summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/543-h/543-h.htm
blob: 5902cc05a0ec716dab23763f3188a3bd8678cae4 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500
14501
14502
14503
14504
14505
14506
14507
14508
14509
14510
14511
14512
14513
14514
14515
14516
14517
14518
14519
14520
14521
14522
14523
14524
14525
14526
14527
14528
14529
14530
14531
14532
14533
14534
14535
14536
14537
14538
14539
14540
14541
14542
14543
14544
14545
14546
14547
14548
14549
14550
14551
14552
14553
14554
14555
14556
14557
14558
14559
14560
14561
14562
14563
14564
14565
14566
14567
14568
14569
14570
14571
14572
14573
14574
14575
14576
14577
14578
14579
14580
14581
14582
14583
14584
14585
14586
14587
14588
14589
14590
14591
14592
14593
14594
14595
14596
14597
14598
14599
14600
14601
14602
14603
14604
14605
14606
14607
14608
14609
14610
14611
14612
14613
14614
14615
14616
14617
14618
14619
14620
14621
14622
14623
14624
14625
14626
14627
14628
14629
14630
14631
14632
14633
14634
14635
14636
14637
14638
14639
14640
14641
14642
14643
14644
14645
14646
14647
14648
14649
14650
14651
14652
14653
14654
14655
14656
14657
14658
14659
14660
14661
14662
14663
14664
14665
14666
14667
14668
14669
14670
14671
14672
14673
14674
14675
14676
14677
14678
14679
14680
14681
14682
14683
14684
14685
14686
14687
14688
14689
14690
14691
14692
14693
14694
14695
14696
14697
14698
14699
14700
14701
14702
14703
14704
14705
14706
14707
14708
14709
14710
14711
14712
14713
14714
14715
14716
14717
14718
14719
14720
14721
14722
14723
14724
14725
14726
14727
14728
14729
14730
14731
14732
14733
14734
14735
14736
14737
14738
14739
14740
14741
14742
14743
14744
14745
14746
14747
14748
14749
14750
14751
14752
14753
14754
14755
14756
14757
14758
14759
14760
14761
14762
14763
14764
14765
14766
14767
14768
14769
14770
14771
14772
14773
14774
14775
14776
14777
14778
14779
14780
14781
14782
14783
14784
14785
14786
14787
14788
14789
14790
14791
14792
14793
14794
14795
14796
14797
14798
14799
14800
14801
14802
14803
14804
14805
14806
14807
14808
14809
14810
14811
14812
14813
14814
14815
14816
14817
14818
14819
14820
14821
14822
14823
14824
14825
14826
14827
14828
14829
14830
14831
14832
14833
14834
14835
14836
14837
14838
14839
14840
14841
14842
14843
14844
14845
14846
14847
14848
14849
14850
14851
14852
14853
14854
14855
14856
14857
14858
14859
14860
14861
14862
14863
14864
14865
14866
14867
14868
14869
14870
14871
14872
14873
14874
14875
14876
14877
14878
14879
14880
14881
14882
14883
14884
14885
14886
14887
14888
14889
14890
14891
14892
14893
14894
14895
14896
14897
14898
14899
14900
14901
14902
14903
14904
14905
14906
14907
14908
14909
14910
14911
14912
14913
14914
14915
14916
14917
14918
14919
14920
14921
14922
14923
14924
14925
14926
14927
14928
14929
14930
14931
14932
14933
14934
14935
14936
14937
14938
14939
14940
14941
14942
14943
14944
14945
14946
14947
14948
14949
14950
14951
14952
14953
14954
14955
14956
14957
14958
14959
14960
14961
14962
14963
14964
14965
14966
14967
14968
14969
14970
14971
14972
14973
14974
14975
14976
14977
14978
14979
14980
14981
14982
14983
14984
14985
14986
14987
14988
14989
14990
14991
14992
14993
14994
14995
14996
14997
14998
14999
15000
15001
15002
15003
15004
15005
15006
15007
15008
15009
15010
15011
15012
15013
15014
15015
15016
15017
15018
15019
15020
15021
15022
15023
15024
15025
15026
15027
15028
15029
15030
15031
15032
15033
15034
15035
15036
15037
15038
15039
15040
15041
15042
15043
15044
15045
15046
15047
15048
15049
15050
15051
15052
15053
15054
15055
15056
15057
15058
15059
15060
15061
15062
15063
15064
15065
15066
15067
15068
15069
15070
15071
15072
15073
15074
15075
15076
15077
15078
15079
15080
15081
15082
15083
15084
15085
15086
15087
15088
15089
15090
15091
15092
15093
15094
15095
15096
15097
15098
15099
15100
15101
15102
15103
15104
15105
15106
15107
15108
15109
15110
15111
15112
15113
15114
15115
15116
15117
15118
15119
15120
15121
15122
15123
15124
15125
15126
15127
15128
15129
15130
15131
15132
15133
15134
15135
15136
15137
15138
15139
15140
15141
15142
15143
15144
15145
15146
15147
15148
15149
15150
15151
15152
15153
15154
15155
15156
15157
15158
15159
15160
15161
15162
15163
15164
15165
15166
15167
15168
15169
15170
15171
15172
15173
15174
15175
15176
15177
15178
15179
15180
15181
15182
15183
15184
15185
15186
15187
15188
15189
15190
15191
15192
15193
15194
15195
15196
15197
15198
15199
15200
15201
15202
15203
15204
15205
15206
15207
15208
15209
15210
15211
15212
15213
15214
15215
15216
15217
15218
15219
15220
15221
15222
15223
15224
15225
15226
15227
15228
15229
15230
15231
15232
15233
15234
15235
15236
15237
15238
15239
15240
15241
15242
15243
15244
15245
15246
15247
15248
15249
15250
15251
15252
15253
15254
15255
15256
15257
15258
15259
15260
15261
15262
15263
15264
15265
15266
15267
15268
15269
15270
15271
15272
15273
15274
15275
15276
15277
15278
15279
15280
15281
15282
15283
15284
15285
15286
15287
15288
15289
15290
15291
15292
15293
15294
15295
15296
15297
15298
15299
15300
15301
15302
15303
15304
15305
15306
15307
15308
15309
15310
15311
15312
15313
15314
15315
15316
15317
15318
15319
15320
15321
15322
15323
15324
15325
15326
15327
15328
15329
15330
15331
15332
15333
15334
15335
15336
15337
15338
15339
15340
15341
15342
15343
15344
15345
15346
15347
15348
15349
15350
15351
15352
15353
15354
15355
15356
15357
15358
15359
15360
15361
15362
15363
15364
15365
15366
15367
15368
15369
15370
15371
15372
15373
15374
15375
15376
15377
15378
15379
15380
15381
15382
15383
15384
15385
15386
15387
15388
15389
15390
15391
15392
15393
15394
15395
15396
15397
15398
15399
15400
15401
15402
15403
15404
15405
15406
15407
15408
15409
15410
15411
15412
15413
15414
15415
15416
15417
15418
15419
15420
15421
15422
15423
15424
15425
15426
15427
15428
15429
15430
15431
15432
15433
15434
15435
15436
15437
15438
15439
15440
15441
15442
15443
15444
15445
15446
15447
15448
15449
15450
15451
15452
15453
15454
15455
15456
15457
15458
15459
15460
15461
15462
15463
15464
15465
15466
15467
15468
15469
15470
15471
15472
15473
15474
15475
15476
15477
15478
15479
15480
15481
15482
15483
15484
15485
15486
15487
15488
15489
15490
15491
15492
15493
15494
15495
15496
15497
15498
15499
15500
15501
15502
15503
15504
15505
15506
15507
15508
15509
15510
15511
15512
15513
15514
15515
15516
15517
15518
15519
15520
15521
15522
15523
15524
15525
15526
15527
15528
15529
15530
15531
15532
15533
15534
15535
15536
15537
15538
15539
15540
15541
15542
15543
15544
15545
15546
15547
15548
15549
15550
15551
15552
15553
15554
15555
15556
15557
15558
15559
15560
15561
15562
15563
15564
15565
15566
15567
15568
15569
15570
15571
15572
15573
15574
15575
15576
15577
15578
15579
15580
15581
15582
15583
15584
15585
15586
15587
15588
15589
15590
15591
15592
15593
15594
15595
15596
15597
15598
15599
15600
15601
15602
15603
15604
15605
15606
15607
15608
15609
15610
15611
15612
15613
15614
15615
15616
15617
15618
15619
15620
15621
15622
15623
15624
15625
15626
15627
15628
15629
15630
15631
15632
15633
15634
15635
15636
15637
15638
15639
15640
15641
15642
15643
15644
15645
15646
15647
15648
15649
15650
15651
15652
15653
15654
15655
15656
15657
15658
15659
15660
15661
15662
15663
15664
15665
15666
15667
15668
15669
15670
15671
15672
15673
15674
15675
15676
15677
15678
15679
15680
15681
15682
15683
15684
15685
15686
15687
15688
15689
15690
15691
15692
15693
15694
15695
15696
15697
15698
15699
15700
15701
15702
15703
15704
15705
15706
15707
15708
15709
15710
15711
15712
15713
15714
15715
15716
15717
15718
15719
15720
15721
15722
15723
15724
15725
15726
15727
15728
15729
15730
15731
15732
15733
15734
15735
15736
15737
15738
15739
15740
15741
15742
15743
15744
15745
15746
15747
15748
15749
15750
15751
15752
15753
15754
15755
15756
15757
15758
15759
15760
15761
15762
15763
15764
15765
15766
15767
15768
15769
15770
15771
15772
15773
15774
15775
15776
15777
15778
15779
15780
15781
15782
15783
15784
15785
15786
15787
15788
15789
15790
15791
15792
15793
15794
15795
15796
15797
15798
15799
15800
15801
15802
15803
15804
15805
15806
15807
15808
15809
15810
15811
15812
15813
15814
15815
15816
15817
15818
15819
15820
15821
15822
15823
15824
15825
15826
15827
15828
15829
15830
15831
15832
15833
15834
15835
15836
15837
15838
15839
15840
15841
15842
15843
15844
15845
15846
15847
15848
15849
15850
15851
15852
15853
15854
15855
15856
15857
15858
15859
15860
15861
15862
15863
15864
15865
15866
15867
15868
15869
15870
15871
15872
15873
15874
15875
15876
15877
15878
15879
15880
15881
15882
15883
15884
15885
15886
15887
15888
15889
15890
15891
15892
15893
15894
15895
15896
15897
15898
15899
15900
15901
15902
15903
15904
15905
15906
15907
15908
15909
15910
15911
15912
15913
15914
15915
15916
15917
15918
15919
15920
15921
15922
15923
15924
15925
15926
15927
15928
15929
15930
15931
15932
15933
15934
15935
15936
15937
15938
15939
15940
15941
15942
15943
15944
15945
15946
15947
15948
15949
15950
15951
15952
15953
15954
15955
15956
15957
15958
15959
15960
15961
15962
15963
15964
15965
15966
15967
15968
15969
15970
15971
15972
15973
15974
15975
15976
15977
15978
15979
15980
15981
15982
15983
15984
15985
15986
15987
15988
15989
15990
15991
15992
15993
15994
15995
15996
15997
15998
15999
16000
16001
16002
16003
16004
16005
16006
16007
16008
16009
16010
16011
16012
16013
16014
16015
16016
16017
16018
16019
16020
16021
16022
16023
16024
16025
16026
16027
16028
16029
16030
16031
16032
16033
16034
16035
16036
16037
16038
16039
16040
16041
16042
16043
16044
16045
16046
16047
16048
16049
16050
16051
16052
16053
16054
16055
16056
16057
16058
16059
16060
16061
16062
16063
16064
16065
16066
16067
16068
16069
16070
16071
16072
16073
16074
16075
16076
16077
16078
16079
16080
16081
16082
16083
16084
16085
16086
16087
16088
16089
16090
16091
16092
16093
16094
16095
16096
16097
16098
16099
16100
16101
16102
16103
16104
16105
16106
16107
16108
16109
16110
16111
16112
16113
16114
16115
16116
16117
16118
16119
16120
16121
16122
16123
16124
16125
16126
16127
16128
16129
16130
16131
16132
16133
16134
16135
16136
16137
16138
16139
16140
16141
16142
16143
16144
16145
16146
16147
16148
16149
16150
16151
16152
16153
16154
16155
16156
16157
16158
16159
16160
16161
16162
16163
16164
16165
16166
16167
16168
16169
16170
16171
16172
16173
16174
16175
16176
16177
16178
16179
16180
16181
16182
16183
16184
16185
16186
16187
16188
16189
16190
16191
16192
16193
16194
16195
16196
16197
16198
16199
16200
16201
16202
16203
16204
16205
16206
16207
16208
16209
16210
16211
16212
16213
16214
16215
16216
16217
16218
16219
16220
16221
16222
16223
16224
16225
16226
16227
16228
16229
16230
16231
16232
16233
16234
16235
16236
16237
16238
16239
16240
16241
16242
16243
16244
16245
16246
16247
16248
16249
16250
16251
16252
16253
16254
16255
16256
16257
16258
16259
16260
16261
16262
16263
16264
16265
16266
16267
16268
16269
16270
16271
16272
16273
16274
16275
16276
16277
16278
16279
16280
16281
16282
16283
16284
16285
16286
16287
16288
16289
16290
16291
16292
16293
16294
16295
16296
16297
16298
16299
16300
16301
16302
16303
16304
16305
16306
16307
16308
16309
16310
16311
16312
16313
16314
16315
16316
16317
16318
16319
16320
16321
16322
16323
16324
16325
16326
16327
16328
16329
16330
16331
16332
16333
16334
16335
16336
16337
16338
16339
16340
16341
16342
16343
16344
16345
16346
16347
16348
16349
16350
16351
16352
16353
16354
16355
16356
16357
16358
16359
16360
16361
16362
16363
16364
16365
16366
16367
16368
16369
16370
16371
16372
16373
16374
16375
16376
16377
16378
16379
16380
16381
16382
16383
16384
16385
16386
16387
16388
16389
16390
16391
16392
16393
16394
16395
16396
16397
16398
16399
16400
16401
16402
16403
16404
16405
16406
16407
16408
16409
16410
16411
16412
16413
16414
16415
16416
16417
16418
16419
16420
16421
16422
16423
16424
16425
16426
16427
16428
16429
16430
16431
16432
16433
16434
16435
16436
16437
16438
16439
16440
16441
16442
16443
16444
16445
16446
16447
16448
16449
16450
16451
16452
16453
16454
16455
16456
16457
16458
16459
16460
16461
16462
16463
16464
16465
16466
16467
16468
16469
16470
16471
16472
16473
16474
16475
16476
16477
16478
16479
16480
16481
16482
16483
16484
16485
16486
16487
16488
16489
16490
16491
16492
16493
16494
16495
16496
16497
16498
16499
16500
16501
16502
16503
16504
16505
16506
16507
16508
16509
16510
16511
16512
16513
16514
16515
16516
16517
16518
16519
16520
16521
16522
16523
16524
16525
16526
16527
16528
16529
16530
16531
16532
16533
16534
16535
16536
16537
16538
16539
16540
16541
16542
16543
16544
16545
16546
16547
16548
16549
16550
16551
16552
16553
16554
16555
16556
16557
16558
16559
16560
16561
16562
16563
16564
16565
16566
16567
16568
16569
16570
16571
16572
16573
16574
16575
16576
16577
16578
16579
16580
16581
16582
16583
16584
16585
16586
16587
16588
16589
16590
16591
16592
16593
16594
16595
16596
16597
16598
16599
16600
16601
16602
16603
16604
16605
16606
16607
16608
16609
16610
16611
16612
16613
16614
16615
16616
16617
16618
16619
16620
16621
16622
16623
16624
16625
16626
16627
16628
16629
16630
16631
16632
16633
16634
16635
16636
16637
16638
16639
16640
16641
16642
16643
16644
16645
16646
16647
16648
16649
16650
16651
16652
16653
16654
16655
16656
16657
16658
16659
16660
16661
16662
16663
16664
16665
16666
16667
16668
16669
16670
16671
16672
16673
16674
16675
16676
16677
16678
16679
16680
16681
16682
16683
16684
16685
16686
16687
16688
16689
16690
16691
16692
16693
16694
16695
16696
16697
16698
16699
16700
16701
16702
16703
16704
16705
16706
16707
16708
16709
16710
16711
16712
16713
16714
16715
16716
16717
16718
16719
16720
16721
16722
16723
16724
16725
16726
16727
16728
16729
16730
16731
16732
16733
16734
16735
16736
16737
16738
16739
16740
16741
16742
16743
16744
16745
16746
16747
16748
16749
16750
16751
16752
16753
16754
16755
16756
16757
16758
16759
16760
16761
16762
16763
16764
16765
16766
16767
16768
16769
16770
16771
16772
16773
16774
16775
16776
16777
16778
16779
16780
16781
16782
16783
16784
16785
16786
16787
16788
16789
16790
16791
16792
16793
16794
16795
16796
16797
16798
16799
16800
16801
16802
16803
16804
16805
16806
16807
16808
16809
16810
16811
16812
16813
16814
16815
16816
16817
16818
16819
16820
16821
16822
16823
16824
16825
16826
16827
16828
16829
16830
16831
16832
16833
16834
16835
16836
16837
16838
16839
16840
16841
16842
16843
16844
16845
16846
16847
16848
16849
16850
16851
16852
16853
16854
16855
16856
16857
16858
16859
16860
16861
16862
16863
16864
16865
16866
16867
16868
16869
16870
16871
16872
16873
16874
16875
16876
16877
16878
16879
16880
16881
16882
16883
16884
16885
16886
16887
16888
16889
16890
16891
16892
16893
16894
16895
16896
16897
16898
16899
16900
16901
16902
16903
16904
16905
16906
16907
16908
16909
16910
16911
16912
16913
16914
16915
16916
16917
16918
16919
16920
16921
16922
16923
16924
16925
16926
16927
16928
16929
16930
16931
16932
16933
16934
16935
16936
16937
16938
16939
16940
16941
16942
16943
16944
16945
16946
16947
16948
16949
16950
16951
16952
16953
16954
16955
16956
16957
16958
16959
16960
16961
16962
16963
16964
16965
16966
16967
16968
16969
16970
16971
16972
16973
16974
16975
16976
16977
16978
16979
16980
16981
16982
16983
16984
16985
16986
16987
16988
16989
16990
16991
16992
16993
16994
16995
16996
16997
16998
16999
17000
17001
17002
17003
17004
17005
17006
17007
17008
17009
17010
17011
17012
17013
17014
17015
17016
17017
17018
17019
17020
17021
17022
17023
17024
17025
17026
17027
17028
17029
17030
17031
17032
17033
17034
17035
17036
17037
17038
17039
17040
17041
17042
17043
17044
17045
17046
17047
17048
17049
17050
17051
17052
17053
17054
17055
17056
17057
17058
17059
17060
17061
17062
17063
17064
17065
17066
17067
17068
17069
17070
17071
17072
17073
17074
17075
17076
17077
17078
17079
17080
17081
17082
17083
17084
17085
17086
17087
17088
17089
17090
17091
17092
17093
17094
17095
17096
17097
17098
17099
17100
17101
17102
17103
17104
17105
17106
17107
17108
17109
17110
17111
17112
17113
17114
17115
17116
17117
17118
17119
17120
17121
17122
17123
17124
17125
17126
17127
17128
17129
17130
17131
17132
17133
17134
17135
17136
17137
17138
17139
17140
17141
17142
17143
17144
17145
17146
17147
17148
17149
17150
17151
17152
17153
17154
17155
17156
17157
17158
17159
17160
17161
17162
17163
17164
17165
17166
17167
17168
17169
17170
17171
17172
17173
17174
17175
17176
17177
17178
17179
17180
17181
17182
17183
17184
17185
17186
17187
17188
17189
17190
17191
17192
17193
17194
17195
17196
17197
17198
17199
17200
17201
17202
17203
17204
17205
17206
17207
17208
17209
17210
17211
17212
17213
17214
17215
17216
17217
17218
17219
17220
17221
17222
17223
17224
17225
17226
17227
17228
17229
17230
17231
17232
17233
17234
17235
17236
17237
17238
17239
17240
17241
17242
17243
17244
17245
17246
17247
17248
17249
17250
17251
17252
17253
17254
17255
17256
17257
17258
17259
17260
17261
17262
17263
17264
17265
17266
17267
17268
17269
17270
17271
17272
17273
17274
17275
17276
17277
17278
17279
17280
17281
17282
17283
17284
17285
17286
17287
17288
17289
17290
17291
17292
17293
17294
17295
17296
17297
17298
17299
17300
17301
17302
17303
17304
17305
17306
17307
17308
17309
17310
17311
17312
17313
17314
17315
17316
17317
17318
17319
17320
17321
17322
17323
17324
17325
17326
17327
17328
17329
17330
17331
17332
17333
17334
17335
17336
17337
17338
17339
17340
17341
17342
17343
17344
17345
17346
17347
17348
17349
17350
17351
17352
17353
17354
17355
17356
17357
17358
17359
17360
17361
17362
17363
17364
17365
17366
17367
17368
17369
17370
17371
17372
17373
17374
17375
17376
17377
17378
17379
17380
17381
17382
17383
17384
17385
17386
17387
17388
17389
17390
17391
17392
17393
17394
17395
17396
17397
17398
17399
17400
17401
17402
17403
17404
17405
17406
17407
17408
17409
17410
17411
17412
17413
17414
17415
17416
17417
17418
17419
17420
17421
17422
17423
17424
17425
17426
17427
17428
17429
17430
17431
17432
17433
17434
17435
17436
17437
17438
17439
17440
17441
17442
17443
17444
17445
17446
17447
17448
17449
17450
17451
17452
17453
17454
17455
17456
17457
17458
17459
17460
17461
17462
17463
17464
17465
17466
17467
17468
17469
17470
17471
17472
17473
17474
17475
17476
17477
17478
17479
17480
17481
17482
17483
17484
17485
17486
17487
17488
17489
17490
17491
17492
17493
17494
17495
17496
17497
17498
17499
17500
17501
17502
17503
17504
17505
17506
17507
17508
17509
17510
17511
17512
17513
17514
17515
17516
17517
17518
17519
17520
17521
17522
17523
17524
17525
17526
17527
17528
17529
17530
17531
17532
17533
17534
17535
17536
17537
17538
17539
17540
17541
17542
17543
17544
17545
17546
17547
17548
17549
17550
17551
17552
17553
17554
17555
17556
17557
17558
17559
17560
17561
17562
17563
17564
17565
17566
17567
17568
17569
17570
17571
17572
17573
17574
17575
17576
17577
17578
17579
17580
17581
17582
17583
17584
17585
17586
17587
17588
17589
17590
17591
17592
17593
17594
17595
17596
17597
17598
17599
17600
17601
17602
17603
17604
17605
17606
17607
17608
17609
17610
17611
17612
17613
17614
17615
17616
17617
17618
17619
17620
17621
17622
17623
17624
17625
17626
17627
17628
17629
17630
17631
17632
17633
17634
17635
17636
17637
17638
17639
17640
17641
17642
17643
17644
17645
17646
17647
17648
17649
17650
17651
17652
17653
17654
17655
17656
17657
17658
17659
17660
17661
17662
17663
17664
17665
17666
17667
17668
17669
17670
17671
17672
17673
17674
17675
17676
17677
17678
17679
17680
17681
17682
17683
17684
17685
17686
17687
17688
17689
17690
17691
17692
17693
17694
17695
17696
17697
17698
17699
17700
17701
17702
17703
17704
17705
17706
17707
17708
17709
17710
17711
17712
17713
17714
17715
17716
17717
17718
17719
17720
17721
17722
17723
17724
17725
17726
17727
17728
17729
17730
17731
17732
17733
17734
17735
17736
17737
17738
17739
17740
17741
17742
17743
17744
17745
17746
17747
17748
17749
17750
17751
17752
17753
17754
17755
17756
17757
17758
17759
17760
17761
17762
17763
17764
17765
17766
17767
17768
17769
17770
17771
17772
17773
17774
17775
17776
17777
17778
17779
17780
17781
17782
17783
17784
17785
17786
17787
17788
17789
17790
17791
17792
17793
17794
17795
17796
17797
17798
17799
17800
17801
17802
17803
17804
17805
17806
17807
17808
17809
17810
17811
17812
17813
17814
17815
17816
17817
17818
17819
17820
17821
17822
17823
17824
17825
17826
17827
17828
17829
17830
17831
17832
17833
17834
17835
17836
17837
17838
17839
17840
17841
17842
17843
17844
17845
17846
17847
17848
17849
17850
17851
17852
17853
17854
17855
17856
17857
17858
17859
17860
17861
17862
17863
17864
17865
17866
17867
17868
17869
17870
17871
17872
17873
17874
17875
17876
17877
17878
17879
17880
17881
17882
17883
17884
17885
17886
17887
17888
17889
17890
17891
17892
17893
17894
17895
17896
17897
17898
17899
17900
17901
17902
17903
17904
17905
17906
17907
17908
17909
17910
17911
17912
17913
17914
17915
17916
17917
17918
17919
17920
17921
17922
17923
17924
17925
17926
17927
17928
17929
17930
17931
17932
17933
17934
17935
17936
17937
17938
17939
17940
17941
17942
17943
17944
17945
17946
17947
17948
17949
17950
17951
17952
17953
17954
17955
17956
17957
17958
17959
17960
17961
17962
17963
17964
17965
17966
17967
17968
17969
17970
17971
17972
17973
17974
17975
17976
17977
17978
17979
17980
17981
17982
17983
17984
17985
17986
17987
17988
17989
17990
17991
17992
17993
17994
17995
17996
17997
17998
17999
18000
18001
18002
18003
18004
18005
18006
18007
18008
18009
18010
18011
18012
18013
18014
18015
18016
18017
18018
18019
18020
18021
18022
18023
18024
18025
18026
18027
18028
18029
18030
18031
18032
18033
18034
18035
18036
18037
18038
18039
18040
18041
18042
18043
18044
18045
18046
18047
18048
18049
18050
18051
18052
18053
18054
18055
18056
18057
18058
18059
18060
18061
18062
18063
18064
18065
18066
18067
18068
18069
18070
18071
18072
18073
18074
18075
18076
18077
18078
18079
18080
18081
18082
18083
18084
18085
18086
18087
18088
18089
18090
18091
18092
18093
18094
18095
18096
18097
18098
18099
18100
18101
18102
18103
18104
18105
18106
18107
18108
18109
18110
18111
18112
18113
18114
18115
18116
18117
18118
18119
18120
18121
18122
18123
18124
18125
18126
18127
18128
18129
18130
18131
18132
18133
18134
18135
18136
18137
18138
18139
18140
18141
18142
18143
18144
18145
18146
18147
18148
18149
18150
18151
18152
18153
18154
18155
18156
18157
18158
18159
18160
18161
18162
18163
18164
18165
18166
18167
18168
18169
18170
18171
18172
18173
18174
18175
18176
18177
18178
18179
18180
18181
18182
18183
18184
18185
18186
18187
18188
18189
18190
18191
18192
18193
18194
18195
18196
18197
18198
18199
18200
18201
18202
18203
18204
18205
18206
18207
18208
18209
18210
18211
18212
18213
18214
18215
18216
18217
18218
18219
18220
18221
18222
18223
18224
18225
18226
18227
18228
18229
18230
18231
18232
18233
18234
18235
18236
18237
18238
18239
18240
18241
18242
18243
18244
18245
18246
18247
18248
18249
18250
18251
18252
18253
18254
18255
18256
18257
