man said sternly.
The other bag was emptied, and Bud saw with his own eyes that the
middle of the bag was filled with frozen wheat! He turned dizzy with
shame and rage. The machinery in the elevator with its deafening,
thump-thump-thump, seemed to be beating into his brain. He leaned
against the wall, pale and trembling.
The same instinct which prompted Tom Steadman when he hit Libby Anne
Cavers prompted him now. "I thought you said you wouldn't do such a
thing since you joined the Church," he said, with an expression of
shocked virtue.
Bud's cup of bitterness was overflowing, and at first he did not
notice what had been said.
Tom took his silence to mean that he might with safety say more. "I
guess you're not as honest as you'd like to have people think, and
joinin' the Church didn't do you so much good after all."
Bud came to himself with a rush then, and young Tom Steadman went
spinning across the floor with the blood spurting from his nose.
* * *
Bud was fined ten dollars for assault, and of course it became known
in a few hours that the cause of the trouble was that Bud had been
caught selling frozen wheat in the middle of his bags.
Through it all Bud made no word of defence. No one knew how bitter
was the sting of disgrace in the boy's soul or how he suffered. When
he went home that afternoon there was a stormy scene. "I told you I
would not sell 'plugged' wheat," he said to his father, raging with
the memory of it, "and, without letting me know, you put it in and
made me out a thief and a liar."
The old man moistened his lips. "Say, Buddie," he said, "it was too
bad you hit young Steadman; he's an overgrown slab of a boy, and I
don't mind you lickin' him, but they'll take the 'law' on ye every
time; and ten dollars was a terrible fine. Maybe they'd have let you
off with five if you'd coaxed them."
"Coax!" said Bud, scornfully. "I wouldn't coax them. What do I care
about the money, anyway? That's not what I'm kicking about."
"Oh, Buddie, you are a reckless young scamp to let ten dollars go in
one snort, and then say you don't care."
With an angry exclamation Bud turned away.
* * *
The next time Bud went to Millford Mrs. Burrell saw him passing the
house and called him in. She had heard an account of the affair from
the wife of the elevator "boss," and had told it to Mr. Burrell, who
promptly declared he did not believe it, whereupon Mrs. Burrell grew
indignant. Did he doubt Mrs. Johnston's word?
Mr. Burrell cautioned her not to speak of it to any one, and went out
at once to see Bud. Mr. Burrell had only been gone a few minutes when
Bud himself came driving past the house. Mrs. Burrell told herself
that Providence had put Bud in her way. Mrs. Burrell blamed
Providence for many things quite unjustly. "Come in, Bud," she called
from the door; "I want to see you."
Bud knew the minister's wife but slightly; he had seen her at the
services in the schoolhouse. He had intended going in to see Mr.
Burrell, for he felt that he must tell some one that he was not
guilty, and he felt that the minister was the one whose opinion he
most valued. So he went in gladly, hoping that Mr. Burrell might be
there.
"Now, Bud," Mrs. Burrell began, with her severest air, "I am sorry to
say what I have to say, but it's all for your own good, and it really
hurts me to say it."
"Don't say it then!" burst from the boy's white lips; he was too sore
to stand any more.
"I must say it, Bud," she went on, as conscientious in her cruelty as
Queen Mary. "You have done very wrong, and you must repent. I could
not sleep a wink last night, thinking of it, and Mr. Burrell did
think so much of, you, too."
"_Did_ think!" Bud inferred from the heavy emphasis that Mr.
Burrell's regard was all past, and he hid his face so that she might
not see how deeply she had hurt him.
"But you are young yet, and your life is all before you, and you must
repent and begin all over again. 'While the lamp of life holds out to
burn, the vilest sinner may return.' You must pray for strength, so
you won't be tempted to be dishonest again, and you really should
apologize to young Mr. Steadman. Mrs. Johnston says his face is very
sore."
Bud looked up quickly and said with flashing eyes: "I'm glad of that.
I wish I had smashed him again--the pup!"
Then Mrs. Burrell was shocked utterly. "My dear boy," she said, "I am
afraid your heart is very hard and wicked. Mr. Burrell thought you
were soundly converted, too, but you seem to be really rebellious
against God, who is kinder and better than any earthly parent. This
is a matter for earnest and agonizing prayer."
Bud stood up and looked at her with eyes that flamed with anger.
Unfortunately Bud, like Martha, was entirely lacking in humour;
otherwise his heart would have been saved many a cruel hurt. "I don't
want your prayers," he said, when he could control himself.
Something in the boy's face touched Mrs. Burrell's heart with pity.
"Perhaps I've been wrong," she said. "I do make mistakes sometimes. I
may have made one now."
"You certainly have," he said, as he took his hat and left the house.