18258
18259
18260
18261
18262
18263
18264
18265
18266
18267
18268
18269
18270
18271
18272
18273
18274
18275
18276
18277
18278
18279
18280
18281
18282
18283
18284
18285
18286
18287
18288
18289
18290
18291
18292
18293
18294
18295
18296
18297
18298
18299
18300
18301
18302
18303
18304
18305
18306
18307
18308
18309
18310
18311
18312
18313
18314
18315
18316
18317
18318
18319
18320
18321
18322
18323
18324
18325
18326
18327
18328
18329
18330
18331
18332
18333
18334
18335
18336
18337
18338
18339
18340
18341
18342
18343
18344
18345
18346
18347
18348
18349
18350
18351
18352
18353
18354
18355
18356
18357
18358
18359
18360
18361
18362
18363
18364
18365
18366
18367
18368
18369
18370
18371
18372
18373
18374
18375
18376
18377
18378
18379
18380
18381
18382
18383
18384
18385
18386
18387
18388
18389
18390
18391
18392
18393
18394
18395
18396
18397
18398
18399
18400
18401
18402
18403
18404
18405
18406
18407
18408
18409
18410
18411
18412
18413
18414
18415
18416
18417
18418
18419
18420
18421
18422
18423
18424
18425
18426
18427
18428
18429
18430
18431
18432
18433
18434
18435
18436
18437
18438
18439
18440
18441
18442
18443
18444
18445
18446
18447
18448
18449
18450
18451
18452
18453
18454
18455
18456
18457
18458
18459
18460
18461
18462
18463
18464
18465
18466
18467
18468
18469
18470
18471
18472
18473
18474
18475
18476
18477
18478
18479
18480
18481
18482
18483
18484
18485
18486
18487
18488
18489
18490
18491
18492
18493
18494
18495
18496
18497
18498
18499
18500
18501
18502
18503
18504
18505
18506
18507
18508
18509
18510
18511
18512
18513
18514
18515
18516
18517
18518
18519
18520
18521
18522
18523
18524
18525
18526
18527
18528
18529
18530
18531
18532
18533
18534
18535
18536
18537
18538
18539
18540
18541
18542
18543
18544
18545
18546
18547
18548
18549
18550
18551
18552
18553
18554
18555
18556
18557
18558
18559
18560
18561
18562
18563
18564
18565
18566
18567
18568
18569
18570
18571
18572
18573
18574
18575
18576
18577
18578
18579
18580
18581
18582
18583
18584
18585
18586
18587
18588
18589
18590
18591
18592
18593
18594
18595
18596
18597
18598
18599
18600
18601
18602
18603
18604
18605
18606
18607
18608
18609
18610
18611
18612
18613
18614
18615
18616
18617
18618
18619
18620
18621
18622
18623
18624
18625
18626
18627
18628
18629
18630
18631
18632
18633
18634
18635
18636
18637
18638
18639
18640
18641
18642
18643
18644
18645
18646
18647
18648
18649
18650
18651
18652
18653
18654
18655
18656
18657
18658
18659
18660
18661
18662
18663
18664
18665
18666
18667
18668
18669
18670
18671
18672
18673
18674
18675
18676
18677
18678
18679
18680
18681
18682
18683
18684
18685
18686
18687
18688
18689
18690
18691
18692
18693
18694
18695
18696
18697
18698
18699
18700
18701
18702
18703
18704
18705
18706
18707
18708
18709
18710
18711
18712
18713
18714
18715
18716
18717
18718
18719
18720
18721
18722
18723
18724
18725
18726
18727
18728
18729
18730
18731
18732
18733
18734
18735
18736
18737
18738
18739
18740
18741
18742
18743
18744
18745
18746
18747
18748
18749
18750
18751
18752
18753
18754
18755
18756
18757
18758
18759
18760
18761
18762
18763
18764
18765
18766
18767
18768
18769
18770
18771
18772
18773
18774
18775
18776
18777
18778
18779
18780
18781
18782
18783
18784
18785
18786
18787
18788
18789
18790
18791
18792
18793
18794
18795
18796
18797
18798
18799
18800
18801
18802
18803
18804
18805
18806
18807
18808
18809
18810
18811
18812
18813
18814
18815
18816
18817
18818
18819
18820
18821
18822
18823
18824
18825
18826
18827
18828
18829
18830
18831
18832
18833
18834
18835
18836
18837
18838
18839
18840
18841
18842
18843
18844
18845
18846
18847
18848
18849
18850
18851
18852
18853
18854
18855
18856
18857
18858
18859
18860
18861
18862
18863
18864
18865
18866
18867
18868
18869
18870
18871
18872
18873
18874
18875
18876
18877
18878
18879
18880
18881
18882
18883
18884
18885
18886
18887
18888
18889
18890
18891
18892
18893
18894
18895
18896
18897
18898
18899
18900
18901
18902
18903
18904
18905
18906
18907
18908
18909
18910
18911
18912
18913
18914
18915
18916
18917
18918
18919
18920
18921
18922
18923
18924
18925
18926
18927
18928
18929
18930
18931
18932
18933
18934
18935
18936
18937
18938
18939
18940
18941
18942
18943
18944
18945
18946
18947
18948
18949
18950
18951
18952
18953
18954
18955
18956
18957
18958
18959
18960
18961
18962
18963
18964
18965
18966
18967
18968
18969
18970
18971
18972
18973
18974
18975
18976
18977
18978
18979
18980
18981
18982
18983
18984
18985
18986
18987
18988
18989
18990
18991
18992
18993
18994
18995
18996
18997
18998
18999
19000
19001
19002
19003
19004
19005
19006
19007
19008
19009
19010
19011
19012
19013
19014
19015
19016
19017
19018
19019
19020
19021
19022
19023
19024
19025
19026
19027
19028
19029
19030
19031
19032
19033
19034
19035
19036
19037
19038
19039
19040
19041
19042
19043
19044
19045
19046
19047
19048
19049
19050
19051
19052
19053
19054
19055
19056
19057
19058
19059
19060
19061
19062
19063
19064
19065
19066
19067
19068
19069
19070
19071
19072
19073
19074
19075
19076
19077
19078
19079
19080
19081
19082
19083
19084
19085
19086
19087
19088
19089
19090
19091
19092
19093
19094
19095
19096
19097
19098
19099
19100
19101
19102
19103
19104
19105
19106
19107
19108
19109
19110
19111
19112
19113
19114
19115
19116
19117
19118
19119
19120
19121
19122
19123
19124
19125
19126
19127
19128
19129
19130
19131
19132
19133
19134
19135
19136
19137
19138
19139
19140
19141
19142
19143
19144
19145
19146
19147
19148
19149
19150
19151
19152
19153
19154
19155
19156
19157
19158
19159
19160
19161
19162
19163
19164
19165
19166
19167
19168
19169
19170
19171
19172
19173
19174
19175
19176
19177
19178
19179
19180
19181
19182
19183
19184
19185
19186
19187
19188
19189
19190
19191
19192
19193
19194
19195
19196
19197
19198
19199
19200
19201
19202
19203
19204
19205
19206
19207
19208
19209
19210
19211
19212
19213
19214
19215
19216
19217
19218
19219
19220
19221
19222
19223
19224
19225
19226
19227
19228
19229
19230
19231
19232
19233
19234
19235
19236
19237
19238
19239
19240
19241
19242
19243
19244
19245
19246
19247
19248
19249
19250
19251
19252
19253
19254
19255
19256
19257
19258
19259
19260
19261
19262
19263
19264
19265
19266
19267
19268
19269
19270
19271
19272
19273
19274
19275
19276
19277
19278
19279
19280
19281
19282
19283
19284
19285
19286
19287
19288
19289
19290
19291
19292
19293
19294
19295
19296
19297
19298
19299
19300
19301
19302
19303
19304
19305
19306
19307
19308
19309
19310
19311
19312
19313
19314
19315
19316
19317
19318
19319
19320
19321
19322
19323
19324
19325
19326
19327
19328
19329
19330
19331
19332
19333
19334
19335
19336
19337
19338
19339
19340
19341
19342
19343
19344
19345
19346
19347
19348
19349
19350
19351
19352
19353
19354
19355
19356
19357
19358
19359
19360
19361
19362
19363
19364
19365
19366
19367
19368
19369
19370
19371
19372
19373
19374
19375
19376
19377
19378
19379
19380
19381
19382
19383
19384
19385
19386
19387
19388
19389
19390
19391
19392
19393
19394
19395
19396
19397
19398
19399
19400
19401
19402
19403
19404
19405
19406
19407
19408
19409
19410
19411
19412
19413
19414
19415
19416
19417
19418
19419
19420
19421
19422
19423
19424
19425
19426
19427
19428
19429
19430
19431
19432
19433
19434
19435
19436
19437
19438
19439
19440
19441
19442
19443
19444
19445
19446
19447
19448
19449
19450
19451
19452
19453
19454
19455
19456
19457
19458
19459
19460
19461
19462
19463
19464
19465
19466
19467
19468
19469
19470
19471
19472
19473
19474
19475
19476
19477
19478
19479
19480
19481
19482
19483
19484
19485
19486
19487
19488
19489
19490
19491
19492
19493
19494
19495
19496
19497
19498
19499
19500
19501
19502
19503
19504
19505
19506
19507
19508
19509
19510
19511
19512
19513
19514
19515
19516
19517
19518
19519
19520
19521
19522
19523
19524
19525
19526
19527
19528
19529
19530
19531
19532
19533
19534
19535
19536
19537
19538
19539
19540
19541
19542
19543
19544
19545
19546
19547
19548
19549
19550
19551
19552
19553
19554
19555
19556
19557
19558
19559
19560
19561
19562
19563
19564
19565
19566
19567
19568
19569
19570
19571
19572
19573
19574
19575
19576
19577
19578
19579
19580
19581
19582
19583
19584
19585
19586
19587
19588
19589
19590
19591
19592
19593
19594
19595
19596
19597
19598
19599
19600
19601
19602
19603
19604
19605
19606
19607
19608
19609
19610
19611
19612
19613
19614
19615
19616
19617
19618
19619
19620
19621
19622
19623
19624
19625
19626
19627
19628
19629
19630
19631
19632
19633
19634
19635
19636
19637
19638
19639
19640
19641
19642
19643
19644
19645
19646
19647
19648
19649
19650
19651
19652
19653
19654
19655
19656
19657
19658
19659
19660
19661
19662
19663
19664
19665
19666
19667
19668
19669
19670
19671
19672
19673
19674
19675
19676
19677
19678
19679
19680
19681
19682
19683
19684
19685
19686
19687
19688
19689
19690
19691
19692
19693
19694
19695
19696
19697
19698
19699
19700
19701
19702
19703
19704
19705
19706
19707
19708
19709
19710
19711
19712
19713
19714
19715
19716
19717
19718
19719
19720
19721
19722
19723
19724
19725
19726
19727
19728
19729
19730
19731
19732
19733
19734
19735
19736
19737
19738
19739
19740
19741
19742
19743
19744
19745
19746
19747
19748
19749
19750
19751
19752
19753
19754
19755
19756
19757
19758
19759
19760
19761
19762
19763
19764
19765
19766
19767
19768
19769
19770
19771
19772
19773
19774
19775
19776
19777
19778
19779
19780
19781
19782
19783
19784
19785
19786
19787
19788
19789
19790
19791
19792
19793
19794
19795
19796
19797
19798
19799
19800
19801
19802
19803
19804
19805
19806
19807
19808
19809
19810
19811
19812
19813
19814
19815
19816
19817
19818
19819
19820
19821
19822
19823
19824
19825
19826
19827
19828
19829
19830
19831
19832
19833
19834
19835
19836
19837
19838
19839
19840
19841
19842
19843
19844
19845
19846
19847
19848
19849
19850
19851
19852
19853
19854
19855
19856
19857
19858
19859
19860
19861
19862
19863
19864
19865
19866
19867
19868
19869
19870
19871
19872
19873
19874
19875
19876
19877
19878
19879
19880
19881
19882
19883
19884
19885
19886
19887
19888
19889
19890
19891
19892
19893
19894
19895
19896
19897
19898
19899
19900
19901
19902
19903
19904
19905
19906
19907
19908
19909
19910
19911
19912
19913
19914
19915
19916
19917
19918
19919
19920
19921
19922
19923
19924
19925
19926
19927
19928
19929
19930
19931
19932
19933
19934
19935
19936
19937
19938
19939
19940
19941
19942
19943
19944
19945
19946
19947
19948
19949
19950
19951
19952
19953
19954
19955
19956
19957
19958
19959
19960
19961
19962
19963
19964
19965
19966
19967
19968
19969
19970
19971
19972
19973
19974
19975
19976
19977
19978
19979
19980
19981
19982
19983
19984
19985
19986
19987
19988
19989
19990
19991
19992
19993
19994
19995
19996
19997
19998
19999
20000
20001
20002
20003
20004
20005
20006
20007
20008
20009
20010
20011
20012
20013
20014
20015
20016
20017
20018
20019
20020
20021
20022
20023
20024
20025
20026
20027
20028
20029
20030
20031
20032
20033
20034
20035
20036
20037
20038
20039
20040
20041
20042
20043
20044
20045
20046
20047
20048
20049
20050
20051
20052
20053
20054
20055
20056
20057
20058
20059
20060
20061
20062
20063
20064
20065
20066
20067
20068
20069
20070
20071
20072
20073
20074
20075
20076
20077
20078
20079
20080
20081
20082
20083
20084
20085
20086
20087
20088
20089
20090
20091
20092
20093
20094
20095
20096
20097
20098
20099
20100
20101
20102
20103
20104
20105
20106
20107
20108
20109
20110
20111
20112
20113
20114
20115
20116
20117
20118
20119
20120
20121
20122
20123
20124
20125
20126
20127
20128
20129
20130
20131
20132
20133
20134
20135
20136
20137
20138
20139
20140
20141
20142
20143
20144
20145
20146
20147
20148
20149
20150
20151
20152
20153
20154
20155
20156
20157
20158
20159
20160
20161
20162
20163
20164
20165
20166
20167
20168
20169
20170
20171
20172
20173
20174
20175
20176
20177
20178
20179
20180
20181
20182
20183
20184
20185
20186
20187
20188
20189
20190
20191
20192
20193
20194
20195
20196
20197
20198
20199
20200
20201
20202
20203
20204
20205
20206
20207
20208
20209
20210
20211
20212
20213
20214
20215
20216
20217
20218
20219
20220
20221
20222
20223
20224
20225
20226
20227
20228
20229
20230
20231
20232
20233
20234
20235
20236
20237
20238
20239
20240
20241
20242
20243
20244
20245
20246
20247
20248
20249
20250
20251
20252
20253
20254
20255
20256
20257
20258
20259
20260
20261
20262
20263
20264
20265
20266
20267
20268
20269
20270
20271
20272
20273
20274
20275
20276
20277
20278
20279
20280
20281
20282
20283
20284
20285
20286
20287
20288
20289
20290
20291
20292
20293
20294
20295
20296
20297
20298
20299
20300
20301
20302
20303
20304
20305
20306
20307
20308
20309
20310
20311
20312
20313
20314
20315
20316
20317
20318
20319
20320
20321
20322
20323
20324
20325
20326
20327
20328
20329
20330
20331
20332
20333
20334
20335
20336
20337
20338
20339
20340
20341
20342
20343
20344
20345
20346
20347
20348
20349
20350
20351
20352
20353
20354
20355
20356
20357
20358
20359
20360
20361
20362
20363
20364
20365
20366
20367
20368
20369
20370
20371
20372
20373
20374
20375
20376
20377
20378
20379
20380
20381
20382
20383
20384
20385
20386
20387
20388
20389
20390
20391
20392
20393
20394
20395
20396
20397
20398
20399
20400
20401
20402
20403
20404
20405
20406
20407
20408
20409
20410
20411
20412
20413
20414
20415
20416
20417
20418
20419
20420
20421
20422
20423
20424
20425
20426
20427
20428
20429
20430
20431
20432
20433
20434
20435
20436
20437
20438
20439
20440
20441
20442
20443
20444
20445
20446
20447
20448
20449
20450
20451
20452
20453
20454
20455
20456
20457
20458
20459
20460
20461
20462
20463
20464
20465
20466
20467
20468
20469
20470
20471
20472
20473
20474
20475
20476
20477
20478
20479
20480
20481
20482
20483
20484
20485
20486
20487
20488
20489
20490
20491
20492
20493
20494
20495
20496
20497
20498
20499
20500
20501
20502
20503
20504
20505
20506
20507
20508
20509
20510
20511
20512
20513
20514
20515
20516
20517
20518
20519
20520
20521
20522
20523
20524
20525
20526
20527
20528
20529
20530
20531
20532
20533
20534
20535
20536
20537
20538
20539
20540
20541
20542
20543
20544
20545
20546
20547
20548
20549
20550
20551
20552
20553
20554
20555
20556
20557
20558
20559
20560
20561
20562
20563
20564
20565
20566
20567
20568
20569
20570
20571
20572
20573
20574
20575
20576
20577
20578
20579
20580
20581
20582
20583
20584
20585
20586
20587
20588
20589
20590
20591
20592
20593
20594
20595
20596
20597
20598
20599
20600
20601
20602
20603
20604
20605
20606
20607
20608
20609
20610
20611
20612
20613
20614
20615
20616
20617
20618
20619
20620
20621
20622
20623
20624
20625
20626
20627
20628
20629
20630
20631
20632
20633
20634
20635
20636
20637
20638
20639
20640
20641
20642
20643
20644
20645
20646
20647
20648
20649
20650
20651
20652
20653
20654
20655
20656
20657
20658
20659
20660
20661
20662
20663
20664
20665
20666
20667
20668
20669
20670
20671
20672
20673
20674
20675
20676
20677
20678
20679
20680
20681
20682
20683
20684
20685
20686
20687
20688
20689
20690
20691
20692
20693
20694
20695
20696
20697
20698
20699
20700
20701
20702
20703
20704
20705
20706
20707
20708
20709
20710
20711
20712
20713
20714
20715
20716
20717
20718
20719
20720
20721
20722
20723
20724
20725
20726
20727
20728
20729
20730
20731
20732
20733
20734
20735
20736
20737
20738
20739
20740
20741
20742
20743
20744
20745
20746
20747
20748
20749
20750
20751
20752
20753
20754
20755
20756
20757
20758
20759
20760
20761
20762
20763
20764
20765
20766
20767
20768
20769
20770
20771
20772
20773
20774
20775
20776
20777
20778
20779
20780
20781
20782
20783
20784
20785
20786
20787
20788
20789
20790
20791
20792
20793
20794
20795
20796
20797
20798
20799
20800
20801
20802
20803
20804
20805
20806
20807
20808
20809
20810
20811
20812
20813
20814
20815
20816
20817
20818
20819
20820
20821
20822
20823
20824
20825
20826
20827
20828
20829
20830
20831
20832
20833
20834
20835
20836
20837
20838
20839
20840
20841
20842
20843
20844
20845
20846
20847
20848
20849
20850
20851
20852
20853
20854
20855
20856
20857
20858
20859
20860
20861
20862
20863
20864
20865
20866
20867
20868
20869
20870
20871
20872
20873
20874
20875
20876
20877
20878
20879
20880
20881
20882
20883
20884
20885
20886
20887
20888
20889
20890
20891
20892
20893
20894
20895
20896
20897
20898
20899
20900
20901
20902
20903
20904
20905
20906
20907
20908
20909
20910
20911
20912
20913
20914
20915
20916
20917
20918
20919
20920
20921
20922
20923
20924
20925
20926
20927
20928
20929
20930
20931
20932
20933
20934
20935
20936
20937
20938
20939
20940
20941
20942
20943
20944
20945
20946
20947
20948
20949
20950
20951
20952
20953
20954
20955
20956
20957
20958
20959
20960
20961
20962
20963
20964
20965
20966
20967
20968
20969
20970
20971
20972
20973
20974
20975
20976
20977
20978
20979
20980
20981
20982
20983
20984
20985
20986
20987
20988
20989
20990
20991
20992
20993
20994
20995
20996
20997
20998
20999
21000
21001
21002
21003
21004
21005
21006
21007
21008
21009
21010
21011
21012
21013
21014
21015
21016
21017
21018
21019
21020
21021
21022
21023
21024
21025
21026
21027
21028
21029
21030
21031
21032
21033
21034
21035
21036
21037
21038
21039
21040
21041
21042
21043
21044
21045
21046
21047
21048
21049
21050
21051
21052
21053
21054
21055
21056
21057
21058
21059
21060
21061
21062
21063
21064
21065
21066
21067
21068
21069
21070
21071
21072
21073
21074
21075
21076
21077
21078
21079
21080
21081
21082
21083
21084
21085
21086
21087
21088
21089
21090
21091
21092
21093
21094
21095
21096
21097
21098
21099
21100
21101
21102
21103
21104
21105
21106
21107
21108
21109
21110
21111
21112
21113
21114
21115
21116
21117
21118
21119
21120
21121
21122
21123
21124
21125
21126
21127
21128
21129
21130
21131
21132
21133
21134
21135
21136
21137
21138
21139
21140
21141
21142
21143
21144
21145
21146
21147
21148
21149
21150
21151
21152
21153
21154
21155
21156
21157
21158
21159
21160
21161
21162
21163
21164
21165
21166
21167
21168
21169
21170
21171
21172
21173
21174
21175
21176
21177
21178
21179
21180
21181
21182
21183
21184
21185
21186
21187
21188
21189
21190
21191
21192
21193
21194
21195
21196
21197
21198
21199
21200
21201
21202
21203
21204
21205
21206
21207
21208
21209
21210
21211
21212
21213
21214
21215
21216
21217
21218
21219
21220
21221
21222
21223
21224
21225
21226
21227
21228
21229
21230
21231
21232
21233
21234
21235
21236
21237
21238
21239
21240
21241
21242
21243
21244
21245
21246
21247
21248
21249
21250
21251
21252
21253
21254
21255
21256
21257
21258
21259
21260
21261
21262
21263
21264
21265
21266
21267
21268
21269
21270
21271
21272
21273
21274
21275
21276
21277
21278
21279
21280
21281
21282
21283
21284
21285
21286
21287
21288
21289
21290
21291
21292
21293
21294
21295
21296
21297
21298
21299
21300
21301
21302
21303
21304
21305
21306
21307
21308
21309
21310
21311
21312
21313
21314
21315
21316
21317
21318
21319
21320
21321
21322
21323
21324
21325
21326
21327
21328
21329
21330
21331
21332
21333
21334
21335
21336
21337
21338
21339
21340
21341
21342
21343
21344
21345
21346
21347
21348
21349
21350
21351
21352
21353
21354
21355
21356
21357
21358
21359
21360
21361
21362
21363
21364
21365
21366
21367
21368
21369
21370
21371
21372
21373
21374
21375
21376
21377
21378
21379
21380
21381
21382
21383
21384
21385
21386
21387
21388
21389
21390
21391
21392
21393
21394
21395
21396
21397
21398
21399
21400
21401
21402
21403
21404
21405
21406
21407
21408
21409
21410
21411
21412
21413
21414
21415
21416
21417
21418
21419
21420
21421
21422
21423
21424
21425
21426
21427
21428
21429
21430
21431
21432
21433
21434
21435
21436
21437
21438
21439
21440
21441
21442
21443
21444
21445
21446
21447
21448
21449
21450
21451
21452
21453
21454
21455
21456
21457
21458
21459
21460
21461
21462
21463
21464
21465
21466
21467
21468
21469
21470
21471
21472
21473
21474
21475
21476
21477
21478
21479
21480
21481
21482
21483
21484
21485
21486
21487
21488
21489
21490
21491
21492
21493
21494
21495
21496
21497
21498
21499
21500
21501
21502
21503
21504
21505
21506
21507
21508
21509
21510
21511
21512
21513
21514
21515
21516
21517
21518
21519
21520
21521
21522
21523
21524
21525
21526
21527
21528
21529
21530
21531
21532
21533
21534
21535
21536
21537
21538
21539
21540
21541
21542
21543
21544
21545
21546
21547
21548
21549
21550
21551
21552
21553
21554
21555
21556
21557
21558
21559
21560
21561
21562
21563
21564
21565
21566
21567
21568
21569
21570
21571
21572
21573
21574
21575
21576
21577
21578
21579
21580
21581
21582
21583
21584
21585
21586
21587
21588
21589
21590
21591
21592
21593
21594
21595
21596
21597
21598
21599
21600
21601
21602
21603
21604
21605
21606
21607
21608
21609
21610
21611
21612
21613
21614
21615
21616
21617
21618
21619
21620
21621
21622
21623
21624
21625
21626
21627
21628
21629
21630
21631
21632
21633
21634
21635
21636
21637
21638
21639
21640
21641
21642
21643
21644
21645
21646
21647
21648
21649
21650
21651
21652
21653
21654
21655
21656
21657
21658
21659
21660
21661
21662
21663
21664
21665
21666
21667
21668
21669
21670
21671
21672
21673
21674
21675
21676
21677
21678
21679
21680
21681
21682
21683
21684
21685
21686
21687
21688
21689
21690
21691
21692
21693
21694
21695
21696
21697
21698
21699
21700
21701
21702
21703
21704
21705
21706
21707
21708
21709
21710
21711
21712
21713
21714
21715
21716
21717
21718
21719
21720
21721
21722
21723
21724
21725
21726
21727
21728
21729
21730
21731
21732
21733
21734
21735
21736
21737
21738
21739
21740
21741
21742
21743
21744
21745
21746
21747
21748
21749
21750
21751
21752
21753
21754
21755
21756
21757
21758
21759
21760
21761
21762
21763
21764
21765
21766
21767
21768
21769
21770
21771
21772
21773
21774
21775
21776
21777
21778
21779
21780
21781
21782
21783
21784
21785
21786
21787
21788
21789
21790
21791
21792
21793
21794
21795
21796
21797
21798
21799
21800
21801
21802
21803
21804
21805
21806
21807
21808
21809
21810
21811
21812
21813
21814
21815
21816
21817
21818
21819
21820
21821
21822
21823
21824
21825
21826
21827
21828
21829
21830
21831
21832
21833
21834
21835
21836
21837
21838
21839
21840
21841
21842
21843
21844
21845
21846
21847
21848
21849
21850
21851
21852
21853
21854
21855
21856
21857
21858
21859
21860
21861
21862
21863
21864
21865
21866
21867
21868
21869
21870
21871
21872
21873
21874
21875
21876
21877
21878
21879
21880
21881
21882
21883
21884
21885
21886
21887
21888
21889
21890
21891
21892
21893
21894
21895
21896
21897
21898
21899
21900
21901
21902
21903
21904
21905
21906
21907
21908
21909
21910
21911
21912
21913
21914
21915
21916
21917
21918
21919
21920
21921
21922
21923
21924
21925
21926
21927
21928
21929
21930
21931
21932
21933
21934
21935
21936
21937
21938
21939
21940
21941
21942
21943
21944
21945
21946
21947
21948
21949
21950
21951
21952
21953
21954
21955
21956
21957
21958
21959
21960
21961
21962
21963
21964
21965
21966
21967
21968
21969
21970
21971
21972
21973
21974
21975
21976
21977
21978
21979
21980
21981
21982
21983
21984
21985
21986
21987
21988
21989
21990
21991
21992
21993
21994
21995
21996
21997
21998
21999
22000
22001
22002
22003
22004
22005
22006
22007
22008
22009
22010
22011
22012
22013
22014
22015
22016
22017
22018
22019
22020
22021
22022
22023
22024
22025
22026
22027
22028
22029
22030
22031
22032
22033
22034
22035
22036
22037
22038
22039
22040
22041
22042
22043