Mrs. Burrell watched him going down the path with his long, swinging
stride, and her heart was strangely troubled. She had a conviction
that she had done no good, and perhaps had done a great deal of harm.
"When I try to do good, evil comes of it," she said sorrowfully, and
then she went to her own room and prayed; and it was an earnest and
agonizing prayer, too; though very different from the prayer she had
in mind when she spoke to Bud, for the burden of it all was this,
that God would in some way overrule all her mistakes for good, and
not let the boy suffer because of any word of hers.
She continued to plead until her heart found peace in the thought
that has comforted so many of us in our sore need, that perhaps when
He sees the faulty, crooked lines we are drawing, the Great Surveyor
will, in His mercy, put in for us, here and there, the correction
lines.
* * *
When Bud drove home that night his thoughts were far too bitter for a
boy of eighteen. A sense of injustice was poisoning the fountains of
his heart, and so, when he met Mr. Burrell, he felt he could stand no
more. The whole world was against him now, he thought, and he would
let them see he didn't care. He would never tell any one now about
the wheat. He would never give away his father; but he would leave
Millford right straight, leave it for ever, so when Mr. Burrell drew
in his horse to speak to him, Bud turned his head and drove rapidly
away. Mr. Burrell went home very sad about it all, wondering if Bud
were really guilty, but determined to stand by him just the same.
When he got home Mrs. Burrell told him about her interview with Bud.
She was thoroughly repentant now, and tearfully declared that she
knew now she had been very unwise.
Mr. Burrell drove back that night to see Bud, but he was too late,
for Bud had gone.
* * *
Arriving at his home, Bud stabled his horses, and then went into the
house. His father was filling bags in the granary, but Bud felt that
he could not bear to see him. He went to his own room and hurriedly
changed his clothes. He had only one thought--to get away--to get
away where no one knew him. In the last few hours the whole world had
changed for him--that Mr. Burrell should so easily believe him guilty
had overflowed his cup of bitterness.
A red and silver scripture text, in the form of a shield, hung on his
bedroom wall; Martha had given it to him, some time ago, and it had
often brought him comfort and inspiration.
"He is able to deliver you," it said.
Bud read it now scornfully, and with a sudden impulse tore it down
and crushed it in his hands. "There's nothing in it," the boy cried
bitterly.
He went out to the pasture and whistled to his pacing colt, which
came to him at once. The boy laid his head on the colt's velvet neck
and patted it lovingly.
"I'll come back for you, Bunko," he said. "You're mine, anyway."
The colt rubbed his head against Bud's arm.
Across the ravine, where the fringed blue gentian looked up from the
sere grass, the cows were grazing, and Bud, from habit, went for them
and brought them up to the bars.
The sun was setting when Bud reached the Cavers's house, for he could
not go without saying good-bye to Libby Anne. She was driving their
two cows in from a straw stack, and called gaily to him when she saw
him coming.
"I've come to say good-bye, Lib," said Bud simply.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I don't know--anywhere to get away from here." Then he told her what
had happened.
"I'm glad you took a smash at Tom Steadman," she said, her big eyes
flashing, when he had finished. Then suddenly she began to cry. "I
don't want you to go," she sobbed. "You won't ever come back; I won't
see you ever again."
"Don't say that, Libby," Bud cried in real distress--she looked so
little and pale in her black dress--"I will come back some time, and
I won't forget my little girl. You're my girl, you know, Lib."
"I'm your girl all right," the child said unsteadily. "But I want you
to stay. I can't make up things like Pearl and Mary Watson can--I can
do some pretendin' games pretty good now, but I can't pretend about
you--I'll know you're gone all the time, Bud," and she caught her
breath in a quivering sob.
Then Bud lifted the little girl in his arms and kissed her over and
over again.
"Don't cry, Libby," he said. "I'm going away to make lots of money,
and you mustn't fret. Every night I want you to say to yourself: 'I'm
Bud's girl, and he won't forget me;' and whenever you get lonely or
downhearted, just say that. Now Libby Anne, tell me who you are."
"I'm Bud's girl, all right," she answered gravely.
The sun had gone down in a crimson haze, and a misty tenderness
seemed to brood over the world. The September evening was so full of
peace and beauty with its muffled tinkle of cowbells and the soft
song of the whippoorwill that came at intervals from the maple bush
on Oak Creek, it was hard to believe that there were troubled hearts
anywhere.
The hoarse whistle of a long freight train on the C. P. R. boomed
harshly through the quiet air. "I must go, Lib," said Bud.
Libby Anne stood looking after him as he went quickly down the road.
The evening twilight soon hid him from her sight, but she still
looked down the winding road until it dipped down in the valley of
Oak Creek.
Suddenly from the river-bank came the weird cry of a prairie wolf,
and Libby Anne, turning with a shudder, ran home in the gathering
dusk.