22044
22045
22046
22047
22048
22049
22050
22051
22052
22053
22054
22055
22056
22057
22058
22059
22060
22061
22062
22063
22064
22065
22066
22067
22068
22069
22070
22071
22072
22073
22074
22075
22076
22077
22078
22079
22080
22081
22082
22083
22084
22085
22086
22087
22088
22089
22090
22091
22092
22093
22094
22095
22096
22097
22098
22099
22100
22101
22102
22103
22104
22105
22106
22107
22108
22109
22110
22111
22112
22113
22114
22115
22116
22117
22118
22119
22120
22121
22122
22123
22124
22125
22126
22127
22128
22129
22130
22131
22132
22133
22134
22135
22136
22137
22138
22139
22140
22141
22142
22143
22144
22145
22146
22147
22148
22149
22150
22151
22152
22153
22154
22155
22156
22157
22158
22159
22160
22161
22162
22163
22164
22165
22166
22167
22168
22169
22170
22171
22172
22173
22174
22175
22176
22177
22178
22179
22180
22181
22182
22183
22184
22185
22186
22187
22188
22189
22190
22191
22192
22193
22194
22195
22196
22197
22198
22199
22200
22201
22202
22203
22204
22205
22206
22207
22208
22209
22210
22211
22212
22213
22214
22215
22216
22217
22218
22219
22220
22221
22222
22223
22224
22225
22226
22227
22228
22229
22230
22231
22232
22233
22234
22235
22236
22237
22238
22239
22240
22241
22242
22243
22244
22245
22246
22247
22248
22249
22250
22251
22252
22253
22254
22255
22256
22257
22258
22259
22260
22261
22262
22263
22264
22265
22266
22267
22268
22269
22270
22271
22272
22273
22274
22275
22276
22277
22278
22279
22280
22281
22282
22283
22284
22285
22286
22287
22288
22289
22290
22291
22292
22293
22294
22295
22296
22297
22298
22299
22300
22301
22302
22303
22304
22305
22306
22307
22308
22309
22310
22311
22312
22313
22314
22315
22316
22317
22318
22319
22320
22321
22322
22323
22324
22325
22326
22327
22328
22329
22330
22331
22332
22333
22334
22335
22336
22337
22338
22339
22340
22341
22342
22343
22344
22345
22346
22347
22348
22349
22350
22351
22352
22353
22354
22355
22356
22357
22358
22359
22360
22361
22362
22363
22364
22365
22366
22367
22368
22369
22370
22371
22372
22373
22374
22375
22376
22377
22378
22379
22380
22381
22382
22383
22384
22385
22386
22387
22388
22389
22390
22391
22392
22393
22394
22395
22396
22397
22398
22399
22400
22401
22402
22403
22404
22405
22406
22407
22408
22409
22410
22411
22412
22413
22414
22415
22416
22417
22418
22419
22420
22421
22422
22423
22424
22425
22426
22427
22428
22429
22430
22431
22432
22433
22434
22435
22436
22437
22438
22439
22440
22441
22442
22443
22444
22445
22446
22447
22448
22449
22450
22451
22452
22453
22454
22455
22456
22457
22458
22459
22460
22461
22462
22463
22464
22465
22466
22467
22468
22469
22470
22471
22472
22473
22474
22475
22476
22477
22478
22479
22480
22481
22482
22483
22484
22485
22486
22487
22488
22489
22490
22491
22492
22493
22494
22495
22496
22497
22498
22499
22500
22501
22502
22503
22504
22505
22506
22507
22508
22509
22510
22511
22512
22513
22514
22515
22516
22517
22518
22519
22520
22521
22522
22523
22524
22525
22526
22527
22528
22529
22530
22531
22532
22533
22534
22535
22536
22537
22538
22539
22540
22541
22542
22543
22544
22545
22546
22547
22548
22549
22550
22551
22552
22553
22554
22555
22556
22557
22558
22559
22560
22561
22562
22563
22564
22565
22566
22567
22568
22569
22570
22571
22572
22573
22574
22575
22576
22577
22578
22579
22580
22581
22582
22583
22584
22585
22586
22587
22588
22589
22590
22591
22592
22593
22594
22595
22596
22597
22598
22599
22600
22601
22602
22603
22604
22605
22606
22607
22608
22609
22610
22611
22612
22613
22614
22615
22616
22617
22618
22619
22620
22621
22622
22623
22624
22625
22626
22627
22628
22629
22630
22631
22632
22633
22634
22635
22636
22637
22638
22639
22640
22641
22642
22643
22644
22645
22646
22647
22648
22649
22650
22651
22652
22653
22654
22655
22656
22657
22658
22659
22660
22661
22662
22663
22664
22665
22666
22667
22668
22669
22670
22671
22672
22673
22674
22675
22676
22677
22678
22679
22680
22681
22682
22683
22684
22685
22686
22687
22688
22689
22690
22691
22692
22693
22694
22695
22696
22697
22698
22699
22700
22701
22702
22703
22704
22705
22706
22707
22708
22709
22710
22711
22712
22713
22714
22715
22716
22717
22718
22719
22720
22721
22722
22723
22724
22725
22726
22727
22728
22729
22730
22731
22732
22733
22734
22735
22736
22737
22738
22739
22740
22741
22742
22743
22744
22745
22746
22747
22748
22749
22750
22751
22752
22753
22754
22755
22756
22757
22758
22759
22760
22761
22762
22763
22764
22765
22766
22767
22768
22769
22770
22771
22772
22773
22774
22775
22776
22777
22778
22779
22780
22781
22782
22783
22784
22785
22786
22787
22788
22789
22790
22791
22792
22793
22794
22795
22796
22797
22798
22799
22800
22801
22802
22803
22804
22805
22806
22807
22808
22809
22810
22811
22812
22813
22814
22815
22816
22817
22818
22819
22820
22821
22822
22823
22824
22825
22826
22827
22828
22829
22830
22831
22832
22833
22834
22835
22836
22837
22838
22839
22840
22841
22842
22843
22844
22845
22846
22847
22848
22849
22850
22851
22852
22853
22854
22855
22856
22857
22858
22859
22860
22861
22862
22863
22864
22865
22866
22867
22868
22869
22870
22871
22872
22873
22874
22875
22876
22877
22878
22879
22880
22881
22882
22883
22884
22885
22886
22887
22888
22889
22890
22891
22892
22893
22894
22895
22896
22897
22898
22899
22900
22901
22902
22903
22904
22905
22906
22907
22908
22909
22910
22911
22912
22913
22914
22915
22916
22917
22918
22919
22920
22921
22922
22923
22924
22925
22926
22927
22928
22929
22930
22931
22932
22933
22934
22935
22936
22937
22938
22939
22940
22941
22942
22943
22944
22945
22946
22947
22948
22949
22950
22951
22952
22953
22954
22955
22956
22957
22958
22959
22960
22961
22962
22963
22964
22965
22966
22967
22968
22969
22970
22971
22972
22973
22974
22975
22976
22977
22978
22979
22980
22981
22982
22983
22984
22985
22986
22987
22988
22989
22990
22991
22992
22993
22994
22995
22996
22997
22998
22999
23000
23001
23002
23003
23004
23005
23006
23007
23008
23009
23010
23011
23012
23013
23014
23015
23016
23017
23018
23019
23020
23021
23022
23023
23024
23025
23026
23027
23028
23029
23030
23031
23032
23033
23034
23035
23036
23037
23038
23039
23040
23041
23042
23043
23044
23045
23046
23047
23048
23049
23050
23051
23052
23053
23054
23055
23056
23057
23058
23059
23060
23061
23062
23063
23064
23065
23066
23067
23068
23069
23070
23071
23072
23073
23074
23075
23076
23077
23078
23079
23080
23081
23082
23083
23084
23085
23086
23087
23088
23089
23090
23091
23092
23093
23094
23095
23096
23097
23098
23099
23100
23101
23102
23103
23104
23105
23106
23107
23108
23109
23110
23111
23112
23113
23114
23115
23116
23117
23118
23119
23120
23121
23122
23123
23124
23125
23126
23127
23128
23129
23130
23131
23132
23133
23134
23135
23136
23137
23138
23139
23140
23141
23142
23143
23144
23145
23146
23147
23148
23149
23150
23151
23152
23153
23154
23155
23156
23157
23158
23159
23160
23161
23162
23163
23164
23165
23166
23167
23168
23169
23170
23171
23172
23173
23174
23175
23176
23177
23178
23179
23180
23181
23182
23183
23184
23185
23186
23187
23188
23189
23190
23191
23192
23193
23194
23195
23196
23197
23198
23199
23200
23201
23202
23203
23204
23205
23206
23207
23208
23209
23210
23211
23212
23213
23214
23215
23216
23217
23218
23219
23220
23221
23222
23223
23224
23225
23226
23227
23228
23229
23230
23231
23232
23233
23234
23235
23236
23237
23238
23239
23240
23241
23242
23243
23244
23245
23246
23247
23248
23249
23250
23251
23252
23253
23254
23255
23256
23257
23258
23259
23260
23261
23262
23263
23264
23265
23266
23267
23268
23269
23270
23271
23272
23273
23274
23275
23276
23277
23278
23279
23280
23281
23282
23283
23284
23285
23286
23287
23288
23289
23290
23291
23292
23293
23294
23295
23296
23297
23298
23299
23300
23301
23302
23303
23304
23305
23306
23307
23308
23309
23310
23311
23312
23313
23314
23315
23316
23317
23318
23319
23320
23321
23322
23323
23324
23325
23326
23327
23328
23329
23330
23331
23332
23333
23334
23335
23336
23337
23338
23339
23340
23341
23342
23343
23344
23345
23346
23347
23348
23349
23350
23351
23352
23353
23354
23355
23356
23357
23358
23359
23360
23361
23362
23363
23364
23365
23366
23367
23368
23369
23370
23371
23372
23373
23374
23375
23376
23377
23378
23379
23380
23381
23382
23383
23384
23385
23386
23387
23388
23389
23390
23391
23392
23393
23394
23395
23396
23397
23398
23399
23400
23401
23402
23403
23404
23405
23406
23407
23408
23409
23410
23411
23412
23413
23414
23415
23416
23417
23418
23419
23420
23421
23422
23423
23424
23425
23426
23427
23428
23429
23430
23431
23432
23433
23434
23435
23436
23437
23438
23439
23440
23441
23442
23443
23444
23445
23446
23447
23448
23449
23450
23451
23452
23453
23454
23455
23456
23457
23458
23459
23460
23461
23462
23463
23464
23465
23466
23467
23468
23469
23470
23471
23472
23473
23474
23475
23476
23477
23478
23479
23480
23481
23482
23483
23484
23485
23486
23487
23488
23489
23490
23491
23492
23493
23494
23495
23496
23497
23498
23499
23500
23501
23502
23503
23504
23505
23506
23507
23508
23509
23510
23511
23512
23513
23514
23515
23516
23517
23518
23519
23520
23521
23522
23523
23524
23525
23526
23527
23528
23529
23530
23531
23532
23533
23534
23535
23536
23537
23538
23539
23540
23541
23542
23543
23544
23545
23546
23547
23548
23549
23550
23551
23552
23553
23554
23555
23556
23557
23558
23559
23560
23561
23562
23563
23564
23565
23566
23567
23568
23569
23570
23571
23572
23573
23574
23575
23576
23577
23578
23579
23580
23581
23582
23583
23584
23585
23586
23587
23588
23589
23590
23591
23592
23593
23594
23595
23596
23597
23598
23599
23600
23601
23602
23603
23604
23605
23606
23607
23608
23609
23610
23611
23612
23613
23614

<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis</title>

<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">

    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Main Street

Author: Sinclair Lewis

Release Date: April 12, 2006 [EBook #543]
Last Updated: April 18, 2023

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET ***




Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      MAIN STREET
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Sinclair Lewis
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      To James Branch Cabell and Joseph Hergesheimer
    </h4>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This is America&mdash;a town of a few thousand, in a region of wheat and
      corn and dairies and little groves.
    </p>
    <p>
      The town is, in our tale, called &ldquo;Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.&rdquo; But its Main
      Street is the continuation of Main Streets everywhere. The story would be
      the same in Ohio or Montana, in Kansas or Kentucky or Illinois, and not
      very differently would it be told Up York State or in the Carolina hills.
    </p>
    <p>
      Main Street is the climax of civilization. That this Ford car might stand
      in front of the Bon Ton Store, Hannibal invaded Rome and Erasmus wrote in
      Oxford cloisters. What Ole Jenson the grocer says to Ezra Stowbody the
      banker is the new law for London, Prague, and the unprofitable isles of
      the sea; whatsoever Ezra does not know and sanction, that thing is heresy,
      worthless for knowing and wicked to consider.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our railway station is the final aspiration of architecture. Sam Clark's
      annual hardware turnover is the envy of the four counties which constitute
      God's Country. In the sensitive art of the Rosebud Movie Palace there is a
      Message, and humor strictly moral.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such is our comfortable tradition and sure faith. Would he not betray
      himself an alien cynic who should otherwise portray Main Street, or
      distress the citizens by speculating whether there may not be other
      faiths?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      ON a hill by the Mississippi where Chippewas camped two generations ago, a
      girl stood in relief against the cornflower blue of Northern sky. She saw
      no Indians now; she saw flour-mills and the blinking windows of
      skyscrapers in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Nor was she thinking of squaws
      and portages, and the Yankee fur-traders whose shadows were all about her.
      She was meditating upon walnut fudge, the plays of Brieux, the reasons why
      heels run over, and the fact that the chemistry instructor had stared at
      the new coiffure which concealed her ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      A breeze which had crossed a thousand miles of wheat-lands bellied her
      taffeta skirt in a line so graceful, so full of animation and moving
      beauty, that the heart of a chance watcher on the lower road tightened to
      wistfulness over her quality of suspended freedom. She lifted her arms,
      she leaned back against the wind, her skirt dipped and flared, a lock blew
      wild. A girl on a hilltop; credulous, plastic, young; drinking the air as
      she longed to drink life. The eternal aching comedy of expectant youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is Carol Milford, fleeing for an hour from Blodgett College.
    </p>
    <p>
      The days of pioneering, of lassies in sunbonnets, and bears killed with
      axes in piney clearings, are deader now than Camelot; and a rebellious
      girl is the spirit of that bewildered empire called the American
      Middlewest.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Blodgett College is on the edge of Minneapolis. It is a bulwark of sound
      religion. It is still combating the recent heresies of Voltaire, Darwin,
      and Robert Ingersoll. Pious families in Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, the
      Dakotas send their children thither, and Blodgett protects them from the
      wickedness of the universities. But it secretes friendly girls, young men
      who sing, and one lady instructress who really likes Milton and Carlyle.
      So the four years which Carol spent at Blodgett were not altogether
      wasted. The smallness of the school, the fewness of rivals, permitted her
      to experiment with her perilous versatility. She played tennis, gave
      chafing-dish parties, took a graduate seminar in the drama, went
      &ldquo;twosing,&rdquo; and joined half a dozen societies for the practise of the arts
      or the tense stalking of a thing called General Culture.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her class there were two or three prettier girls, but none more eager.
      She was noticeable equally in the classroom grind and at dances, though
      out of the three hundred students of Blodgett, scores recited more
      accurately and dozens Bostoned more smoothly. Every cell of her body was
      alive&mdash;thin wrists, quince-blossom skin, ingenue eyes, black hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other girls in her dormitory marveled at the slightness of her body
      when they saw her in sheer negligee, or darting out wet from a
      shower-bath. She seemed then but half as large as they had supposed; a
      fragile child who must be cloaked with understanding kindness. &ldquo;Psychic,&rdquo;
       the girls whispered, and &ldquo;spiritual.&rdquo; Yet so radioactive were her nerves,
      so adventurous her trust in rather vaguely conceived sweetness and light,
      that she was more energetic than any of the hulking young women who, with
      calves bulging in heavy-ribbed woolen stockings beneath decorous blue
      serge bloomers, thuddingly galloped across the floor of the &ldquo;gym&rdquo; in
      practise for the Blodgett Ladies' Basket-Ball Team.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even when she was tired her dark eyes were observant. She did not yet know
      the immense ability of the world to be casually cruel and proudly dull,
      but if she should ever learn those dismaying powers, her eyes would never
      become sullen or heavy or rheumily amorous.
    </p>
    <p>
      For all her enthusiasms, for all the fondness and the &ldquo;crushes&rdquo; which she
      inspired, Carol's acquaintances were shy of her. When she was most
      ardently singing hymns or planning deviltry she yet seemed gently aloof
      and critical. She was credulous, perhaps; a born hero-worshipper; yet she
      did question and examine unceasingly. Whatever she might become she would
      never be static.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her versatility ensnared her. By turns she hoped to discover that she had
      an unusual voice, a talent for the piano, the ability to act, to write, to
      manage organizations. Always she was disappointed, but always she
      effervesced anew&mdash;over the Student Volunteers, who intended to become
      missionaries, over painting scenery for the dramatic club, over soliciting
      advertisements for the college magazine.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was on the peak that Sunday afternoon when she played in chapel. Out
      of the dusk her violin took up the organ theme, and the candle-light
      revealed her in a straight golden frock, her arm arched to the bow, her
      lips serious. Every man fell in love then with religion and Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Throughout Senior year she anxiously related all her experiments and
      partial successes to a career. Daily, on the library steps or in the hall
      of the Main Building, the co-eds talked of &ldquo;What shall we do when we
      finish college?&rdquo; Even the girls who knew that they were going to be
      married pretended to be considering important business positions; even
      they who knew that they would have to work hinted about fabulous suitors.
      As for Carol, she was an orphan; her only near relative was a
      vanilla-flavored sister married to an optician in St. Paul. She had used
      most of the money from her father's estate. She was not in love&mdash;that
      is, not often, nor ever long at a time. She would earn her living.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how she was to earn it, how she was to conquer the world&mdash;almost
      entirely for the world's own good&mdash;she did not see. Most of the girls
      who were not betrothed meant to be teachers. Of these there were two
      sorts: careless young women who admitted that they intended to leave the
      &ldquo;beastly classroom and grubby children&rdquo; the minute they had a chance to
      marry; and studious, sometimes bulbous-browed and pop-eyed maidens who at
      class prayer-meetings requested God to &ldquo;guide their feet along the paths
      of greatest usefulness.&rdquo; Neither sort tempted Carol. The former seemed
      insincere (a favorite word of hers at this era). The earnest virgins were,
      she fancied, as likely to do harm as to do good by their faith in the
      value of parsing Caesar.
    </p>
    <p>
      At various times during Senior year Carol finally decided upon studying
      law, writing motion-picture scenarios, professional nursing, and marrying
      an unidentified hero.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she found a hobby in sociology.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sociology instructor was new. He was married, and therefore taboo, but
      he had come from Boston, he had lived among poets and socialists and Jews
      and millionaire uplifters at the University Settlement in New York, and he
      had a beautiful white strong neck. He led a giggling class through the
      prisons, the charity bureaus, the employment agencies of Minneapolis and
      St. Paul. Trailing at the end of the line Carol was indignant at the
      prodding curiosity of the others, their manner of staring at the poor as
      at a Zoo. She felt herself a great liberator. She put her hand to her
      mouth, her forefinger and thumb quite painfully pinching her lower lip,
      and frowned, and enjoyed being aloof.
    </p>
    <p>
      A classmate named Stewart Snyder, a competent bulky young man in a gray
      flannel shirt, a rusty black bow tie, and the green-and-purple class cap,
      grumbled to her as they walked behind the others in the muck of the South
      St. Paul stockyards, &ldquo;These college chumps make me tired. They're so
      top-lofty. They ought to of worked on the farm, the way I have. These
      workmen put it all over them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I just love common workmen,&rdquo; glowed Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only you don't want to forget that common workmen don't think they're
      common!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right! I apologize!&rdquo; Carol's brows lifted in the astonishment of
      emotion, in a glory of abasement. Her eyes mothered the world. Stewart
      Snyder peered at her. He rammed his large red fists into his pockets, he
      jerked them out, he resolutely got rid of them by clenching his hands
      behind him, and he stammered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. You <i>get</i> people. Most of these darn co-eds&mdash;&mdash;Say,
      Carol, you could do a lot for people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;oh well&mdash;you know&mdash;sympathy and everything&mdash;if
      you were&mdash;say you were a lawyer's wife. You'd understand his clients.
      I'm going to be a lawyer. I admit I fall down in sympathy sometimes. I get
      so dog-gone impatient with people that can't stand the gaff. You'd be good
      for a fellow that was too serious. Make him more&mdash;more&mdash;YOU know&mdash;sympathetic!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His slightly pouting lips, his mastiff eyes, were begging her to beg him
      to go on. She fled from the steam-roller of his sentiment. She cried, &ldquo;Oh,
      see those poor sheep&mdash;millions and millions of them.&rdquo; She darted on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stewart was not interesting. He hadn't a shapely white neck, and he had
      never lived among celebrated reformers. She wanted, just now, to have a
      cell in a settlement-house, like a nun without the bother of a black robe,
      and be kind, and read Bernard Shaw, and enormously improve a horde of
      grateful poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The supplementary reading in sociology led her to a book on
      village-improvement&mdash;tree-planting, town pageants, girls' clubs. It
      had pictures of greens and garden-walls in France, New England,
      Pennsylvania. She had picked it up carelessly, with a slight yawn which
      she patted down with her finger-tips as delicately as a cat.
    </p>
    <p>
      She dipped into the book, lounging on her window-seat, with her slim,
      lisle-stockinged legs crossed, and her knees up under her chin. She
      stroked a satin pillow while she read. About her was the clothy exuberance
      of a Blodgett College room: cretonne-covered window-seat, photographs of
      girls, a carbon print of the Coliseum, a chafing-dish, and a dozen pillows
      embroidered or beaded or pyrographed. Shockingly out of place was a
      miniature of the Dancing Bacchante. It was the only trace of Carol in the
      room. She had inherited the rest from generations of girl students.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was as a part of all this commonplaceness that she regarded the
      treatise on village-improvement. But she suddenly stopped fidgeting. She
      strode into the book. She had fled half-way through it before the three
      o'clock bell called her to the class in English history.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sighed, &ldquo;That's what I'll do after college! I'll get my hands on one
      of these prairie towns and make it beautiful. Be an inspiration. I suppose
      I'd better become a teacher then, but&mdash;I won't be that kind of a
      teacher. I won't drone. Why should they have all the garden suburbs on
      Long Island? Nobody has done anything with the ugly towns here in the
      Northwest except hold revivals and build libraries to contain the Elsie
      books. I'll make 'em put in a village green, and darling cottages, and a
      quaint Main Street!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus she triumphed through the class, which was a typical Blodgett contest
      between a dreary teacher and unwilling children of twenty, won by the
      teacher because his opponents had to answer his questions, while their
      treacherous queries he could counter by demanding, &ldquo;Have you looked that
      up in the library? Well then, suppose you do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The history instructor was a retired minister. He was sarcastic today. He
      begged of sporting young Mr. Charley Holmberg, &ldquo;Now Charles, would it
      interrupt your undoubtedly fascinating pursuit of that malevolent fly if I
      were to ask you to tell us that you do not know anything about King John?&rdquo;
       He spent three delightful minutes in assuring himself of the fact that no
      one exactly remembered the date of Magna Charta.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not hear him. She was completing the roof of a half-timbered
      town hall. She had found one man in the prairie village who did not
      appreciate her picture of winding streets and arcades, but she had
      assembled the town council and dramatically defeated him.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Though she was Minnesota-born Carol was not an intimate of the prairie
      villages. Her father, the smiling and shabby, the learned and teasingly
      kind, had come from Massachusetts, and through all her childhood he had
      been a judge in Mankato, which is not a prairie town, but in its
      garden-sheltered streets and aisles of elms is white and green New England
      reborn. Mankato lies between cliffs and the Minnesota River, hard by
      Traverse des Sioux, where the first settlers made treaties with the
      Indians, and the cattle-rustlers once came galloping before
      hell-for-leather posses.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she climbed along the banks of the dark river Carol listened to its
      fables about the wide land of yellow waters and bleached buffalo bones to
      the West; the Southern levees and singing darkies and palm trees toward
      which it was forever mysteriously gliding; and she heard again the
      startled bells and thick puffing of high-stacked river steamers wrecked on
      sand-reefs sixty years ago. Along the decks she saw missionaries, gamblers
      in tall pot hats, and Dakota chiefs with scarlet blankets. . . . Far off
      whistles at night, round the river bend, plunking paddles reechoed by the
      pines, and a glow on black sliding waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's family were self-sufficient in their inventive life, with
      Christmas a rite full of surprises and tenderness, and &ldquo;dressing-up
      parties&rdquo; spontaneous and joyously absurd. The beasts in the Milford
      hearth-mythology were not the obscene Night Animals who jump out of
      closets and eat little girls, but beneficent and bright-eyed creatures&mdash;the
      tam htab, who is woolly and blue and lives in the bathroom, and runs
      rapidly to warm small feet; the ferruginous oil stove, who purrs and knows
      stories; and the skitamarigg, who will play with children before breakfast
      if they spring out of bed and close the window at the very first line of
      the song about puellas which father sings while shaving.
    </p>
    <p>
      Judge Milford's pedagogical scheme was to let the children read whatever
      they pleased, and in his brown library Carol absorbed Balzac and Rabelais
      and Thoreau and Max Muller. He gravely taught them the letters on the
      backs of the encyclopedias, and when polite visitors asked about the
      mental progress of the &ldquo;little ones,&rdquo; they were horrified to hear the
      children earnestly repeating A-And, And-Aus, Aus-Bis, Bis-Cal, Cal-Cha.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's mother died when she was nine. Her father retired from the
      judiciary when she was eleven, and took the family to Minneapolis. There
      he died, two years after. Her sister, a busy proper advisory soul, older
      than herself, had become a stranger to her even when they lived in the
      same house.
    </p>
    <p>
      From those early brown and silver days and from her independence of
      relatives Carol retained a willingness to be different from brisk
      efficient book-ignoring people; an instinct to observe and wonder at their
      bustle even when she was taking part in it. But, she felt approvingly, as
      she discovered her career of town-planning, she was now roused to being
      brisk and efficient herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      In a month Carol's ambition had clouded. Her hesitancy about becoming a
      teacher had returned. She was not, she worried, strong enough to endure
      the routine, and she could not picture herself standing before grinning
      children and pretending to be wise and decisive. But the desire for the
      creation of a beautiful town remained. When she encountered an item about
      small-town women's clubs or a photograph of a straggling Main Street, she
      was homesick for it, she felt robbed of her work.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the advice of the professor of English which led her to study
      professional library-work in a Chicago school. Her imagination carved and
      colored the new plan. She saw herself persuading children to read charming
      fairy tales, helping young men to find books on mechanics, being ever so
      courteous to old men who were hunting for newspapers&mdash;the light of
      the library, an authority on books, invited to dinners with poets and
      explorers, reading a paper to an association of distinguished scholars.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      The last faculty reception before commencement. In five days they would be
      in the cyclone of final examinations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house of the president had been massed with palms suggestive of polite
      undertaking parlors, and in the library, a ten-foot room with a globe and
      the portraits of Whittier and Martha Washington, the student orchestra was
      playing &ldquo;Carmen&rdquo; and &ldquo;Madame Butterfly.&rdquo; Carol was dizzy with music and
      the emotions of parting. She saw the palms as a jungle, the pink-shaded
      electric globes as an opaline haze, and the eye-glassed faculty as
      Olympians. She was melancholy at sight of the mousey girls with whom she
      had &ldquo;always intended to get acquainted,&rdquo; and the half dozen young men who
      were ready to fall in love with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was Stewart Snyder whom she encouraged. He was so much manlier than
      the others; he was an even warm brown, like his new ready-made suit with
      its padded shoulders. She sat with him, and with two cups of coffee and a
      chicken patty, upon a pile of presidential overshoes in the coat-closet
      under the stairs, and as the thin music seeped in, Stewart whispered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't stand it, this breaking up after four years! The happiest years
      of life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She believed it. &ldquo;Oh, I know! To think that in just a few days we'll be
      parting, and we'll never see some of the bunch again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carol, you got to listen to me! You always duck when I try to talk
      seriously to you, but you got to listen to me. I'm going to be a big
      lawyer, maybe a judge, and I need you, and I'd protect you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His arm slid behind her shoulders. The insinuating music drained her
      independence. She said mournfully, &ldquo;Would you take care of me?&rdquo; She
      touched his hand. It was warm, solid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet I would! We'd have, Lord, we'd have bully times in Yankton, where
      I'm going to settle&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I want to do something with life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's better than making a comfy home and bringing up some cute kids and
      knowing nice homey people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the immemorial male reply to the restless woman. Thus to the young
      Sappho spake the melon-venders; thus the captains to Zenobia; and in the
      damp cave over gnawed bones the hairy suitor thus protested to the woman
      advocate of matriarchy. In the dialect of Blodgett College but with the
      voice of Sappho was Carol's answer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. I know. I suppose that's so. Honestly, I do love children. But
      there's lots of women that can do housework, but I&mdash;well, if you HAVE
      got a college education, you ought to use it for the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, but you can use it just as well in the home. And gee, Carol, just
      think of a bunch of us going out on an auto picnic, some nice spring
      evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And sleigh-riding in winter, and going fishing&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Blarrrrrrr! The orchestra had crashed into the &ldquo;Soldiers' Chorus&rdquo;; and she
      was protesting, &ldquo;No! No! You're a dear, but I want to do things. I don't
      understand myself but I want&mdash;everything in the world! Maybe I can't
      sing or write, but I know I can be an influence in library work. Just
      suppose I encouraged some boy and he became a great artist! I will! I will
      do it! Stewart dear, I can't settle down to nothing but dish-washing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two minutes later&mdash;two hectic minutes&mdash;they were disturbed by an
      embarrassed couple also seeking the idyllic seclusion of the
      overshoe-closet.
    </p>
    <p>
      After graduation she never saw Stewart Snyder again. She wrote to him once
      a week&mdash;for one month.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      A year Carol spent in Chicago. Her study of library-cataloguing,
      recording, books of reference, was easy and not too somniferous. She
      reveled in the Art Institute, in symphonies and violin recitals and
      chamber music, in the theater and classic dancing. She almost gave up
      library work to become one of the young women who dance in cheese-cloth in
      the moonlight. She was taken to a certified Studio Party, with beer,
      cigarettes, bobbed hair, and a Russian Jewess who sang the Internationale.
      It cannot be reported that Carol had anything significant to say to the
      Bohemians. She was awkward with them, and felt ignorant, and she was
      shocked by the free manners which she had for years desired. But she heard
      and remembered discussions of Freud, Romain Rolland, syndicalism, the
      Confederation Generale du Travail, feminism vs. haremism, Chinese lyrics,
      nationalization of mines, Christian Science, and fishing in Ontario.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went home, and that was the beginning and end of her Bohemian life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second cousin of Carol's sister's husband lived in Winnetka, and once
      invited her out to Sunday dinner. She walked back through Wilmette and
      Evanston, discovered new forms of suburban architecture, and remembered
      her desire to recreate villages. She decided that she would give up
      library work and, by a miracle whose nature was not very clearly revealed
      to her, turn a prairie town into Georgian houses and Japanese bungalows.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day in library class she had to read a theme on the use of the
      Cumulative Index, and she was taken so seriously in the discussion that
      she put off her career of town-planning&mdash;and in the autumn she was in
      the public library of St. Paul.
    </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was not unhappy and she was not exhilarated, in the St. Paul
      Library. She slowly confessed that she was not visibly affecting lives.
      She did, at first, put into her contact with the patrons a willingness
      which should have moved worlds. But so few of these stolid worlds wanted
      to be moved. When she was in charge of the magazine room the readers did
      not ask for suggestions about elevated essays. They grunted, &ldquo;Wanta find
      the Leather Goods Gazette for last February.&rdquo; When she was giving out
      books the principal query was, &ldquo;Can you tell me of a good, light, exciting
      love story to read? My husband's going away for a week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was fond of the other librarians; proud of their aspirations. And by
      the chance of propinquity she read scores of books unnatural to her gay
      white littleness: volumes of anthropology with ditches of foot-notes
      filled with heaps of small dusty type, Parisian imagistes, Hindu recipes
      for curry, voyages to the Solomon Isles, theosophy with modern American
      improvements, treatises upon success in the real-estate business. She took
      walks, and was sensible about shoes and diet. And never did she feel that
      she was living.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went to dances and suppers at the houses of college acquaintances.
      Sometimes she one-stepped demurely; sometimes, in dread of life's slipping
      past, she turned into a bacchanal, her tender eyes excited, her throat
      tense, as she slid down the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      During her three years of library work several men showed diligent
      interest in her&mdash;the treasurer of a fur-manufacturing firm, a
      teacher, a newspaper reporter, and a petty railroad official. None of them
      made her more than pause in thought. For months no male emerged from the
      mass. Then, at the Marburys', she met Dr. Will Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was a frail and blue and lonely Carol who trotted to the flat of the
      Johnson Marburys for Sunday evening supper. Mrs. Marbury was a neighbor
      and friend of Carol's sister; Mr. Marbury a traveling representative of an
      insurance company. They made a specialty of sandwich-salad-coffee lap
      suppers, and they regarded Carol as their literary and artistic
      representative. She was the one who could be depended upon to appreciate
      the Caruso phonograph record, and the Chinese lantern which Mr. Marbury
      had brought back as his present from San Francisco. Carol found the
      Marburys admiring and therefore admirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      This September Sunday evening she wore a net frock with a pale pink
      lining. A nap had soothed away the faint lines of tiredness beside her
      eyes. She was young, naive, stimulated by the coolness. She flung her coat
      at the chair in the hall of the flat, and exploded into the green-plush
      living-room. The familiar group were trying to be conversational. She saw
      Mr. Marbury, a woman teacher of gymnastics in a high school, a chief clerk
      from the Great Northern Railway offices, a young lawyer. But there was
      also a stranger, a thick tall man of thirty-six or -seven, with stolid
      brown hair, lips used to giving orders, eyes which followed everything
      good-naturedly, and clothes which you could never quite remember.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Marbury boomed, &ldquo;Carol, come over here and meet Doc Kennicott&mdash;Dr.
      Will Kennicott of Gopher Prairie. He does all our insurance-examining up
      in that neck of the woods, and they do say he's some doctor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she edged toward the stranger and murmured nothing in particular, Carol
      remembered that Gopher Prairie was a Minnesota wheat-prairie town of
      something over three thousand people.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pleased to meet you,&rdquo; stated Dr. Kennicott. His hand was strong; the palm
      soft, but the back weathered, showing golden hairs against firm red skin.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her as though she was an agreeable discovery. She tugged her
      hand free and fluttered, &ldquo;I must go out to the kitchen and help Mrs.
      Marbury.&rdquo; She did not speak to him again till, after she had heated the
      rolls and passed the paper napkins, Mr. Marbury captured her with a loud,
      &ldquo;Oh, quit fussing now. Come over here and sit down and tell us how's
      tricks.&rdquo; He herded her to a sofa with Dr. Kennicott, who was rather vague
      about the eyes, rather drooping of bulky shoulder, as though he was
      wondering what he was expected to do next. As their host left them,
      Kennicott awoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marbury tells me you're a high mogul in the public library. I was
      surprised. Didn't hardly think you were old enough. I thought you were a
      girl, still in college maybe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm dreadfully old. I expect to take to a lip-stick, and to find a
      gray hair any morning now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh! You must be frightfully old&mdash;prob'ly too old to be my
      granddaughter, I guess!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus in the Vale of Arcady nymph and satyr beguiled the hours; precisely
      thus, and not in honeyed pentameters, discoursed Elaine and the worn Sir
      Launcelot in the pleached alley.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you like your work?&rdquo; asked the doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's pleasant, but sometimes I feel shut off from things&mdash;the steel
      stacks, and the everlasting cards smeared all over with red rubber
      stamps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you get sick of the city?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;St. Paul? Why, don't you like it? I don't know of any lovelier view than
      when you stand on Summit Avenue and look across Lower Town to the
      Mississippi cliffs and the upland farms beyond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know but&mdash;&mdash;Of course I've spent nine years around the Twin
      Cities&mdash;took my B.A. and M.D. over at the U., and had my internship
      in a hospital in Minneapolis, but still, oh well, you don't get to know
      folks here, way you do up home. I feel I've got something to say about
      running Gopher Prairie, but you take it in a big city of two-three hundred
      thousand, and I'm just one flea on the dog's back. And then I like country
      driving, and the hunting in the fall. Do you know Gopher Prairie at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but I hear it's a very nice town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nice? Say honestly&mdash;&mdash;Of course I may be prejudiced, but I've
      seen an awful lot of towns&mdash;one time I went to Atlantic City for the
      American Medical Association meeting, and I spent practically a week in
      New York! But I never saw a town that had such up-and-coming people as
      Gopher Prairie. Bresnahan&mdash;you know&mdash;the famous auto
      manufacturer&mdash;he comes from Gopher Prairie. Born and brought up
      there! And it's a darn pretty town. Lots of fine maples and box-elders,
      and there's two of the dandiest lakes you ever saw, right near town! And
      we've got seven miles of cement walks already, and building more every
      day! Course a lot of these towns still put up with plank walks, but not
      for us, you bet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (Why was she thinking of Stewart Snyder?)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gopher Prairie is going to have a great future. Some of the best dairy
      and wheat land in the state right near there&mdash;some of it selling
      right now at one-fifty an acre, and I bet it will go up to two and a
      quarter in ten years!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is&mdash;&mdash;Do you like your profession?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing like it. Keeps you out, and yet you have a chance to loaf in the
      office for a change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't mean that way. I mean&mdash;it's such an opportunity for
      sympathy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Kennicott launched into a heavy, &ldquo;Oh, these Dutch farmers don't want
      sympathy. All they need is a bath and a good dose of salts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol must have flinched, for instantly he was urging, &ldquo;What I mean is&mdash;I
      don't want you to think I'm one of these old salts-and-quinine peddlers,
      but I mean: so many of my patients are husky farmers that I suppose I get
      kind of case-hardened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to me that a doctor could transform a whole community, if he
      wanted to&mdash;if he saw it. He's usually the only man in the
      neighborhood who has any scientific training, isn't he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's so, but I guess most of us get rusty. We land in a rut of
      obstetrics and typhoid and busted legs. What we need is women like you to
      jump on us. It'd be you that would transform the town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I couldn't. Too flighty. I did used to think about doing just that,
      curiously enough, but I seem to have drifted away from the idea. Oh, I'm a
      fine one to be lecturing you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! You're just the one. You have ideas without having lost feminine
      charm. Say! Don't you think there's a lot of these women that go out for
      all these movements and so on that sacrifice&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After his remarks upon suffrage he abruptly questioned her about herself.
      His kindliness and the firmness of his personality enveloped her and she
      accepted him as one who had a right to know what she thought and wore and
      ate and read. He was positive. He had grown from a sketched-in stranger to
      a friend, whose gossip was important news. She noticed the healthy
      solidity of his chest. His nose, which had seemed irregular and large, was
      suddenly virile.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was jarred out of this serious sweetness when Marbury bounced over to
      them and with horrible publicity yammered, &ldquo;Say, what do you two think
      you're doing? Telling fortunes or making love? Let me warn you that the
      doc is a frisky bacheldore, Carol. Come on now, folks, shake a leg. Let's
      have some stunts or a dance or something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not have another word with Dr. Kennicott until their parting:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Milford. May I see you some time
      when I come down again? I'm here quite often&mdash;taking patients to
      hospitals for majors, and so on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's your address?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can ask Mr. Marbury next time you come down&mdash;if you really want
      to know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Want to know? Say, you wait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the love-making of Carol and Will Kennicott there is nothing to be told
      which may not be heard on every summer evening, on every shadowy block.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were biology and mystery; their speech was slang phrases and flares
      of poetry; their silences were contentment, or shaky crises when his arm
      took her shoulder. All the beauty of youth, first discovered when it is
      passing&mdash;and all the commonplaceness of a well-to-do unmarried man
      encountering a pretty girl at the time when she is slightly weary of her
      employment and sees no glory ahead nor any man she is glad to serve.
    </p>
    <p>
      They liked each other honestly&mdash;they were both honest. She was
      disappointed by his devotion to making money, but she was sure that he did
      not lie to patients, and that he did keep up with the medical magazines.
      What aroused her to something more than liking was his boyishness when
      they went tramping.
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked from St. Paul down the river to Mendota, Kennicott more
      elastic-seeming in a cap and a soft crepe shirt, Carol youthful in a
      tam-o'-shanter of mole velvet, a blue serge suit with an absurdly and
      agreeably broad turn-down linen collar, and frivolous ankles above
      athletic shoes. The High Bridge crosses the Mississippi, mounting from low
      banks to a palisade of cliffs. Far down beneath it on the St. Paul side,
      upon mud flats, is a wild settlement of chicken-infested gardens and
      shanties patched together from discarded sign-boards, sheets of corrugated
      iron, and planks fished out of the river. Carol leaned over the rail of
      the bridge to look down at this Yang-tse village; in delicious imaginary
      fear she shrieked that she was dizzy with the height; and it was an
      extremely human satisfaction to have a strong male snatch her back to
      safety, instead of having a logical woman teacher or librarian sniff,
      &ldquo;Well, if you're scared, why don't you get away from the rail, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From the cliffs across the river Carol and Kennicott looked back at St.
      Paul on its hills; an imperial sweep from the dome of the cathedral to the
      dome of the state capitol.
    </p>
    <p>
      The river road led past rocky field slopes, deep glens, woods flamboyant
      now with September, to Mendota, white walls and a spire among trees
      beneath a hill, old-world in its placid ease. And for this fresh land, the
      place is ancient. Here is the bold stone house which General Sibley, the
      king of fur-traders, built in 1835, with plaster of river mud, and ropes
      of twisted grass for laths. It has an air of centuries. In its solid rooms
      Carol and Kennicott found prints from other days which the house had seen&mdash;tail-coats
      of robin's-egg blue, clumsy Red River carts laden with luxurious furs,
      whiskered Union soldiers in slant forage caps and rattling sabers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It suggested to them a common American past, and it was memorable because
      they had discovered it together. They talked more trustingly, more
      personally, as they trudged on. They crossed the Minnesota River in a
      rowboat ferry. They climbed the hill to the round stone tower of Fort
      Snelling. They saw the junction of the Mississippi and the Minnesota, and
      recalled the men who had come here eighty years ago&mdash;Maine lumbermen,
      York traders, soldiers from the Maryland hills.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a good country, and I'm proud of it. Let's make it all that those
      old boys dreamed about,&rdquo; the unsentimental Kennicott was moved to vow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on. Come to Gopher Prairie. Show us. Make the town&mdash;well&mdash;make
      it artistic. It's mighty pretty, but I'll admit we aren't any too darn
      artistic. Probably the lumber-yard isn't as scrumptious as all these Greek
      temples. But go to it! Make us change!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like to. Some day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now! You'd love Gopher Prairie. We've been doing a lot with lawns and
      gardening the past few years, and it's so homey&mdash;the big trees and&mdash;&mdash;And
      the best people on earth. And keen. I bet Luke Dawson&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol but half listened to the names. She could not fancy their ever
      becoming important to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bet Luke Dawson has got more money than most of the swells on Summit
      Avenue; and Miss Sherwin in the high school is a regular wonder&mdash;reads
      Latin like I do English; and Sam Clark, the hardware man, he's a corker&mdash;not
      a better man in the state to go hunting with; and if you want culture,
      besides Vida Sherwin there's Reverend Warren, the Congregational preacher,
      and Professor Mott, the superintendent of schools, and Guy Pollock, the
      lawyer&mdash;they say he writes regular poetry and&mdash;and Raymie
      Wutherspoon, he's not such an awful boob when you get to KNOW him, and he
      sings swell. And&mdash;&mdash;And there's plenty of others. Lym Cass. Only
      of course none of them have your finesse, you might call it. But they
      don't make 'em any more appreciative and so on. Come on! We're ready for
      you to boss us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat on the bank below the parapet of the old fort, hidden from
      observation. He circled her shoulder with his arm. Relaxed after the walk,
      a chill nipping her throat, conscious of his warmth and power, she leaned
      gratefully against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know I'm in love with you, Carol!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer, but she touched the back of his hand with an exploring
      finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say I'm so darn materialistic. How can I help it, unless I have you
      to stir me up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer. She could not think.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say a doctor could cure a town the way he does a person. Well, you
      cure the town of whatever ails it, if anything does, and I'll be your
      surgical kit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not follow his words, only the burring resoluteness of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was shocked, thrilled, as he kissed her cheek and cried, &ldquo;There's no
      use saying things and saying things and saying things. Don't my arms talk
      to you&mdash;now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, please, please!&rdquo; She wondered if she ought to be angry, but it was a
      drifting thought, and she discovered that she was crying.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then they were sitting six inches apart, pretending that they had never
      been nearer, while she tried to be impersonal:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like to&mdash;would like to see Gopher Prairie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trust me! Here she is! Brought some snapshots down to show you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her cheek near his sleeve, she studied a dozen village pictures. They were
      streaky; she saw only trees, shrubbery, a porch indistinct in leafy
      shadows. But she exclaimed over the lakes: dark water reflecting wooded
      bluffs, a flight of ducks, a fisherman in shirt sleeves and a wide straw
      hat, holding up a string of croppies. One winter picture of the edge of
      Plover Lake had the air of an etching: lustrous slide of ice, snow in the
      crevices of a boggy bank, the mound of a muskrat house, reeds in thin
      black lines, arches of frosty grasses. It was an impression of cool clear
      vigor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How'd it be to skate there for a couple of hours, or go zinging along on
      a fast ice-boat, and skip back home for coffee and some hot wienies?&rdquo; he
      demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It might be&mdash;fun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But here's the picture. Here's where you come in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A photograph of a forest clearing: pathetic new furrows straggling among
      stumps, a clumsy log cabin chinked with mud and roofed with hay. In front
      of it a sagging woman with tight-drawn hair, and a baby bedraggled,
      smeary, glorious-eyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those are the kind of folks I practise among, good share of the time.
      Nels Erdstrom, fine clean young Svenska. He'll have a corking farm in ten
      years, but now&mdash;&mdash;I operated his wife on a kitchen table, with
      my driver giving the anesthetic. Look at that scared baby! Needs some
      woman with hands like yours. Waiting for you! Just look at that baby's
      eyes, look how he's begging&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't! They hurt me. Oh, it would be sweet to help him&mdash;so sweet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As his arms moved toward her she answered all her doubts with &ldquo;Sweet, so
      sweet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      UNDER the rolling clouds of the prairie a moving mass of steel. An
      irritable clank and rattle beneath a prolonged roar. The sharp scent of
      oranges cutting the soggy smell of unbathed people and ancient baggage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towns as planless as a scattering of pasteboard boxes on an attic floor.
      The stretch of faded gold stubble broken only by clumps of willows
      encircling white houses and red barns.
    </p>
    <p>
      No. 7, the way train, grumbling through Minnesota, imperceptibly climbing
      the giant tableland that slopes in a thousand-mile rise from hot
      Mississippi bottoms to the Rockies.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is September, hot, very dusty.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no smug Pullman attached to the train, and the day coaches of the
      East are replaced by free chair cars, with each seat cut into two
      adjustable plush chairs, the head-rests covered with doubtful linen
      towels. Halfway down the car is a semi-partition of carved oak columns,
      but the aisle is of bare, splintery, grease-blackened wood. There is no
      porter, no pillows, no provision for beds, but all today and all tonight
      they will ride in this long steel box-farmers with perpetually tired wives
      and children who seem all to be of the same age; workmen going to new
      jobs; traveling salesmen with derbies and freshly shined shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      They are parched and cramped, the lines of their hands filled with grime;
      they go to sleep curled in distorted attitudes, heads against the
      window-panes or propped on rolled coats on seat-arms, and legs thrust into
      the aisle. They do not read; apparently they do not think. They wait. An
      early-wrinkled, young-old mother, moving as though her joints were dry,
      opens a suit-case in which are seen creased blouses, a pair of slippers
      worn through at the toes, a bottle of patent medicine, a tin cup, a
      paper-covered book about dreams which the news-butcher has coaxed her into
      buying. She brings out a graham cracker which she feeds to a baby lying
      flat on a seat and wailing hopelessly. Most of the crumbs drop on the red
      plush of the seat, and the woman sighs and tries to brush them away, but
      they leap up impishly and fall back on the plush.
    </p>
    <p>
      A soiled man and woman munch sandwiches and throw the crusts on the floor.
      A large brick-colored Norwegian takes off his shoes, grunts in relief, and
      props his feet in their thick gray socks against the seat in front of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      An old woman whose toothless mouth shuts like a mud-turtle's, and whose
      hair is not so much white as yellow like moldy linen, with bands of pink
      skull apparent between the tresses, anxiously lifts her bag, opens it,
      peers in, closes it, puts it under the seat, and hastily picks it up and
      opens it and hides it all over again. The bag is full of treasures and of
      memories: a leather buckle, an ancient band-concert program, scraps of
      ribbon, lace, satin. In the aisle beside her is an extremely indignant
      parrakeet in a cage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two facing seats, overflowing with a Slovene iron-miner's family, are
      littered with shoes, dolls, whisky bottles, bundles wrapped in newspapers,
      a sewing bag. The oldest boy takes a mouth-organ out of his coat pocket,
      wipes the tobacco crumbs off, and plays &ldquo;Marching through Georgia&rdquo; till
      every head in the car begins to ache.
    </p>
    <p>
      The news-butcher comes through selling chocolate bars and lemon drops. A
      girl-child ceaselessly trots down to the water-cooler and back to her
      seat. The stiff paper envelope which she uses for cup drips in the aisle
      as she goes, and on each trip she stumbles over the feet of a carpenter,
      who grunts, &ldquo;Ouch! Look out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dust-caked doors are open, and from the smoking-car drifts back a
      visible blue line of stinging tobacco smoke, and with it a crackle of
      laughter over the story which the young man in the bright blue suit and
      lavender tie and light yellow shoes has just told to the squat man in
      garage overalls.
    </p>
    <p>
      The smell grows constantly thicker, more stale.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      To each of the passengers his seat was his temporary home, and most of the
      passengers were slatternly housekeepers. But one seat looked clean and
      deceptively cool. In it were an obviously prosperous man and a
      black-haired, fine-skinned girl whose pumps rested on an immaculate
      horsehide bag.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were Dr. Will Kennicott and his bride, Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had been married at the end of a year of conversational courtship,
      and they were on their way to Gopher Prairie after a wedding journey in
      the Colorado mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hordes of the way-train were not altogether new to Carol. She had seen
      them on trips from St. Paul to Chicago. But now that they had become her
      own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn, she had an acute and
      uncomfortable interest in them. They distressed her. They were so stolid.
      She had always maintained that there is no American peasantry, and she
      sought now to defend her faith by seeing imagination and enterprise in the
      young Swedish farmers, and in a traveling man working over his
      order-blanks. But the older people, Yankees as well as Norwegians,
      Germans, Finns, Canucks, had settled into submission to poverty. They were
      peasants, she groaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't there any way of waking them up? What would happen if they
      understood scientific agriculture?&rdquo; she begged of Kennicott, her hand
      groping for his.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had been a transforming honeymoon. She had been frightened to discover
      how tumultuous a feeling could be roused in her. Will had been lordly&mdash;stalwart,
      jolly, impressively competent in making camp, tender and understanding
      through the hours when they had lain side by side in a tent pitched among
      pines high up on a lonely mountain spur.
    </p>
    <p>
      His hand swallowed hers as he started from thoughts of the practise to
      which he was returning. &ldquo;These people? Wake 'em up? What for? They're
      happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they're so provincial. No, that isn't what I mean. They're&mdash;oh,
      so sunk in the mud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Carrie. You want to get over your city idea that because a
      man's pants aren't pressed, he's a fool. These farmers are mighty keen and
      up-and-coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know! That's what hurts. Life seems so hard for them&mdash;these lonely
      farms and this gritty train.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they don't mind it. Besides, things are changing. The auto, the
      telephone, rural free delivery; they're bringing the farmers in closer
      touch with the town. Takes time, you know, to change a wilderness like
      this was fifty years ago. But already, why, they can hop into the Ford or
      the Overland and get in to the movies on Saturday evening quicker than you
      could get down to 'em by trolley in St. Paul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if it's these towns we've been passing that the farmers run to for
      relief from their bleakness&mdash;&mdash;Can't you understand? Just LOOK
      at them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was amazed. Ever since childhood he had seen these towns from
      trains on this same line. He grumbled, &ldquo;Why, what's the matter with 'em?
      Good hustling burgs. It would astonish you to know how much wheat and rye
      and corn and potatoes they ship in a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they're so ugly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll admit they aren't comfy like Gopher Prairie. But give 'em time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the use of giving them time unless some one has desire and
      training enough to plan them? Hundreds of factories trying to make
      attractive motor cars, but these towns&mdash;left to chance. No! That
      can't be true. It must have taken genius to make them so scrawny!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they're not so bad,&rdquo; was all he answered. He pretended that his hand
      was the cat and hers the mouse. For the first time she tolerated him
      rather than encouraged him. She was staring out at Schoenstrom, a hamlet
      of perhaps a hundred and fifty inhabitants, at which the train was
      stopping.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bearded German and his pucker-mouthed wife tugged their enormous
      imitation-leather satchel from under a seat and waddled out. The station
      agent hoisted a dead calf aboard the baggage-car. There were no other
      visible activities in Schoenstrom. In the quiet of the halt, Carol could
      hear a horse kicking his stall, a carpenter shingling a roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      The business-center of Schoenstrom took up one side of one block, facing
      the railroad. It was a row of one-story shops covered with galvanized
      iron, or with clapboards painted red and bilious yellow. The buildings
      were as ill-assorted, as temporary-looking, as a mining-camp street in the
      motion-pictures. The railroad station was a one-room frame box, a mirey
      cattle-pen on one side and a crimson wheat-elevator on the other. The
      elevator, with its cupola on the ridge of a shingled roof, resembled a
      broad-shouldered man with a small, vicious, pointed head. The only
      habitable structures to be seen were the florid red-brick Catholic church
      and rectory at the end of Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol picked at Kennicott's sleeve. &ldquo;You wouldn't call this a not-so-bad
      town, would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These Dutch burgs ARE kind of slow. Still, at that&mdash;&mdash;See that
      fellow coming out of the general store there, getting into the big car? I
      met him once. He owns about half the town, besides the store. Rauskukle,
      his name is. He owns a lot of mortgages, and he gambles in farm-lands.
      Good nut on him, that fellow. Why, they say he's worth three or four
      hundred thousand dollars! Got a dandy great big yellow brick house with
      tiled walks and a garden and everything, other end of town&mdash;can't see
      it from here&mdash;I've gone past it when I've driven through here. Yes
      sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, if he has all that, there's no excuse whatever for this place! If
      his three hundred thousand went back into the town, where it belongs, they
      could burn up these shacks, and build a dream-village, a jewel! Why do the
      farmers and the town-people let the Baron keep it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say I don't quite get you sometimes, Carrie. Let him? They can't
      help themselves! He's a dumm old Dutchman, and probably the priest can
      twist him around his finger, but when it comes to picking good farming
      land, he's a regular wiz!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see. He's their symbol of beauty. The town erects him, instead of
      erecting buildings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honestly, don't know what you're driving at. You're kind of played out,
      after this long trip. You'll feel better when you get home and have a good
      bath, and put on the blue negligee. That's some vampire costume, you
      witch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He squeezed her arm, looked at her knowingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      They moved on from the desert stillness of the Schoenstrom station. The
      train creaked, banged, swayed. The air was nauseatingly thick. Kennicott
      turned her face from the window, rested her head on his shoulder. She was
      coaxed from her unhappy mood. But she came out of it unwillingly, and when
      Kennicott was satisfied that he had corrected all her worries and had
      opened a magazine of saffron detective stories, she sat upright.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here&mdash;she meditated&mdash;is the newest empire of the world; the
      Northern Middlewest; a land of dairy herds and exquisite lakes, of new
      automobiles and tar-paper shanties and silos like red towers, of clumsy
      speech and a hope that is boundless. An empire which feeds a quarter of
      the world&mdash;yet its work is merely begun. They are pioneers, these
      sweaty wayfarers, for all their telephones and bank-accounts and automatic
      pianos and co-operative leagues. And for all its fat richness, theirs is a
      pioneer land. What is its future? she wondered. A future of cities and
      factory smut where now are loping empty fields? Homes universal and
      secure? Or placid chateaux ringed with sullen huts? Youth free to find
      knowledge and laughter? Willingness to sift the sanctified lies? Or
      creamy-skinned fat women, smeared with grease and chalk, gorgeous in the
      skins of beasts and the bloody feathers of slain birds, playing bridge
      with puffy pink-nailed jeweled fingers, women who after much expenditure
      of labor and bad temper still grotesquely resemble their own flatulent
      lap-dogs? The ancient stale inequalities, or something different in
      history, unlike the tedious maturity of other empires? What future and
      what hope?
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's head ached with the riddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw the prairie, flat in giant patches or rolling in long hummocks.
      The width and bigness of it, which had expanded her spirit an hour ago,
      began to frighten her. It spread out so; it went on so uncontrollably; she
      could never know it. Kennicott was closeted in his detective story. With
      the loneliness which comes most depressingly in the midst of many people
      she tried to forget problems, to look at the prairie objectively.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grass beside the railroad had been burnt over; it was a smudge prickly
      with charred stalks of weeds. Beyond the undeviating barbed-wire fences
      were clumps of golden rod. Only this thin hedge shut them off from the
      plains-shorn wheat-lands of autumn, a hundred acres to a field, prickly
      and gray near-by but in the blurred distance like tawny velvet stretched
      over dipping hillocks. The long rows of wheat-shocks marched like soldiers
      in worn yellow tabards. The newly plowed fields were black banners fallen
      on the distant slope. It was a martial immensity, vigorous, a little
      harsh, unsoftened by kindly gardens.
    </p>
    <p>
      The expanse was relieved by clumps of oaks with patches of short wild
      grass; and every mile or two was a chain of cobalt slews, with the flicker
      of blackbirds' wings across them.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this working land was turned into exuberance by the light. The
      sunshine was dizzy on open stubble; shadows from immense cumulus clouds
      were forever sliding across low mounds; and the sky was wider and loftier
      and more resolutely blue than the sky of cities . . . she declared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a glorious country; a land to be big in,&rdquo; she crooned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Kennicott startled her by chuckling, &ldquo;D' you realize the town after
      the next is Gopher Prairie? Home!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      That one word&mdash;home&mdash;it terrified her. Had she really bound
      herself to live, inescapably, in this town called Gopher Prairie? And this
      thick man beside her, who dared to define her future, he was a stranger!
      She turned in her seat, stared at him. Who was he? Why was he sitting with
      her? He wasn't of her kind! His neck was heavy; his speech was heavy; he
      was twelve or thirteen years older than she; and about him was none of the
      magic of shared adventures and eagerness. She could not believe that she
      had ever slept in his arms. That was one of the dreams which you had but
      did not officially admit.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told herself how good he was, how dependable and understanding. She
      touched his ear, smoothed the plane of his solid jaw, and, turning away
      again, concentrated upon liking his town. It wouldn't be like these barren
      settlements. It couldn't be! Why, it had three thousand population. That
      was a great many people. There would be six hundred houses or more. And&mdash;&mdash;The
      lakes near it would be so lovely. She'd seen them in the photographs. They
      had looked charming . . . hadn't they?
    </p>
    <p>
      As the train left Wahkeenyan she began nervously to watch for the lakes&mdash;the
      entrance to all her future life. But when she discovered them, to the left
      of the track, her only impression of them was that they resembled the
      photographs.
    </p>
    <p>
      A mile from Gopher Prairie the track mounts a curving low ridge, and she
      could see the town as a whole. With a passionate jerk she pushed up the
      window, looked out, the arched fingers of her left hand trembling on the
      sill, her right hand at her breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she saw that Gopher Prairie was merely an enlargement of all the
      hamlets which they had been passing. Only to the eyes of a Kennicott was
      it exceptional. The huddled low wooden houses broke the plains scarcely
      more than would a hazel thicket. The fields swept up to it, past it. It
      was unprotected and unprotecting; there was no dignity in it nor any hope
      of greatness. Only the tall red grain-elevator and a few tinny
      church-steeples rose from the mass. It was a frontier camp. It was not a
      place to live in, not possibly, not conceivably.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people&mdash;they'd be as drab as their houses, as flat as their
      fields. She couldn't stay here. She would have to wrench loose from this
      man, and flee.
    </p>
    <p>
      She peeped at him. She was at once helpless before his mature fixity, and
      touched by his excitement as he sent his magazine skittering along the
      aisle, stooped for their bags, came up with flushed face, and gloated,
      &ldquo;Here we are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled loyally, and looked away. The train was entering town. The
      houses on the outskirts were dusky old red mansions with wooden frills, or
      gaunt frame shelters like grocery boxes, or new bungalows with concrete
      foundations imitating stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now the train was passing the elevator, the grim storage-tanks for oil, a
      creamery, a lumber-yard, a stock-yard muddy and trampled and stinking. Now
      they were stopping at a squat red frame station, the platform crowded with
      unshaven farmers and with loafers&mdash;unadventurous people with dead
      eyes. She was here. She could not go on. It was the end&mdash;the end of
      the world. She sat with closed eyes, longing to push past Kennicott, hide
      somewhere in the train, flee on toward the Pacific.
    </p>
    <p>
      Something large arose in her soul and commanded, &ldquo;Stop it! Stop being a
      whining baby!&rdquo; She stood up quickly; she said, &ldquo;Isn't it wonderful to be
      here at last!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He trusted her so. She would make herself like the place. And she was
      going to do tremendous things&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She followed Kennicott and the bobbing ends of the two bags which he
      carried. They were held back by the slow line of disembarking passengers.
      She reminded herself that she was actually at the dramatic moment of the
      bride's home-coming. She ought to feel exalted. She felt nothing at all
      except irritation at their slow progress toward the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott stooped to peer through the windows. He shyly exulted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look! Look! There's a bunch come down to welcome us! Sam Clark and the
      missus and Dave Dyer and Jack Elder, and, yes sir, Harry Haydock and
      Juanita, and a whole crowd! I guess they see us now. Yuh, yuh sure, they
      see us! See 'em waving!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She obediently bent her head to look out at them. She had hold of herself.
      She was ready to love them. But she was embarrassed by the heartiness of
      the cheering group. From the vestibule she waved to them, but she clung a
      second to the sleeve of the brakeman who helped her down before she had
      the courage to dive into the cataract of hand-shaking people, people whom
      she could not tell apart. She had the impression that all the men had
      coarse voices, large damp hands, tooth-brush mustaches, bald spots, and
      Masonic watch-charms.
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew that they were welcoming her. Their hands, their smiles, their
      shouts, their affectionate eyes overcame her. She stammered, &ldquo;Thank you,
      oh, thank you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of the men was clamoring at Kennicott, &ldquo;I brought my machine down to
      take you home, doc.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine business, Sam!&rdquo; cried Kennicott; and, to Carol, &ldquo;Let's jump in. That
      big Paige over there. Some boat, too, believe me! Sam can show speed to
      any of these Marmons from Minneapolis!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Only when she was in the motor car did she distinguish the three people
      who were to accompany them. The owner, now at the wheel, was the essence
      of decent self-satisfaction; a baldish, largish, level-eyed man, rugged of
      neck but sleek and round of face&mdash;face like the back of a spoon bowl.
      He was chuckling at her, &ldquo;Have you got us all straight yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Course she has! Trust Carrie to get things straight and get 'em darn
      quick! I bet she could tell you every date in history!&rdquo; boasted her
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the man looked at her reassuringly and with a certainty that he was a
      person whom she could trust she confessed, &ldquo;As a matter of fact I haven't
      got anybody straight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Course you haven't, child. Well, I'm Sam Clark, dealer in hardware,
      sporting goods, cream separators, and almost any kind of heavy junk you
      can think of. You can call me Sam&mdash;anyway, I'm going to call you
      Carrie, seein' 's you've been and gone and married this poor fish of a bum
      medic that we keep round here.&rdquo; Carol smiled lavishly, and wished that she
      called people by their given names more easily. &ldquo;The fat cranky lady back
      there beside you, who is pretending that she can't hear me giving her
      away, is Mrs. Sam'l Clark; and this hungry-looking squirt up here beside
      me is Dave Dyer, who keeps his drug store running by not filling your
      hubby's prescriptions right&mdash;fact you might say he's the guy that put
      the 'shun' in 'prescription.' So! Well, leave us take the bonny bride
      home. Say, doc, I'll sell you the Candersen place for three thousand
      plunks. Better be thinking about building a new home for Carrie. Prettiest
      Frau in G. P., if you asks me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Contentedly Sam Clark drove off, in the heavy traffic of three Fords and
      the Minniemashie House Free 'Bus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall like Mr. Clark . . . I CAN'T call him 'Sam'! They're all so
      friendly.&rdquo; She glanced at the houses; tried not to see what she saw; gave
      way in: &ldquo;Why do these stories lie so? They always make the bride's
      home-coming a bower of roses. Complete trust in noble spouse. Lies about
      marriage. I'm NOT changed. And this town&mdash;O my God! I can't go
      through with it. This junk-heap!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her husband bent over her. &ldquo;You look like you were in a brown study.
      Scared? I don't expect you to think Gopher Prairie is a paradise, after
      St. Paul. I don't expect you to be crazy about it, at first. But you'll
      come to like it so much&mdash;life's so free here and best people on
      earth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She whispered to him (while Mrs. Clark considerately turned away), &ldquo;I love
      you for understanding. I'm just&mdash;I'm beastly over-sensitive. Too many
      books. It's my lack of shoulder-muscles and sense. Give me time, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet! All the time you want!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laid the back of his hand against her cheek, snuggled near him. She
      was ready for her new home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had told her that, with his widowed mother as housekeeper, he
      had occupied an old house, &ldquo;but nice and roomy, and well-heated, best
      furnace I could find on the market.&rdquo; His mother had left Carol her love,
      and gone back to Lac-qui-Meurt.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would be wonderful, she exulted, not to have to live in Other People's
      Houses, but to make her own shrine. She held his hand tightly and stared
      ahead as the car swung round a corner and stopped in the street before a
      prosaic frame house in a small parched lawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      A concrete sidewalk with a &ldquo;parking&rdquo; of grass and mud. A square smug brown
      house, rather damp. A narrow concrete walk up to it. Sickly yellow leaves
      in a windrow with dried wings of box-elder seeds and snags of wool from
      the cotton-woods. A screened porch with pillars of thin painted pine
      surmounted by scrolls and brackets and bumps of jigsawed wood. No
      shrubbery to shut off the public gaze. A lugubrious bay-window to the
      right of the porch. Window curtains of starched cheap lace revealing a
      pink marble table with a conch shell and a Family Bible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll find it old-fashioned&mdash;what do you call it?&mdash;Mid-Victorian.
      I left it as is, so you could make any changes you felt were necessary.&rdquo;
       Kennicott sounded doubtful for the first time since he had come back to
      his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a real home!&rdquo; She was moved by his humility. She gaily motioned
      good-by to the Clarks. He unlocked the door&mdash;he was leaving the
      choice of a maid to her, and there was no one in the house. She jiggled
      while he turned the key, and scampered in. . . . It was next day before
      either of them remembered that in their honeymoon camp they had planned
      that he should carry her over the sill.
    </p>
    <p>
      In hallway and front parlor she was conscious of dinginess and
      lugubriousness and airlessness, but she insisted, &ldquo;I'll make it all
      jolly.&rdquo; As she followed Kennicott and the bags up to their bedroom she
      quavered to herself the song of the fat little-gods of the hearth:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I have my own home,
     To do what I please with,
     To do what I please with,
     My den for me and my mate and my cubs,
     My own!
</pre>
    <p>
      She was close in her husband's arms; she clung to him; whatever of
      strangeness and slowness and insularity she might find in him, none of
      that mattered so long as she could slip her hands beneath his coat, run
      her fingers over the warm smoothness of the satin back of his waistcoat,
      seem almost to creep into his body, find in him strength, find in the
      courage and kindness of her man a shelter from the perplexing world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sweet, so sweet,&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THE Clarks have invited some folks to their house to meet us, tonight,&rdquo;
       said Kennicott, as he unpacked his suit-case.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that is nice of them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet. I told you you'd like 'em. Squarest people on earth. Uh, Carrie&mdash;&mdash;Would
      you mind if I sneaked down to the office for an hour, just to see how
      things are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no. Of course not. I know you're keen to get back to work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure you don't mind?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bit. Out of my way. Let me unpack.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the advocate of freedom in marriage was as much disappointed as a
      drooping bride at the alacrity with which he took that freedom and escaped
      to the world of men's affairs. She gazed about their bedroom, and its full
      dismalness crawled over her: the awkward knuckly L-shape of it; the black
      walnut bed with apples and spotty pears carved on the headboard; the
      imitation maple bureau, with pink-daubed scent-bottles and a petticoated
      pin-cushion on a marble slab uncomfortably like a gravestone; the plain
      pine washstand and the garlanded water-pitcher and bowl. The scent was of
      horsehair and plush and Florida Water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could people ever live with things like this?&rdquo; she shuddered. She saw
      the furniture as a circle of elderly judges, condemning her to death by
      smothering. The tottering brocade chair squeaked, &ldquo;Choke her&mdash;choke
      her&mdash;smother her.&rdquo; The old linen smelled of the tomb. She was alone
      in this house, this strange still house, among the shadows of dead
      thoughts and haunting repressions. &ldquo;I hate it! I hate it!&rdquo; she panted.
      &ldquo;Why did I ever&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remembered that Kennicott's mother had brought these family relics
      from the old home in Lac-qui-Meurt. &ldquo;Stop it! They're perfectly
      comfortable things. They're&mdash;comfortable. Besides&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      they're horrible! We'll change them, right away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, &ldquo;But of course he HAS to see how things are at the office&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made a pretense of busying herself with unpacking. The chintz-lined,
      silver-fitted bag which had seemed so desirable a luxury in St. Paul was
      an extravagant vanity here. The daring black chemise of frail chiffon and
      lace was a hussy at which the deep-bosomed bed stiffened in disgust, and
      she hurled it into a bureau drawer, hid it beneath a sensible linen
      blouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      She gave up unpacking. She went to the window, with a purely literary
      thought of village charm&mdash;hollyhocks and lanes and apple-cheeked
      cottagers. What she saw was the side of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church&mdash;a
      plain clapboard wall of a sour liver color; the ash-pile back of the
      church; an unpainted stable; and an alley in which a Ford delivery-wagon
      had been stranded. This was the terraced garden below her boudoir; this
      was to be her scenery for&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon. Am I sick? . . . Good
      Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! How people lie! How these stories
      lie! They say the bride is always so blushing and proud and happy when she
      finds that out, but&mdash;I'd hate it! I'd be scared to death! Some day
      but&mdash;&mdash;Please, dear nebulous Lord, not now! Bearded sniffy old
      men sitting and demanding that we bear children. If THEY had to bear them&mdash;&mdash;!
      I wish they did have to! Not now! Not till I've got hold of this job of
      liking the ash-pile out there! . . . I must shut up. I'm mildly insane.
      I'm going out for a walk. I'll see the town by myself. My first view of
      the empire I'm going to conquer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fled from the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stared with seriousness at every concrete crossing, every
      hitching-post, every rake for leaves; and to each house she devoted all
      her speculation. What would they come to mean? How would they look six
      months from now? In which of them would she be dining? Which of these
      people whom she passed, now mere arrangements of hair and clothes, would
      turn into intimates, loved or dreaded, different from all the other people
      in the world?
    </p>
    <p>
      As she came into the small business-section she inspected a broad-beamed
      grocer in an alpaca coat who was bending over the apples and celery on a
      slanted platform in front of his store. Would she ever talk to him? What
      would he say if she stopped and stated, &ldquo;I am Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. Some day
      I hope to confide that a heap of extremely dubious pumpkins as a
      window-display doesn't exhilarate me much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (The grocer was Mr. Frederick F. Ludelmeyer, whose market is at the corner
      of Main Street and Lincoln Avenue. In supposing that only she was
      observant Carol was ignorant, misled by the indifference of cities. She
      fancied that she was slipping through the streets invisible; but when she
      had passed, Mr. Ludelmeyer puffed into the store and coughed at his clerk,
      &ldquo;I seen a young woman, she come along the side street. I bet she is Doc
      Kennicott's new bride, good-looker, nice legs, but she wore a hell of a
      plain suit, no style, I wonder will she pay cash, I bet she goes to
      Howland &amp; Gould's more as she does here, what you done with the poster
      for Fluffed Oats?&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      When Carol had walked for thirty-two minutes she had completely covered
      the town, east and west, north and south; and she stood at the corner of
      Main Street and Washington Avenue and despaired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Main Street with its two-story brick shops, its story-and-a-half wooden
      residences, its muddy expanse from concrete walk to walk, its huddle of
      Fords and lumber-wagons, was too small to absorb her. The broad, straight,
      unenticing gashes of the streets let in the grasping prairie on every
      side. She realized the vastness and the emptiness of the land. The
      skeleton iron windmill on the farm a few blocks away, at the north end of
      Main Street, was like the ribs of a dead cow. She thought of the coming of
      the Northern winter, when the unprotected houses would crouch together in
      terror of storms galloping out of that wild waste. They were so small and
      weak, the little brown houses. They were shelters for sparrows, not homes
      for warm laughing people.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told herself that down the street the leaves were a splendor. The
      maples were orange; the oaks a solid tint of raspberry. And the lawns had
      been nursed with love. But the thought would not hold. At best the trees
      resembled a thinned woodlot. There was no park to rest the eyes. And since
      not Gopher Prairie but Wakamin was the county-seat, there was no
      court-house with its grounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      She glanced through the fly-specked windows of the most pretentious
      building in sight, the one place which welcomed strangers and determined
      their opinion of the charm and luxury of Gopher Prairie&mdash;the
      Minniemashie House. It was a tall lean shabby structure, three stories of
      yellow-streaked wood, the corners covered with sanded pine slabs
      purporting to symbolize stone. In the hotel office she could see a stretch
      of bare unclean floor, a line of rickety chairs with brass cuspidors
      between, a writing-desk with advertisements in mother-of-pearl letters
      upon the glass-covered back. The dining-room beyond was a jungle of
      stained table-cloths and catsup bottles.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked no more at the Minniemashie House.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man in cuffless shirt-sleeves with pink arm-garters, wearing a linen
      collar but no tie, yawned his way from Dyer's Drug Store across to the
      hotel. He leaned against the wall, scratched a while, sighed, and in a
      bored way gossiped with a man tilted back in a chair. A lumber-wagon, its
      long green box filled with large spools of barbed-wire fencing, creaked
      down the block. A Ford, in reverse, sounded as though it were shaking to
      pieces, then recovered and rattled away. In the Greek candy-store was the
      whine of a peanut-roaster, and the oily smell of nuts.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no other sound nor sign of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to run, fleeing from the encroaching prairie, demanding the
      security of a great city. Her dreams of creating a beautiful town were
      ludicrous. Oozing out from every drab wall, she felt a forbidding spirit
      which she could never conquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      She trailed down the street on one side, back on the other, glancing into
      the cross streets. It was a private Seeing Main Street tour. She was
      within ten minutes beholding not only the heart of a place called Gopher
      Prairie, but ten thousand towns from Albany to San Diego:
    </p>
    <p>
      Dyer's Drug Store, a corner building of regular and unreal blocks of
      artificial stone. Inside the store, a greasy marble soda-fountain with an
      electric lamp of red and green and curdled-yellow mosaic shade. Pawed-over
      heaps of tooth-brushes and combs and packages of shaving-soap. Shelves of
      soap-cartons, teething-rings, garden-seeds, and patent medicines in yellow
      &ldquo;packages-nostrums&rdquo; for consumption, for &ldquo;women's diseases&rdquo;&mdash;notorious
      mixtures of opium and alcohol, in the very shop to which her husband sent
      patients for the filling of prescriptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      From a second-story window the sign &ldquo;W. P. Kennicott, Phys. &amp;
      Surgeon,&rdquo; gilt on black sand.
    </p>
    <p>
      A small wooden motion-picture theater called &ldquo;The Rosebud Movie Palace.&rdquo;
       Lithographs announcing a film called &ldquo;Fatty in Love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Howland &amp; Gould's Grocery. In the display window, black, overripe
      bananas and lettuce on which a cat was sleeping. Shelves lined with red
      crepe paper which was now faded and torn and concentrically spotted. Flat
      against the wall of the second story the signs of lodges&mdash;the Knights
      of Pythias, the Maccabees, the Woodmen, the Masons.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dahl &amp; Oleson's Meat Market&mdash;a reek of blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      A jewelry shop with tinny-looking wrist-watches for women. In front of it,
      at the curb, a huge wooden clock which did not go.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fly-buzzing saloon with a brilliant gold and enamel whisky sign across
      the front. Other saloons down the block. From them a stink of stale beer,
      and thick voices bellowing pidgin German or trolling out dirty songs&mdash;vice
      gone feeble and unenterprising and dull&mdash;the delicacy of a
      mining-camp minus its vigor. In front of the saloons, farmwives sitting on
      the seats of wagons, waiting for their husbands to become drunk and ready
      to start home.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tobacco shop called &ldquo;The Smoke House,&rdquo; filled with young men shaking
      dice for cigarettes. Racks of magazines, and pictures of coy fat
      prostitutes in striped bathing-suits.
    </p>
    <p>
      A clothing store with a display of &ldquo;ox-blood-shade Oxfords with bull-dog
      toes.&rdquo; Suits which looked worn and glossless while they were still new,
      flabbily draped on dummies like corpses with painted cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bon Ton Store&mdash;Haydock &amp; Simons'&mdash;the largest shop in
      town. The first-story front of clear glass, the plates cleverly bound at
      the edges with brass. The second story of pleasant tapestry brick. One
      window of excellent clothes for men, interspersed with collars of floral
      pique which showed mauve daisies on a saffron ground. Newness and an
      obvious notion of neatness and service. Haydock &amp; Simons. Haydock. She
      had met a Haydock at the station; Harry Haydock; an active person of
      thirty-five. He seemed great to her, now, and very like a saint. His shop
      was clean!
    </p>
    <p>
      Axel Egge's General Store, frequented by Scandinavian farmers. In the
      shallow dark window-space heaps of sleazy sateens, badly woven galateas,
      canvas shoes designed for women with bulging ankles, steel and red glass
      buttons upon cards with broken edges, a cottony blanket, a granite-ware
      frying-pan reposing on a sun-faded crepe blouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sam Clark's Hardware Store. An air of frankly metallic enterprise. Guns
      and churns and barrels of nails and beautiful shiny butcher knives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chester Dashaway's House Furnishing Emporium. A vista of heavy oak rockers
      with leather seats, asleep in a dismal row.
    </p>
    <p>
      Billy's Lunch. Thick handleless cups on the wet oilcloth-covered counter.
      An odor of onions and the smoke of hot lard. In the doorway a young man
      audibly sucking a toothpick.
    </p>
    <p>
      The warehouse of the buyer of cream and potatoes. The sour smell of a
      dairy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Ford Garage and the Buick Garage, competent one-story brick and cement
      buildings opposite each other. Old and new cars on grease-blackened
      concrete floors. Tire advertisements. The roaring of a tested motor; a
      racket which beat at the nerves. Surly young men in khaki union-overalls.
      The most energetic and vital places in town.
    </p>
    <p>
      A large warehouse for agricultural implements. An impressive barricade of
      green and gold wheels, of shafts and sulky seats, belonging to machinery
      of which Carol knew nothing&mdash;potato-planters, manure-spreaders,
      silage-cutters, disk-harrows, breaking-plows.
    </p>
    <p>
      A feed store, its windows opaque with the dust of bran, a patent medicine
      advertisement painted on its roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ye Art Shoppe, Prop. Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks, Christian Science Library open
      daily free. A touching fumble at beauty. A one-room shanty of boards
      recently covered with rough stucco. A show-window delicately rich in
      error: vases starting out to imitate tree-trunks but running off into
      blobs of gilt&mdash;an aluminum ash-tray labeled &ldquo;Greetings from Gopher
      Prairie&rdquo;&mdash;a Christian Science magazine&mdash;a stamped sofa-cushion
      portraying a large ribbon tied to a small poppy, the correct skeins of
      embroidery-silk lying on the pillow. Inside the shop, a glimpse of bad
      carbon prints of bad and famous pictures, shelves of phonograph records
      and camera films, wooden toys, and in the midst an anxious small woman
      sitting in a padded rocking chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      A barber shop and pool room. A man in shirt sleeves, presumably Del
      Snafflin the proprietor, shaving a man who had a large Adam's apple.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nat Hicks's Tailor Shop, on a side street off Main. A one-story building.
      A fashion-plate showing human pitchforks in garments which looked as hard
      as steel plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      On another side street a raw red-brick Catholic Church with a varnished
      yellow door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The post-office&mdash;merely a partition of glass and brass shutting off
      the rear of a mildewed room which must once have been a shop. A tilted
      writing-shelf against a wall rubbed black and scattered with official
      notices and army recruiting-posters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The damp, yellow-brick schoolbuilding in its cindery grounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      The State Bank, stucco masking wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Farmers' National Bank. An Ionic temple of marble. Pure, exquisite,
      solitary. A brass plate with &ldquo;Ezra Stowbody, Pres't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A score of similar shops and establishments.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind them and mixed with them, the houses, meek cottages or large,
      comfortable, soundly uninteresting symbols of prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all the town not one building save the Ionic bank which gave pleasure
      to Carol's eyes; not a dozen buildings which suggested that, in the fifty
      years of Gopher Prairie's existence, the citizens had realized that it was
      either desirable or possible to make this, their common home, amusing or
      attractive.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not only the unsparing unapologetic ugliness and the rigid
      straightness which overwhelmed her. It was the planlessness, the flimsy
      temporariness of the buildings, their faded unpleasant colors. The street
      was cluttered with electric-light poles, telephone poles, gasoline pumps
      for motor cars, boxes of goods. Each man had built with the most valiant
      disregard of all the others. Between a large new &ldquo;block&rdquo; of two-story
      brick shops on one side, and the fire-brick Overland garage on the other
      side, was a one-story cottage turned into a millinery shop. The white
      temple of the Farmers' Bank was elbowed back by a grocery of glaring
      yellow brick. One store-building had a patchy galvanized iron cornice; the
      building beside it was crowned with battlements and pyramids of brick
      capped with blocks of red sandstone.
    </p>
    <p>
      She escaped from Main Street, fled home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wouldn't have cared, she insisted, if the people had been comely. She
      had noted a young man loafing before a shop, one unwashed hand holding the
      cord of an awning; a middle-aged man who had a way of staring at women as
      though he had been married too long and too prosaically; an old farmer,
      solid, wholesome, but not clean&mdash;his face like a potato fresh from
      the earth. None of them had shaved for three days.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they can't build shrines, out here on the prairie, surely there's
      nothing to prevent their buying safety-razors!&rdquo; she raged.
    </p>
    <p>
      She fought herself: &ldquo;I must be wrong. People do live here. It CAN'T be as
      ugly as&mdash;as I know it is! I must be wrong. But I can't do it. I can't
      go through with it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came home too seriously worried for hysteria; and when she found
      Kennicott waiting for her, and exulting, &ldquo;Have a walk? Well, like the
      town? Great lawns and trees, eh?&rdquo; she was able to say, with a
      self-protective maturity new to her, &ldquo;It's very interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      The train which brought Carol to Gopher Prairie also brought Miss Bea
      Sorenson.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Bea was a stalwart, corn-colored, laughing young woman, and she was
      bored by farm-work. She desired the excitements of city-life, and the way
      to enjoy city-life was, she had decided, to &ldquo;go get a yob as hired girl in
      Gopher Prairie.&rdquo; She contentedly lugged her pasteboard telescope from the
      station to her cousin, Tina Malmquist, maid of all work in the residence
      of Mrs. Luke Dawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell, so you come to town,&rdquo; said Tina.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ya. Ay get a yob,&rdquo; said Bea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell. . . . You got a fella now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ya. Yim Yacobson.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell. I'm glat to see you. How much you vant a veek?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sex dollar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There ain't nobody pay dat. Vait! Dr. Kennicott, I t'ink he marry a girl
      from de Cities. Maybe she pay dat. Vell. You go take a valk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ya,&rdquo; said Bea.
    </p>
    <p>
      So it chanced that Carol Kennicott and Bea Sorenson were viewing Main
      Street at the same time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea had never before been in a town larger than Scandia Crossing, which
      has sixty-seven inhabitants.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she marched up the street she was meditating that it didn't hardly seem
      like it was possible there could be so many folks all in one place at the
      same time. My! It would take years to get acquainted with them all. And
      swell people, too! A fine big gentleman in a new pink shirt with a
      diamond, and not no washed-out blue denim working-shirt. A lovely lady in
      a longery dress (but it must be an awful hard dress to wash). And the
      stores!
    </p>
    <p>
      Not just three of them, like there were at Scandia Crossing, but more than
      four whole blocks!
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bon Ton Store&mdash;big as four barns&mdash;my! it would simply scare
      a person to go in there, with seven or eight clerks all looking at you.
      And the men's suits, on figures just like human. And Axel Egge's, like
      home, lots of Swedes and Norskes in there, and a card of dandy buttons,
      like rubies.
    </p>
    <p>
      A drug store with a soda fountain that was just huge, awful long, and all
      lovely marble; and on it there was a great big lamp with the biggest shade
      you ever saw&mdash;all different kinds colored glass stuck together; and
      the soda spouts, they were silver, and they came right out of the bottom
      of the lamp-stand! Behind the fountain there were glass shelves, and
      bottles of new kinds of soft drinks, that nobody ever heard of. Suppose a
      fella took you THERE!
    </p>
    <p>
      A hotel, awful high, higher than Oscar Tollefson's new red barn; three
      stories, one right on top of another; you had to stick your head back to
      look clear up to the top. There was a swell traveling man in there&mdash;probably
      been to Chicago, lots of times.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh, the dandiest people to know here! There was a lady going by, you
      wouldn't hardly say she was any older than Bea herself; she wore a dandy
      new gray suit and black pumps. She almost looked like she was looking over
      the town, too. But you couldn't tell what she thought. Bea would like to
      be that way&mdash;kind of quiet, so nobody would get fresh. Kind of&mdash;oh,
      elegant.
    </p>
    <p>
      A Lutheran Church. Here in the city there'd be lovely sermons, and church
      twice on Sunday, EVERY Sunday!
    </p>
    <p>
      And a movie show!
    </p>
    <p>
      A regular theater, just for movies. With the sign &ldquo;Change of bill every
      evening.&rdquo; Pictures every evening!
    </p>
    <p>
      There were movies in Scandia Crossing, but only once every two weeks, and
      it took the Sorensons an hour to drive in&mdash;papa was such a tightwad
      he wouldn't get a Ford. But here she could put on her hat any evening, and
      in three minutes' walk be to the movies, and see lovely fellows in
      dress-suits and Bill Hart and everything!
    </p>
    <p>
      How could they have so many stores? Why! There was one just for tobacco
      alone, and one (a lovely one&mdash;the Art Shoppy it was) for pictures and
      vases and stuff, with oh, the dandiest vase made so it looked just like a
      tree trunk!
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea stood on the corner of Main Street and Washington Avenue. The roar of
      the city began to frighten her. There were five automobiles on the street
      all at the same time&mdash;and one of 'em was a great big car that must of
      cost two thousand dollars&mdash;and the 'bus was starting for a train with
      five elegant-dressed fellows, and a man was pasting up red bills with
      lovely pictures of washing-machines on them, and the jeweler was laying
      out bracelets and wrist-watches and EVERYTHING on real velvet.
    </p>
    <p>
      What did she care if she got six dollars a week? Or two! It was worth
      while working for nothing, to be allowed to stay here. And think how it
      would be in the evening, all lighted up&mdash;and not with no lamps, but
      with electrics! And maybe a gentleman friend taking you to the movies and
      buying you a strawberry ice cream soda!
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea trudged back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell? You lak it?&rdquo; said Tina.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ya. Ay lak it. Ay t'ink maybe Ay stay here,&rdquo; said Bea.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The recently built house of Sam Clark, in which was given the party to
      welcome Carol, was one of the largest in Gopher Prairie. It had a clean
      sweep of clapboards, a solid squareness, a small tower, and a large
      screened porch. Inside, it was as shiny, as hard, and as cheerful as a new
      oak upright piano.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol looked imploringly at Sam Clark as he rolled to the door and
      shouted, &ldquo;Welcome, little lady! The keys of the city are yourn!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Beyond him, in the hallway and the living-room, sitting in a vast prim
      circle as though they were attending a funeral, she saw the guests. They
      were WAITING so! They were waiting for her! The determination to be all
      one pretty flowerlet of appreciation leaked away. She begged of Sam, &ldquo;I
      don't dare face them! They expect so much. They'll swallow me in one
      mouthful&mdash;glump!&mdash;like that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, sister, they're going to love you&mdash;same as I would if I didn't
      think the doc here would beat me up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;B-but&mdash;&mdash;I don't dare! Faces to the right of me, faces in front
      of me, volley and wonder!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sounded hysterical to herself; she fancied that to Sam Clark she
      sounded insane. But he chuckled, &ldquo;Now you just cuddle under Sam's wing,
      and if anybody rubbers at you too long, I'll shoo 'em off. Here we go!
      Watch my smoke&mdash;Sam'l, the ladies' delight and the bridegrooms'
      terror!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His arm about her, he led her in and bawled, &ldquo;Ladies and worser halves,
      the bride! We won't introduce her round yet, because she'll never get your
      bum names straight anyway. Now bust up this star-chamber!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They tittered politely, but they did not move from the social security of
      their circle, and they did not cease staring.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had given creative energy to dressing for the event. Her hair was
      demure, low on her forehead with a parting and a coiled braid. Now she
      wished that she had piled it high. Her frock was an ingenue slip of lawn,
      with a wide gold sash and a low square neck, which gave a suggestion of
      throat and molded shoulders. But as they looked her over she was certain
      that it was all wrong. She wished alternately that she had worn a
      spinsterish high-necked dress, and that she had dared to shock them with a
      violent brick-red scarf which she had bought in Chicago.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was led about the circle. Her voice mechanically produced safe
      remarks:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm sure I'm going to like it here ever so much,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yes, we did
      have the best time in Colorado&mdash;mountains,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Yes, I lived in St.
      Paul several years. Euclid P. Tinker? No, I don't REMEMBER meeting him,
      but I'm pretty sure I've heard of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott took her aside and whispered, &ldquo;Now I'll introduce you to them,
      one at a time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me about them first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the nice-looking couple over there are Harry Haydock and his wife,
      Juanita. Harry's dad owns most of the Bon Ton, but it's Harry who runs it
      and gives it the pep. He's a hustler. Next to him is Dave Dyer the
      druggist&mdash;you met him this afternoon&mdash;mighty good duck-shot. The
      tall husk beyond him is Jack Elder&mdash;Jackson Elder&mdash;owns the
      planing-mill, and the Minniemashie House, and quite a share in the
      Farmers' National Bank. Him and his wife are good sports&mdash;him and Sam
      and I go hunting together a lot. The old cheese there is Luke Dawson, the
      richest man in town. Next to him is Nat Hicks, the tailor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? A tailor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. Why not? Maybe we're slow, but we are democratic. I go hunting with
      Nat same as I do with Jack Elder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad. I've never met a tailor socially. It must be charming to meet
      one and not have to think about what you owe him. And do you&mdash;&mdash;Would
      you go hunting with your barber, too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No but&mdash;&mdash;No use running this democracy thing into the ground.
      Besides, I've known Nat for years, and besides, he's a mighty good shot
      and&mdash;&mdash;That's the way it is, see? Next to Nat is Chet Dashaway.
      Great fellow for chinning. He'll talk your arm off, about religion or
      politics or books or anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol gazed with a polite approximation to interest at Mr. Dashaway, a tan
      person with a wide mouth. &ldquo;Oh, I know! He's the furniture-store man!&rdquo; She
      was much pleased with herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, and he's the undertaker. You'll like him. Come shake hands with
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, no! He doesn't&mdash;he doesn't do the embalming and all that&mdash;himself?
      I couldn't shake hands with an undertaker!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? You'd be proud to shake hands with a great surgeon, just after
      he'd been carving up people's bellies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sought to regain her afternoon's calm of maturity. &ldquo;Yes. You're right.
      I want&mdash;oh, my dear, do you know how much I want to like the people
      you like? I want to see people as they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, don't forget to see people as other folks see them as they are!
      They have the stuff. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?
      Born and brought up here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bresnahan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;you know&mdash;president of the Velvet Motor Company of Boston,
      Mass.&mdash;make the Velvet Twelve&mdash;biggest automobile factory in New
      England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I've heard of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure you have. Why, he's a millionaire several times over! Well, Perce
      comes back here for the black-bass fishing almost every summer, and he
      says if he could get away from business, he'd rather live here than in
      Boston or New York or any of those places. HE doesn't mind Chet's
      undertaking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! I'll&mdash;I'll like everybody! I'll be the community sunbeam!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He led her to the Dawsons.
    </p>
    <p>
      Luke Dawson, lender of money on mortgages, owner of Northern cut-over
      land, was a hesitant man in unpressed soft gray clothes, with bulging eyes
      in a milky face. His wife had bleached cheeks, bleached hair, bleached
      voice, and a bleached manner. She wore her expensive green frock, with its
      passementeried bosom, bead tassels, and gaps between the buttons down the
      back, as though she had bought it second-hand and was afraid of meeting
      the former owner. They were shy. It was &ldquo;Professor&rdquo; George Edwin Mott,
      superintendent of schools, a Chinese mandarin turned brown, who held
      Carol's hand and made her welcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Dawsons and Mr. Mott had stated that they were &ldquo;pleased to meet
      her,&rdquo; there seemed to be nothing else to say, but the conversation went on
      automatically.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like Gopher Prairie?&rdquo; whimpered Mrs. Dawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm sure I'm going to be ever so happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's so many nice people.&rdquo; Mrs. Dawson looked to Mr. Mott for social
      and intellectual aid. He lectured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's a fine class of people. I don't like some of these retired
      farmers who come here to spend their last days&mdash;especially the
      Germans. They hate to pay school-taxes. They hate to spend a cent. But the
      rest are a fine class of people. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came
      from here? Used to go to school right at the old building!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard he did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He's a prince. He and I went fishing together, last time he was
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Dawsons and Mr. Mott teetered upon weary feet, and smiled at Carol
      with crystallized expressions. She went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me, Mr. Mott: Have you ever tried any experiments with any of the
      new educational systems? The modern kindergarten methods or the Gary
      system?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh. Those. Most of these would-be reformers are simply notoriety-seekers.
      I believe in manual training, but Latin and mathematics always will be the
      backbone of sound Americanism, no matter what these faddists advocate&mdash;heaven
      knows what they do want&mdash;knitting, I suppose, and classes in wiggling
      the ears!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Dawsons smiled their appreciation of listening to a savant. Carol
      waited till Kennicott should rescue her. The rest of the party waited for
      the miracle of being amused.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry and Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons and Dr. Terry Gould&mdash;the young
      smart set of Gopher Prairie. She was led to them. Juanita Haydock flung at
      her in a high, cackling, friendly voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, this is SO nice to have you here. We'll have some good parties&mdash;dances
      and everything. You'll have to join the Jolly Seventeen. We play bridge
      and we have a supper once a month. You play, of course?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no, I don't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? In St. Paul?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've always been such a book-worm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll have to teach you. Bridge is half the fun of life.&rdquo; Juanita had
      become patronizing, and she glanced disrespectfully at Carol's golden
      sash, which she had previously admired.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry Haydock said politely, &ldquo;How do you think you're going to like the
      old burg?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure I shall like it tremendously.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Best people on earth here. Great hustlers, too. Course I've had lots of
      chances to go live in Minneapolis, but we like it here. Real he-town. Did
      you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol perceived that she had been weakened in the biological struggle by
      disclosing her lack of bridge. Roused to nervous desire to regain her
      position she turned on Dr. Terry Gould, the young and pool-playing
      competitor of her husband. Her eyes coquetted with him while she gushed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll learn bridge. But what I really love most is the outdoors. Can't we
      all get up a boating party, and fish, or whatever you do, and have a
      picnic supper afterwards?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you're talking!&rdquo; Dr. Gould affirmed. He looked rather too obviously
      at the cream-smooth slope of her shoulder. &ldquo;Like fishing? Fishing is my
      middle name. I'll teach you bridge. Like cards at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I used to be rather good at bezique.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that bezique was a game of cards&mdash;or a game of something
      else. Roulette, possibly. But her lie was a triumph. Juanita's handsome,
      high-colored, horsey face showed doubt. Harry stroked his nose and said
      humbly, &ldquo;Bezique? Used to be great gambling game, wasn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While others drifted to her group, Carol snatched up the conversation. She
      laughed and was frivolous and rather brittle. She could not distinguish
      their eyes. They were a blurry theater-audience before which she
      self-consciously enacted the comedy of being the Clever Little Bride of
      Doc Kennicott:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These-here celebrated Open Spaces, that's what I'm going out for. I'll
      never read anything but the sporting-page again. Will converted me on our
      Colorado trip. There were so many mousey tourists who were afraid to get
      out of the motor 'bus that I decided to be Annie Oakley, the Wild Western
      Wampire, and I bought oh! a vociferous skirt which revealed my perfectly
      nice ankles to the Presbyterian glare of all the Ioway schoolma'ams, and I
      leaped from peak to peak like the nimble chamoys, and&mdash;&mdash;You may
      think that Herr Doctor Kennicott is a Nimrod, but you ought to have seen
      me daring him to strip to his B. V. D.'s and go swimming in an icy
      mountain brook.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that they were thinking of becoming shocked, but Juanita Haydock
      was admiring, at least. She swaggered on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure I'm going to ruin Will as a respectable practitioner&mdash;&mdash;Is
      he a good doctor, Dr. Gould?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott's rival gasped at this insult to professional ethics, and he
      took an appreciable second before he recovered his social manner. &ldquo;I'll
      tell you, Mrs. Kennicott.&rdquo; He smiled at Kennicott, to imply that whatever
      he might say in the stress of being witty was not to count against him in
      the commercio-medical warfare. &ldquo;There's some people in town that say the
      doc is a fair to middlin' diagnostician and prescription-writer, but let
      me whisper this to you&mdash;but for heaven's sake don't tell him I said
      so&mdash;don't you ever go to him for anything more serious than a
      pendectomy of the left ear or a strabismus of the cardiograph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one save Kennicott knew exactly what this meant, but they laughed, and
      Sam Clark's party assumed a glittering lemon-yellow color of brocade
      panels and champagne and tulle and crystal chandeliers and sporting
      duchesses. Carol saw that George Edwin Mott and the blanched Mr. and Mrs.
      Dawson were not yet hypnotized. They looked as though they wondered
      whether they ought to look as though they disapproved. She concentrated on
      them:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I know whom I wouldn't have dared to go to Colorado with! Mr. Dawson
      there! I'm sure he's a regular heart-breaker. When we were introduced he
      held my hand and squeezed it frightfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haw! Haw! Haw!&rdquo; The entire company applauded. Mr. Dawson was beatified.
      He had been called many things&mdash;loan-shark, skinflint, tightwad,
      pussyfoot&mdash;but he had never before been called a flirt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is wicked, isn't he, Mrs. Dawson? Don't you have to lock him up?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, but maybe I better,&rdquo; attempted Mrs. Dawson, a tint on her pallid
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      For fifteen minutes Carol kept it up. She asserted that she was going to
      stage a musical comedy, that she preferred cafe parfait to beefsteak, that
      she hoped Dr. Kennicott would never lose his ability to make love to
      charming women, and that she had a pair of gold stockings. They gaped for
      more. But she could not keep it up. She retired to a chair behind Sam
      Clark's bulk. The smile-wrinkles solemnly flattened out in the faces of
      all the other collaborators in having a party, and again they stood about
      hoping but not expecting to be amused.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol listened. She discovered that conversation did not exist in Gopher
      Prairie. Even at this affair, which brought out the young smart set, the
      hunting squire set, the respectable intellectual set, and the solid
      financial set, they sat up with gaiety as with a corpse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juanita Haydock talked a good deal in her rattling voice but it was
      invariably of personalities: the rumor that Raymie Wutherspoon was going
      to send for a pair of patent leather shoes with gray buttoned tops; the
      rheumatism of Champ Perry; the state of Guy Pollock's grippe; and the
      dementia of Jim Howland in painting his fence salmon-pink.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sam Clark had been talking to Carol about motor cars, but he felt his
      duties as host. While he droned, his brows popped up and down. He
      interrupted himself, &ldquo;Must stir 'em up.&rdquo; He worried at his wife, &ldquo;Don't
      you think I better stir 'em up?&rdquo; He shouldered into the center of the
      room, and cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's have some stunts, folks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, let's!&rdquo; shrieked Juanita Haydock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, Dave, give us that stunt about the Norwegian catching a hen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet; that's a slick stunt; do that, Dave!&rdquo; cheered Chet Dashaway.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dave Dyer obliged.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the guests moved their lips in anticipation of being called on for
      their own stunts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ella, come on and recite 'Old Sweetheart of Mine,' for us,&rdquo; demanded Sam.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Ella Stowbody, the spinster daughter of the Ionic bank, scratched her
      dry palms and blushed. &ldquo;Oh, you don't want to hear that old thing again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure we do! You bet!&rdquo; asserted Sam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My voice is in terrible shape tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut! Come on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sam loudly explained to Carol, &ldquo;Ella is our shark at elocuting. She's had
      professional training. She studied singing and oratory and dramatic art
      and shorthand for a year, in Milwaukee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Stowbody was reciting. As encore to &ldquo;An Old Sweetheart of Mine,&rdquo; she
      gave a peculiarly optimistic poem regarding the value of smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were four other stunts: one Jewish, one Irish, one juvenile, and Nat
      Hicks's parody of Mark Antony's funeral oration.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the winter Carol was to hear Dave Dyer's hen-catching impersonation
      seven times, &ldquo;An Old Sweetheart of Mine&rdquo; nine times, the Jewish story and
      the funeral oration twice; but now she was ardent and, because she did so
      want to be happy and simple-hearted, she was as disappointed as the others
      when the stunts were finished, and the party instantly sank back into
      coma.
    </p>
    <p>
      They gave up trying to be festive; they began to talk naturally, as they
      did at their shops and homes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men and women divided, as they had been tending to do all evening.
      Carol was deserted by the men, left to a group of matrons who steadily
      pattered of children, sickness, and cooks&mdash;their own shop-talk. She
      was piqued. She remembered visions of herself as a smart married woman in
      a drawing-room, fencing with clever men. Her dejection was relieved by
      speculation as to what the men were discussing, in the corner between the
      piano and the phonograph. Did they rise from these housewifely
      personalities to a larger world of abstractions and affairs?
    </p>
    <p>
      She made her best curtsy to Mrs. Dawson; she twittered, &ldquo;I won't have my
      husband leaving me so soon! I'm going over and pull the wretch's ears.&rdquo;
       She rose with a jeune fille bow. She was self-absorbed and self-approving
      because she had attained that quality of sentimentality. She proudly
      dipped across the room and, to the interest and commendation of all
      beholders, sat on the arm of Kennicott's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was gossiping with Sam Clark, Luke Dawson, Jackson Elder of the
      planing-mill, Chet Dashaway, Dave Dyer, Harry Haydock, and Ezra Stowbody,
      president of the Ionic bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ezra Stowbody was a troglodyte. He had come to Gopher Prairie in 1865. He
      was a distinguished bird of prey&mdash;swooping thin nose, turtle mouth,
      thick brows, port-wine cheeks, floss of white hair, contemptuous eyes. He
      was not happy in the social changes of thirty years. Three decades ago,
      Dr. Westlake, Julius Flickerbaugh the lawyer, Merriman Peedy the
      Congregational pastor and himself had been the arbiters. That was as it
      should be; the fine arts&mdash;medicine, law, religion, and finance&mdash;recognized
      as aristocratic; four Yankees democratically chatting with but ruling the
      Ohioans and Illini and Swedes and Germans who had ventured to follow them.
      But Westlake was old, almost retired; Julius Flickerbaugh had lost much of
      his practice to livelier attorneys; Reverend (not The Reverend) Peedy was
      dead; and nobody was impressed in this rotten age of automobiles by the
      &ldquo;spanking grays&rdquo; which Ezra still drove. The town was as heterogeneous as
      Chicago. Norwegians and Germans owned stores. The social leaders were
      common merchants. Selling nails was considered as sacred as banking. These
      upstarts&mdash;the Clarks, the Haydocks&mdash;had no dignity. They were
      sound and conservative in politics, but they talked about motor cars and
      pump-guns and heaven only knew what new-fangled fads. Mr. Stowbody felt
      out of place with them. But his brick house with the mansard roof was
      still the largest residence in town, and he held his position as squire by
      occasionally appearing among the younger men and reminding them by a
      wintry eye that without the banker none of them could carry on their
      vulgar businesses.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Carol defied decency by sitting down with the men, Mr. Stowbody was
      piping to Mr. Dawson, &ldquo;Say, Luke, when was't Biggins first settled in
      Winnebago Township? Wa'n't it in 1879?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why no 'twa'n't!&rdquo; Mr. Dawson was indignant. &ldquo;He come out from Vermont in
      1867&mdash;no, wait, in 1868, it must have been&mdash;and took a claim on
      the Rum River, quite a ways above Anoka.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He did not!&rdquo; roared Mr. Stowbody. &ldquo;He settled first in Blue Earth County,
      him and his father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;What's the point at issue?&rdquo;) Carol whispered to Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Whether this old duck Biggins had an English setter or a Llewellyn.
      They've been arguing it all evening!&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      Dave Dyer interrupted to give tidings, &ldquo;D' tell you that Clara Biggins was
      in town couple days ago? She bought a hot-water bottle&mdash;expensive
      one, too&mdash;two dollars and thirty cents!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yaaaaaah!&rdquo; snarled Mr. Stowbody. &ldquo;Course. She's just like her grandad
      was. Never save a cent. Two dollars and twenty&mdash;thirty, was it?&mdash;two
      dollars and thirty cents for a hot-water bottle! Brick wrapped up in a
      flannel petticoat just as good, anyway!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How's Ella's tonsils, Mr. Stowbody?&rdquo; yawned Chet Dashaway.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Mr. Stowbody gave a somatic and psychic study of them, Carol
      reflected, &ldquo;Are they really so terribly interested in Ella's tonsils, or
      even in Ella's esophagus? I wonder if I could get them away from
      personalities? Let's risk damnation and try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There hasn't been much labor trouble around here, has there, Mr.
      Stowbody?&rdquo; she asked innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, ma'am, thank God, we've been free from that, except maybe with hired
      girls and farm-hands. Trouble enough with these foreign farmers; if you
      don't watch these Swedes they turn socialist or populist or some fool
      thing on you in a minute. Of course, if they have loans you can make 'em
      listen to reason. I just have 'em come into the bank for a talk, and tell
      'em a few things. I don't mind their being democrats, so much, but I won't
      stand having socialists around. But thank God, we ain't got the labor
      trouble they have in these cities. Even Jack Elder here gets along pretty
      well, in the planing-mill, don't you, Jack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yep. Sure. Don't need so many skilled workmen in my place, and it's a lot
      of these cranky, wage-hogging, half-baked skilled mechanics that start
      trouble&mdash;reading a lot of this anarchist literature and union papers
      and all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you approve of union labor?&rdquo; Carol inquired of Mr. Elder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? I should say not! It's like this: I don't mind dealing with my men if
      they think they've got any grievances&mdash;though Lord knows what's come
      over workmen, nowadays&mdash;don't appreciate a good job. But still, if
      they come to me honestly, as man to man, I'll talk things over with them.
      But I'm not going to have any outsider, any of these walking delegates, or
      whatever fancy names they call themselves now&mdash;bunch of rich
      grafters, living on the ignorant workmen! Not going to have any of those
      fellows butting in and telling ME how to run MY business!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Elder was growing more excited, more belligerent and patriotic. &ldquo;I
      stand for freedom and constitutional rights. If any man don't like my
      shop, he can get up and git. Same way, if I don't like him, he gits. And
      that's all there is to it. I simply can't understand all these
      complications and hoop-te-doodles and government reports and wage-scales
      and God knows what all that these fellows are balling up the labor
      situation with, when it's all perfectly simple. They like what I pay 'em,
      or they get out. That's all there is to it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of profit-sharing?&rdquo; Carol ventured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Elder thundered his answer, while the others nodded, solemnly and in
      tune, like a shop-window of flexible toys, comic mandarins and judges and
      ducks and clowns, set quivering by a breeze from the open door:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All this profit-sharing and welfare work and insurance and old-age
      pension is simply poppycock. Enfeebles a workman's independence&mdash;and
      wastes a lot of honest profit. The half-baked thinker that isn't dry
      behind the ears yet, and these suffragettes and God knows what all
      buttinskis there are that are trying to tell a business man how to run his
      business, and some of these college professors are just about as bad, the
      whole kit and bilin' of 'em are nothing in God's world but socialism in
      disguise! And it's my bounden duty as a producer to resist every attack on
      the integrity of American industry to the last ditch. Yes&mdash;SIR!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Elder wiped his brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dave Dyer added, &ldquo;Sure! You bet! What they ought to do is simply to hang
      every one of these agitators, and that would settle the whole thing right
      off. Don't you think so, doc?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet,&rdquo; agreed Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation was at last relieved of the plague of Carol's intrusions
      and they settled down to the question of whether the justice of the peace
      had sent that hobo drunk to jail for ten days or twelve. It was a matter
      not readily determined. Then Dave Dyer communicated his carefree
      adventures on the gipsy trail:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yep. I get good time out of the flivver. 'Bout a week ago I motored down
      to New Wurttemberg. That's forty-three&mdash;&mdash;No, let's see: It's
      seventeen miles to Belldale, and 'bout six and three-quarters, call it
      seven, to Torgenquist, and it's a good nineteen miles from there to New
      Wurttemberg&mdash;seventeen and seven and nineteen, that makes, uh, let me
      see: seventeen and seven 's twenty-four, plus nineteen, well say plus
      twenty, that makes forty-four, well anyway, say about forty-three or -four
      miles from here to New Wurttemberg. We got started about seven-fifteen,
      prob'ly seven-twenty, because I had to stop and fill the radiator, and we
      ran along, just keeping up a good steady gait&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dyer did finally, for reasons and purposes admitted and justified,
      attain to New Wurttemberg.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once&mdash;only once&mdash;the presence of the alien Carol was recognized.
      Chet Dashaway leaned over and said asthmatically, &ldquo;Say, uh, have you been
      reading this serial 'Two Out' in Tingling Tales? Corking yarn! Gosh, the
      fellow that wrote it certainly can sling baseball slang!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The others tried to look literary. Harry Haydock offered, &ldquo;Juanita is a
      great hand for reading high-class stuff, like 'Mid the Magnolias' by this
      Sara Hetwiggin Butts, and 'Riders of Ranch Reckless.' Books. But me,&rdquo; he
      glanced about importantly, as one convinced that no other hero had ever
      been in so strange a plight, &ldquo;I'm so darn busy I don't have much time to
      read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never read anything I can't check against,&rdquo; said Sam Clark.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus ended the literary portion of the conversation, and for seven minutes
      Jackson Elder outlined reasons for believing that the pike-fishing was
      better on the west shore of Lake Minniemashie than on the east&mdash;though
      it was indeed quite true that on the east shore Nat Hicks had caught a
      pike altogether admirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The talk went on. It did go on! Their voices were monotonous, thick,
      emphatic. They were harshly pompous, like men in the smoking-compartments
      of Pullman cars. They did not bore Carol. They frightened her. She panted,
      &ldquo;They will be cordial to me, because my man belongs to their tribe. God
      help me if I were an outsider!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Smiling as changelessly as an ivory figurine she sat quiescent, avoiding
      thought, glancing about the living-room and hall, noting their betrayal of
      unimaginative commercial prosperity. Kennicott said, &ldquo;Dandy interior, eh?
      My idea of how a place ought to be furnished. Modern.&rdquo; She looked polite,
      and observed the oiled floors, hard-wood staircase, unused fireplace with
      tiles which resembled brown linoleum, cut-glass vases standing upon
      doilies, and the barred, shut, forbidding unit bookcases that were half
      filled with swashbuckler novels and unread-looking sets of Dickens,
      Kipling, O. Henry, and Elbert Hubbard.
    </p>
    <p>
      She perceived that even personalities were failing to hold the party. The
      room filled with hesitancy as with a fog. People cleared their throats,
      tried to choke down yawns. The men shot their cuffs and the women stuck
      their combs more firmly into their back hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a rattle, a daring hope in every eye, the swinging of a door, the
      smell of strong coffee, Dave Dyer's mewing voice in a triumphant, &ldquo;The
      eats!&rdquo; They began to chatter. They had something to do. They could escape
      from themselves. They fell upon the food&mdash;chicken sandwiches, maple
      cake, drug-store ice cream. Even when the food was gone they remained
      cheerful. They could go home, any time now, and go to bed!
    </p>
    <p>
      They went, with a flutter of coats, chiffon scarfs, and good-bys.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol and Kennicott walked home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you like them?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were terribly sweet to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uh, Carrie&mdash;&mdash;You ought to be more careful about shocking
      folks. Talking about gold stockings, and about showing your ankles to
      schoolteachers and all!&rdquo; More mildly: &ldquo;You gave 'em a good time, but I'd
      watch out for that, 'f I were you. Juanita Haydock is such a damn cat. I
      wouldn't give her a chance to criticize me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor effort to lift up the party! Was I wrong to try to amuse them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! No! Honey, I didn't mean&mdash;&mdash;You were the only up-and-coming
      person in the bunch. I just mean&mdash;&mdash;Don't get onto legs and all
      that immoral stuff. Pretty conservative crowd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was silent, raw with the shameful thought that the attentive circle
      might have been criticizing her, laughing at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't, please don't worry!&rdquo; he pleaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gosh; I'm sorry I spoke about it. I just meant&mdash;&mdash;But they were
      crazy about you. Sam said to me, 'That little lady of yours is the
      slickest thing that ever came to this town,' he said; and Ma Dawson&mdash;I
      didn't hardly know whether she'd like you or not, she's such a dried-up
      old bird, but she said, 'Your bride is so quick and bright, I declare, she
      just wakes me up.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol liked praise, the flavor and fatness of it, but she was so
      energetically being sorry for herself that she could not taste this
      commendation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! Come on! Cheer up!&rdquo; His lips said it, his anxious shoulder said
      it, his arm about her said it, as they halted on the obscure porch of
      their house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you care if they think I'm flighty, Will?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? Why, I wouldn't care if the whole world thought you were this or that
      or anything else. You're my&mdash;well, you're my soul!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was an undefined mass, as solid-seeming as rock. She found his sleeve,
      pinched it, cried, &ldquo;I'm glad! It's sweet to be wanted! You must tolerate
      my frivolousness. You're all I have!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lifted her, carried her into the house, and with her arms about his
      neck she forgot Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WE'LL steal the whole day, and go hunting. I want you to see the country
      round here,&rdquo; Kennicott announced at breakfast. &ldquo;I'd take the car&mdash;want
      you to see how swell she runs since I put in a new piston. But we'll take
      a team, so we can get right out into the fields. Not many prairie chickens
      left now, but we might just happen to run onto a small covey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He fussed over his hunting-kit. He pulled his hip boots out to full length
      and examined them for holes. He feverishly counted his shotgun shells,
      lecturing her on the qualities of smokeless powder. He drew the new
      hammerless shotgun out of its heavy tan leather case and made her peep
      through the barrels to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust.
    </p>
    <p>
      The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle was unfamiliar
      to her, and in Kennicott's interest she found something creative and
      joyous. She examined the smooth stock, the carved hard rubber butt of the
      gun. The shells, with their brass caps and sleek green bodies and
      hieroglyphics on the wads, were cool and comfortably heavy in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott wore a brown canvas hunting-coat with vast pockets lining the
      inside, corduroy trousers which bulged at the wrinkles, peeled and scarred
      shoes, a scarecrow felt hat. In this uniform he felt virile. They clumped
      out to the livery buggy, they packed the kit and the box of lunch into the
      back, crying to each other that it was a magnificent day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had borrowed Jackson Elder's red and white English setter, a
      complacent dog with a waving tail of silver hair which flickered in the
      sunshine. As they started, the dog yelped, and leaped at the horses'
      heads, till Kennicott took him into the buggy, where he nuzzled Carol's
      knees and leaned out to sneer at farm mongrels.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grays clattered out on the hard dirt road with a pleasant song of
      hoofs: &ldquo;Ta ta ta rat! Ta ta ta rat!&rdquo; It was early and fresh, the air
      whistling, frost bright on the golden rod. As the sun warmed the world of
      stubble into a welter of yellow they turned from the highroad, through the
      bars of a farmer's gate, into a field, slowly bumping over the uneven
      earth. In a hollow of the rolling prairie they lost sight even of the
      country road. It was warm and placid. Locusts trilled among the dry
      wheat-stalks, and brilliant little flies hurtled across the buggy. A buzz
      of content filled the air. Crows loitered and gossiped in the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog had been let out and after a dance of excitement he settled down
      to a steady quartering of the field, forth and back, forth and back, his
      nose down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pete Rustad owns this farm, and he told me he saw a small covey of
      chickens in the west forty, last week. Maybe we'll get some sport after
      all,&rdquo; Kennicott chuckled blissfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      She watched the dog in suspense, breathing quickly every time he seemed to
      halt. She had no desire to slaughter birds, but she did desire to belong
      to Kennicott's world.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dog stopped, on the point, a forepaw held up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By golly! He's hit a scent! Come on!&rdquo; squealed Kennicott. He leaped from
      the buggy, twisted the reins about the whip-socket, swung her out, caught
      up his gun, slipped in two shells, stalked toward the rigid dog, Carol
      pattering after him. The setter crawled ahead, his tail quivering, his
      belly close to the stubble. Carol was nervous. She expected clouds of
      large birds to fly up instantly. Her eyes were strained with staring. But
      they followed the dog for a quarter of a mile, turning, doubling, crossing
      two low hills, kicking through a swale of weeds, crawling between the
      strands of a barbed-wire fence. The walking was hard on her
      pavement-trained feet. The earth was lumpy, the stubble prickly and lined
      with grass, thistles, abortive stumps of clover. She dragged and
      floundered.
    </p>
    <p>
      She heard Kennicott gasp, &ldquo;Look!&rdquo; Three gray birds were starting up from
      the stubble. They were round, dumpy, like enormous bumble bees. Kennicott
      was sighting, moving the barrel. She was agitated. Why didn't he fire? The
      birds would be gone! Then a crash, another, and two birds turned
      somersaults in the air, plumped down.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he showed her the birds she had no sensation of blood. These heaps of
      feathers were so soft and unbruised&mdash;there was about them no hint of
      death. She watched her conquering man tuck them into his inside pocket,
      and trudged with him back to the buggy.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found no more prairie chickens that morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      At noon they drove into her first farmyard, a private village, a white
      house with no porches save a low and quite dirty stoop at the back, a
      crimson barn with white trimmings, a glazed brick silo, an
      ex-carriage-shed, now the garage of a Ford, an unpainted cow-stable, a
      chicken-house, a pig-pen, a corn-crib, a granary, the galvanized-iron
      skeleton tower of a wind-mill. The dooryard was of packed yellow clay,
      treeless, barren of grass, littered with rusty plowshares and wheels of
      discarded cultivators. Hardened trampled mud, like lava, filled the
      pig-pen. The doors of the house were grime-rubbed, the corners and eaves
      were rusted with rain, and the child who stared at them from the kitchen
      window was smeary-faced. But beyond the barn was a clump of scarlet
      geraniums; the prairie breeze was sunshine in motion; the flashing metal
      blades of the windmill revolved with a lively hum; a horse neighed, a
      rooster crowed, martins flew in and out of the cow-stable.
    </p>
    <p>
      A small spare woman with flaxen hair trotted from the house. She was
      twanging a Swedish patois&mdash;not in monotone, like English, but singing
      it, with a lyrical whine:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pete he say you kom pretty soon hunting, doctor. My, dot's fine you kom.
      Is dis de bride? Ohhhh! Ve yoost say las' night, ve hope maybe ve see her
      som day. My, soch a pretty lady!&rdquo; Mrs. Rustad was shining with welcome.
      &ldquo;Vell, vell! Ay hope you lak dis country! Von't you stay for dinner,
      doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but I wonder if you wouldn't like to give us a glass of milk?&rdquo;
       condescended Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell Ay should say Ay vill! You vait har a second and Ay run on de
      milk-house!&rdquo; She nervously hastened to a tiny red building beside the
      windmill; she came back with a pitcher of milk from which Carol filled the
      thermos bottle.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they drove off Carol admired, &ldquo;She's the dearest thing I ever saw. And
      she adores you. You are the Lord of the Manor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; much pleased, &ldquo;but still they do ask my advice about things.
      Bully people, these Scandinavian farmers. And prosperous, too. Helga
      Rustad, she's still scared of America, but her kids will be doctors and
      lawyers and governors of the state and any darn thing they want to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Carol was plunged back into last night's
      Weltschmerz. &ldquo;I wonder if these farmers aren't bigger than we are? So
      simple and hard-working. The town lives on them. We townies are parasites,
      and yet we feel superior to them. Last night I heard Mr. Haydock talking
      about 'hicks.' Apparently he despises the farmers because they haven't
      reached the social heights of selling thread and buttons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parasites? Us? Where'd the farmers be without the town? Who lends them
      money? Who&mdash;why, we supply them with everything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you find that some of the farmers think they pay too much for the
      services of the towns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, of course there's a lot of cranks among the farmers same as there are
      among any class. Listen to some of these kickers, a fellow'd think that
      the farmers ought to run the state and the whole shooting-match&mdash;probably
      if they had their way they'd fill up the legislature with a lot of farmers
      in manure-covered boots&mdash;yes, and they'd come tell me I was hired on
      a salary now, and couldn't fix my fees! That'd be fine for you, wouldn't
      it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why shouldn't they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why? That bunch of&mdash;&mdash;Telling ME&mdash;&mdash;Oh, for heaven's
      sake, let's quit arguing. All this discussing may be all right at a party
      but&mdash;&mdash;Let's forget it while we're hunting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. The Wonderlust&mdash;probably it's a worse affliction than the
      Wanderlust. I just wonder&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She told herself that she had everything in the world. And after each
      self-rebuke she stumbled again on &ldquo;I just wonder&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They ate their sandwiches by a prairie slew: long grass reaching up out of
      clear water, mossy bogs, red-winged black-birds, the scum a splash of
      gold-green. Kennicott smoked a pipe while she leaned back in the buggy and
      let her tired spirit be absorbed in the Nirvana of the incomparable sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      They lurched to the highroad and awoke from their sun-soaked drowse at the
      sound of the clopping hoofs. They paused to look for partridges in a rim
      of woods, little woods, very clean and shiny and gay, silver birches and
      poplars with immaculate green trunks, encircling a lake of sandy bottom, a
      splashing seclusion demure in the welter of hot prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott brought down a fat red squirrel and at dusk he had a dramatic
      shot at a flight of ducks whirling down from the upper air, skimming the
      lake, instantly vanishing.
    </p>
    <p>
      They drove home under the sunset. Mounds of straw, and wheat-stacks like
      bee-hives, stood out in startling rose and gold, and the green-tufted
      stubble glistened. As the vast girdle of crimson darkened, the fulfilled
      land became autumnal in deep reds and browns. The black road before the
      buggy turned to a faint lavender, then was blotted to uncertain grayness.
      Cattle came in a long line up to the barred gates of the farmyards, and
      over the resting land was a dark glow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had found the dignity and greatness which had failed her in Main
      Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Till they had a maid they took noon dinner and six o'clock supper at Mrs.
      Gurrey's boarding-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Elisha Gurrey, relict of Deacon Gurrey the dealer in hay and grain,
      was a pointed-nosed, simpering woman with iron-gray hair drawn so tight
      that it resembled a soiled handkerchief covering her head. But she was
      unexpectedly cheerful, and her dining-room, with its thin tablecloth on a
      long pine table, had the decency of clean bareness.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the line of unsmiling, methodically chewing guests, like horses at a
      manger, Carol came to distinguish one countenance: the pale, long,
      spectacled face and sandy pompadour hair of Mr. Raymond P. Wutherspoon,
      known as &ldquo;Raymie,&rdquo; professional bachelor, manager and one half the
      sales-force in the shoe-department of the Bon Ton Store.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will enjoy Gopher Prairie very much, Mrs. Kennicott,&rdquo; petitioned
      Raymie. His eyes were like those of a dog waiting to be let in out of the
      cold. He passed the stewed apricots effusively. &ldquo;There are a great many
      bright cultured people here. Mrs. Wilks, the Christian Science reader, is
      a very bright woman&mdash;though I am not a Scientist myself, in fact I
      sing in the Episcopal choir. And Miss Sherwin of the high school&mdash;she
      is such a pleasing, bright girl&mdash;I was fitting her to a pair of tan
      gaiters yesterday, I declare, it really was a pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gimme the butter, Carrie,&rdquo; was Kennicott's comment. She defied him by
      encouraging Raymie:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you have amateur dramatics and so on here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes! The town's just full of talent. The Knights of Pythias put on a
      dandy minstrel show last year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's nice you're so enthusiastic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do you really think so? Lots of folks jolly me for trying to get up
      shows and so on. I tell them they have more artistic gifts than they know.
      Just yesterday I was saying to Harry Haydock: if he would read poetry,
      like Longfellow, or if he would join the band&mdash;I get so much pleasure
      out of playing the cornet, and our band-leader, Del Snafflin, is such a
      good musician, I often say he ought to give up his barbering and become a
      professional musician, he could play the clarinet in Minneapolis or New
      York or anywhere, but&mdash;but I couldn't get Harry to see it at all and&mdash;I
      hear you and the doctor went out hunting yesterday. Lovely country, isn't
      it. And did you make some calls? The mercantile life isn't inspiring like
      medicine. It must be wonderful to see how patients trust you, doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh. It's me that's got to do all the trusting. Be damn sight more
      wonderful 'f they'd pay their bills,&rdquo; grumbled Kennicott and, to Carol, he
      whispered something which sounded like &ldquo;gentleman hen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Raymie's pale eyes were watering at her. She helped him with, &ldquo;So you
      like to read poetry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, so much&mdash;though to tell the truth, I don't get much time for
      reading, we're always so busy at the store and&mdash;&mdash;But we had the
      dandiest professional reciter at the Pythian Sisters sociable last
      winter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol thought she heard a grunt from the traveling salesman at the end of
      the table, and Kennicott's jerking elbow was a grunt embodied. She
      persisted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you get to see many plays, Mr. Wutherspoon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shone at her like a dim blue March moon, and sighed, &ldquo;No, but I do love
      the movies. I'm a real fan. One trouble with books is that they're not so
      thoroughly safeguarded by intelligent censors as the movies are, and when
      you drop into the library and take out a book you never know what you're
      wasting your time on. What I like in books is a wholesome, really
      improving story, and sometimes&mdash;&mdash;Why, once I started a novel by
      this fellow Balzac that you read about, and it told how a lady wasn't
      living with her husband, I mean she wasn't his wife. It went into details,
      disgustingly! And the English was real poor. I spoke to the library about
      it, and they took it off the shelves. I'm not narrow, but I must say I
      don't see any use in this deliberately dragging in immorality! Life itself
      is so full of temptations that in literature one wants only that which is
      pure and uplifting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the name of that Balzac yarn? Where can I get hold of it?&rdquo; giggled
      the traveling salesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raymie ignored him. &ldquo;But the movies, they are mostly clean, and their
      humor&mdash;&mdash;Don't you think that the most essential quality for a
      person to have is a sense of humor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. I really haven't much,&rdquo; said Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook his finger at her. &ldquo;Now, now, you're too modest. I'm sure we can
      all see that you have a perfectly corking sense of humor. Besides, Dr.
      Kennicott wouldn't marry a lady that didn't have. We all know how he loves
      his fun!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet. I'm a jokey old bird. Come on, Carrie; let's beat it,&rdquo; remarked
      Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raymie implored, &ldquo;And what is your chief artistic interest, Mrs.
      Kennicott?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Aware that the traveling salesman had murmured,
      &ldquo;Dentistry,&rdquo; she desperately hazarded, &ldquo;Architecture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a real nice art. I've always said&mdash;when Haydock &amp; Simons
      were finishing the new front on the Bon Ton building, the old man came to
      me, you know, Harry's father, 'D. H.,' I always call him, and he asked me
      how I liked it, and I said to him, 'Look here, D. H.,' I said&mdash;you
      see, he was going to leave the front plain, and I said to him, 'It's all
      very well to have modern lighting and a big display-space,' I said, 'but
      when you get that in, you want to have some architecture, too,' I said,
      and he laughed and said he guessed maybe I was right, and so he had 'em
      put on a cornice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tin!&rdquo; observed the traveling salesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raymie bared his teeth like a belligerent mouse. &ldquo;Well, what if it is tin?
      That's not my fault. I told D. H. to make it polished granite. You make me
      tired!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave us go! Come on, Carrie, leave us go!&rdquo; from Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raymie waylaid them in the hall and secretly informed Carol that she
      musn't mind the traveling salesman's coarseness&mdash;he belonged to the
      hwa pollwa.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott chuckled, &ldquo;Well, child, how about it? Do you prefer an artistic
      guy like Raymie to stupid boobs like Sam Clark and me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear! Let's go home, and play pinochle, and laugh, and be foolish, and
      slip up to bed, and sleep without dreaming. It's beautiful to be just a
      solid citizeness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      From the Gopher Prairie Weekly Dauntless:
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most charming affairs of the season was held Tuesday evening at
      the handsome new residence of Sam and Mrs. Clark when many of our most
      prominent citizens gathered to greet the lovely new bride of our popular
      local physician, Dr. Will Kennicott. All present spoke of the many charms
      of the bride, formerly Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul. Games and stunts
      were the order of the day, with merry talk and conversation. At a late
      hour dainty refreshments were served, and the party broke up with many
      expressions of pleasure at the pleasant affair. Among those present were
      Mesdames Kennicott, Elder&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      Dr. Will Kennicott, for the past several years one of our most popular and
      skilful physicians and surgeons, gave the town a delightful surprise when
      he returned from an extended honeymoon tour in Colorado this week with his
      charming bride, nee Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul, whose family are
      socially prominent in Minneapolis and Mankato. Mrs. Kennicott is a lady of
      manifold charms, not only of striking charm of appearance but is also a
      distinguished graduate of a school in the East and has for the past year
      been prominently connected in an important position of responsibility with
      the St. Paul Public Library, in which city Dr. &ldquo;Will&rdquo; had the good fortune
      to meet her. The city of Gopher Prairie welcomes her to our midst and
      prophesies for her many happy years in the energetic city of the twin
      lakes and the future. The Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott will reside for the
      present at the Doctor's home on Poplar Street which his charming mother
      has been keeping for him who has now returned to her own home at
      Lac-qui-Meurt leaving a host of friends who regret her absence and hope to
      see her soon with us again.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew that if she was ever to effect any of the &ldquo;reforms&rdquo; which she had
      pictured, she must have a starting-place. What confused her during the
      three or four months after her marriage was not lack of perception that
      she must be definite, but sheer careless happiness of her first home.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the pride of being a housewife she loved every detail&mdash;the brocade
      armchair with the weak back, even the brass water-cock on the hot-water
      reservoir, when she had become familiar with it by trying to scour it to
      brilliance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found a maid&mdash;plump radiant Bea Sorenson from Scandia Crossing.
      Bea was droll in her attempt to be at once a respectful servant and a
      bosom friend. They laughed together over the fact that the stove did not
      draw, over the slipperiness of fish in the pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like a child playing Grandma in a trailing skirt, Carol paraded uptown for
      her marketing, crying greetings to housewives along the way. Everybody
      bowed to her, strangers and all, and made her feel that they wanted her,
      that she belonged here. In city shops she was merely A Customer&mdash;a
      hat, a voice to bore a harassed clerk. Here she was Mrs. Doc Kennicott,
      and her preferences in grape-fruit and manners were known and remembered
      and worth discussing . . . even if they weren't worth fulfilling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shopping was a delight of brisk conferences. The very merchants whose
      droning she found the dullest at the two or three parties which were given
      to welcome her were the pleasantest confidants of all when they had
      something to talk about&mdash;lemons or cotton voile or floor-oil. With
      that skip-jack Dave Dyer, the druggist, she conducted a long mock-quarrel.
      She pretended that he cheated her in the price of magazines and candy; he
      pretended she was a detective from the Twin Cities. He hid behind the
      prescription-counter, and when she stamped her foot he came out wailing,
      &ldquo;Honest, I haven't done nothing crooked today&mdash;not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She never recalled her first impression of Main Street; never had
      precisely the same despair at its ugliness. By the end of two
      shopping-tours everything had changed proportions. As she never entered
      it, the Minniemashie House ceased to exist for her. Clark's Hardware
      Store, Dyer's Drug Store, the groceries of Ole Jenson and Frederick
      Ludelmeyer and Howland &amp; Gould, the meat markets, the notions shop&mdash;they
      expanded, and hid all other structures. When she entered Mr. Ludelmeyer's
      store and he wheezed, &ldquo;Goot mornin', Mrs. Kennicott. Vell, dis iss a fine
      day,&rdquo; she did not notice the dustiness of the shelves nor the stupidity of
      the girl clerk; and she did not remember the mute colloquy with him on her
      first view of Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not find half the kinds of food she wanted, but that made
      shopping more of an adventure. When she did contrive to get sweetbreads at
      Dahl &amp; Oleson's Meat Market the triumph was so vast that she buzzed
      with excitement and admired the strong wise butcher, Mr. Dahl.
    </p>
    <p>
      She appreciated the homely ease of village life. She liked the old men,
      farmers, G.A.R. veterans, who when they gossiped sometimes squatted on
      their heels on the sidewalk, like resting Indians, and reflectively spat
      over the curb.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found beauty in the children.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had suspected that her married friends exaggerated their passion for
      children. But in her work in the library, children had become individuals
      to her, citizens of the State with their own rights and their own senses
      of humor. In the library she had not had much time to give them, but now
      she knew the luxury of stopping, gravely asking Bessie Clark whether her
      doll had yet recovered from its rheumatism, and agreeing with Oscar
      Martinsen that it would be Good Fun to go trapping &ldquo;mushrats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She touched the thought, &ldquo;It would be sweet to have a baby of my own. I do
      want one. Tiny&mdash;&mdash;No! Not yet! There's so much to do. And I'm
      still tired from the job. It's in my bones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rested at home. She listened to the village noises common to all the
      world, jungle or prairie; sounds simple and charged with magic&mdash;dogs
      barking, chickens making a gurgling sound of content, children at play, a
      man beating a rug, wind in the cottonwood trees, a locust fiddling, a
      footstep on the walk, jaunty voices of Bea and a grocer's boy in the
      kitchen, a clinking anvil, a piano&mdash;not too near.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice a week, at least, she drove into the country with Kennicott, to hunt
      ducks in lakes enameled with sunset, or to call on patients who looked up
      to her as the squire's lady and thanked her for toys and magazines.
      Evenings she went with her husband to the motion pictures and was
      boisterously greeted by every other couple; or, till it became too cold,
      they sat on the porch, bawling to passers-by in motors, or to neighbors
      who were raking the leaves. The dust became golden in the low sun; the
      street was filled with the fragrance of burning leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      But she hazily wanted some one to whom she could say what she thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a slow afternoon when she fidgeted over sewing and wished that the
      telephone would ring, Bea announced Miss Vida Sherwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Despite Vida Sherwin's lively blue eyes, if you had looked at her in
      detail you would have found her face slightly lined, and not so much
      sallow as with the bloom rubbed off; you would have found her chest flat,
      and her fingers rough from needle and chalk and penholder; her blouses and
      plain cloth skirts undistinguished; and her hat worn too far back,
      betraying a dry forehead. But you never did look at Vida Sherwin in
      detail. You couldn't. Her electric activity veiled her. She was as
      energetic as a chipmunk. Her fingers fluttered; her sympathy came out in
      spurts; she sat on the edge of a chair in eagerness to be near her
      auditor, to send her enthusiasms and optimism across.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rushed into the room pouring out: &ldquo;I'm afraid you'll think the
      teachers have been shabby in not coming near you, but we wanted to give
      you a chance to get settled. I am Vida Sherwin, and I try to teach French
      and English and a few other things in the high school.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been hoping to know the teachers. You see, I was a librarian&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you needn't tell me. I know all about you! Awful how much I know&mdash;this
      gossipy village. We need you so much here. It's a dear loyal town (and
      isn't loyalty the finest thing in the world!) but it's a rough diamond,
      and we need you for the polishing, and we're ever so humble&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       She stopped for breath and finished her compliment with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I COULD help you in any way&mdash;&mdash;Would I be committing the
      unpardonable sin if I whispered that I think Gopher Prairie is a tiny bit
      ugly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it's ugly. Dreadfully! Though I'm probably the only person in
      town to whom you could safely say that. (Except perhaps Guy Pollock the
      lawyer&mdash;have you met him?&mdash;oh, you MUST!&mdash;he's simply a
      darling&mdash;intelligence and culture and so gentle.) But I don't care so
      much about the ugliness. That will change. It's the spirit that gives me
      hope. It's sound. Wholesome. But afraid. It needs live creatures like you
      to awaken it. I shall slave-drive you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Splendid. What shall I do? I've been wondering if it would be possible to
      have a good architect come here to lecture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye-es, but don't you think it would be better to work with existing
      agencies? Perhaps it will sound slow to you, but I was thinking&mdash;&mdash;It
      would be lovely if we could get you to teach Sunday School.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol had the empty expression of one who finds that she has been
      affectionately bowing to a complete stranger. &ldquo;Oh yes. But I'm afraid I
      wouldn't be much good at that. My religion is so foggy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. So is mine. I don't care a bit for dogma. Though I do stick
      firmly to the belief in the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man
      and the leadership of Jesus. As you do, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol looked respectable and thought about having tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that's all you need teach in Sunday School. It's the personal
      influence. Then there's the library-board. You'd be so useful on that. And
      of course there's our women's study club&mdash;the Thanatopsis Club.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they doing anything? Or do they read papers made out of the
      Encyclopedia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sherwin shrugged. &ldquo;Perhaps. But still, they are so earnest. They will
      respond to your fresher interest. And the Thanatopsis does do a good
      social work&mdash;they've made the city plant ever so many trees, and they
      run the rest-room for farmers' wives. And they do take such an interest in
      refinement and culture. So&mdash;in fact, so very unique.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was disappointed&mdash;by nothing very tangible. She said politely,
      &ldquo;I'll think them all over. I must have a while to look around first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Sherwin darted to her, smoothed her hair, peered at her. &ldquo;Oh, my
      dear, don't you suppose I know? These first tender days of marriage&mdash;they're
      sacred to me. Home, and children that need you, and depend on you to keep
      them alive, and turn to you with their wrinkly little smiles. And the
      hearth and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She hid her face from Carol as she made an
      activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she went on with her
      former briskness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean, you must help us when you're ready. . . . I'm afraid you'll think
      I'm conservative. I am! So much to conserve. All this treasure of American
      ideals. Sturdiness and democracy and opportunity. Maybe not at Palm Beach.
      But, thank heaven, we're free from such social distinctions in Gopher
      Prairie. I have only one good quality&mdash;overwhelming belief in the
      brains and hearts of our nation, our state, our town. It's so strong that
      sometimes I do have a tiny effect on the haughty ten-thousandaires. I
      shake 'em up and make 'em believe in ideals&mdash;yes, in themselves. But
      I get into a rut of teaching. I need young critical things like you to
      punch me up. Tell me, what are you reading?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been re-reading 'The Damnation of Theron Ware.' Do you know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It was clever. But hard. Man wanted to tear down, not build up.
      Cynical. Oh, I do hope I'm not a sentimentalist. But I can't see any use
      in this high-art stuff that doesn't encourage us day-laborers to plod on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ensued a fifteen-minute argument about the oldest topic in the world: It's
      art but is it pretty? Carol tried to be eloquent regarding honesty of
      observation. Miss Sherwin stood out for sweetness and a cautious use of
      the uncomfortable properties of light. At the end Carol cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care how much we disagree. It's a relief to have somebody talk
      something besides crops. Let's make Gopher Prairie rock to its
      foundations: let's have afternoon tea instead of afternoon coffee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The delighted Bea helped her bring out the ancestral folding sewing-table,
      whose yellow and black top was scarred with dotted lines from a
      dressmaker's tracing-wheel, and to set it with an embroidered lunch-cloth,
      and the mauve-glazed Japanese tea-set which she had brought from St. Paul.
      Miss Sherwin confided her latest scheme&mdash;moral motion pictures for
      country districts, with light from a portable dynamo hitched to a Ford
      engine. Bea was twice called to fill the hot-water pitcher and to make
      cinnamon toast.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Kennicott came home at five he tried to be courtly, as befits the
      husband of one who has afternoon tea. Carol suggested that Miss Sherwin
      stay for supper, and that Kennicott invite Guy Pollock, the much-praised
      lawyer, the poetic bachelor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes, Pollock could come. Yes, he was over the grippe which had prevented
      his going to Sam Clark's party.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol regretted her impulse. The man would be an opinionated politician,
      heavily jocular about The Bride. But at the entrance of Guy Pollock she
      discovered a personality. Pollock was a man of perhaps thirty-eight,
      slender, still, deferential. His voice was low. &ldquo;It was very good of you
      to want me,&rdquo; he said, and he offered no humorous remarks, and did not ask
      her if she didn't think Gopher Prairie was &ldquo;the livest little burg in the
      state.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fancied that his even grayness might reveal a thousand tints of
      lavender and blue and silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      At supper he hinted his love for Sir Thomas Browne, Thoreau, Agnes
      Repplier, Arthur Symons, Claude Washburn, Charles Flandrau. He presented
      his idols diffidently, but he expanded in Carol's bookishness, in Miss
      Sherwin's voluminous praise, in Kennicott's tolerance of any one who
      amused his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol wondered why Guy Pollock went on digging at routine law-cases; why
      he remained in Gopher Prairie. She had no one whom she could ask. Neither
      Kennicott nor Vida Sherwin would understand that there might be reasons
      why a Pollock should not remain in Gopher Prairie. She enjoyed the faint
      mystery. She felt triumphant and rather literary. She already had a Group.
      It would be only a while now before she provided the town with fanlights
      and a knowledge of Galsworthy. She was doing things! As she served the
      emergency dessert of cocoanut and sliced oranges, she cried to Pollock,
      &ldquo;Don't you think we ought to get up a dramatic club?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      WHEN the first dubious November snow had filtered down, shading with white
      the bare clods in the plowed fields, when the first small fire had been
      started in the furnace, which is the shrine of a Gopher Prairie home,
      Carol began to make the house her own. She dismissed the parlor furniture&mdash;the
      golden oak table with brass knobs, the moldy brocade chairs, the picture
      of &ldquo;The Doctor.&rdquo; She went to Minneapolis, to scamper through department
      stores and small Tenth Street shops devoted to ceramics and high thought.
      She had to ship her treasures, but she wanted to bring them back in her
      arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carpenters had torn out the partition between front parlor and back
      parlor, thrown it into a long room on which she lavished yellow and deep
      blue; a Japanese obi with an intricacy of gold thread on stiff ultramarine
      tissue, which she hung as a panel against the maize wall; a couch with
      pillows of sapphire velvet and gold bands; chairs which, in Gopher
      Prairie, seemed flippant. She hid the sacred family phonograph in the
      dining-room, and replaced its stand with a square cabinet on which was a
      squat blue jar between yellow candles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott decided against a fireplace. &ldquo;We'll have a new house in a couple
      of years, anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She decorated only one room. The rest, Kennicott hinted, she'd better
      leave till he &ldquo;made a ten-strike.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The brown cube of a house stirred and awakened; it seemed to be in motion;
      it welcomed her back from shopping; it lost its mildewed repression.
    </p>
    <p>
      The supreme verdict was Kennicott's &ldquo;Well, by golly, I was afraid the new
      junk wouldn't be so comfortable, but I must say this divan, or whatever
      you call it, is a lot better than that bumpy old sofa we had, and when I
      look around&mdash;&mdash;Well, it's worth all it cost, I guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every one in town took an interest in the refurnishing. The carpenters and
      painters who did not actually assist crossed the lawn to peer through the
      windows and exclaim, &ldquo;Fine! Looks swell!&rdquo; Dave Dyer at the drug store,
      Harry Haydock and Raymie Wutherspoon at the Bon Ton, repeated daily,
      &ldquo;How's the good work coming? I hear the house is getting to be real
      classy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even Mrs. Bogart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart lived across the alley from the rear of Carol's house. She was
      a widow, and a Prominent Baptist, and a Good Influence. She had so
      painfully reared three sons to be Christian gentlemen that one of them had
      become an Omaha bartender, one a professor of Greek, and one, Cyrus N.
      Bogart, a boy of fourteen who was still at home, the most brazen member of
      the toughest gang in Boytown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart was not the acid type of Good Influence. She was the soft,
      damp, fat, sighing, indigestive, clinging, melancholy, depressingly
      hopeful kind. There are in every large chicken-yard a number of old and
      indignant hens who resemble Mrs. Bogart, and when they are served at
      Sunday noon dinner, as fricasseed chicken with thick dumplings, they keep
      up the resemblance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had noted that Mrs. Bogart from her side window kept an eye upon the
      house. The Kennicotts and Mrs. Bogart did not move in the same sets&mdash;which
      meant precisely the same in Gopher Prairie as it did on Fifth Avenue or in
      Mayfair. But the good widow came calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wheezed in, sighed, gave Carol a pulpy hand, sighed, glanced sharply
      at the revelation of ankles as Carol crossed her legs, sighed, inspected
      the new blue chairs, smiled with a coy sighing sound, and gave voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've wanted to call on you so long, dearie, you know we're neighbors, but
      I thought I'd wait till you got settled, you must run in and see me, how
      much did that big chair cost?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seventy-seven dollars!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sev&mdash;&mdash;Sakes alive! Well, I suppose it's all right for them
      that can afford it, though I do sometimes think&mdash;&mdash;Of course as
      our pastor said once, at Baptist Church&mdash;&mdash;By the way, we
      haven't seen you there yet, and of course your husband was raised up a
      Baptist, and I do hope he won't drift away from the fold, of course we all
      know there isn't anything, not cleverness or gifts of gold or anything,
      that can make up for humility and the inward grace and they can say what
      they want to about the P. E. church, but of course there's no church that
      has more history or has stayed by the true principles of Christianity
      better than the Baptist Church and&mdash;&mdash;In what church were you
      raised, Mrs. Kennicott?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W-why, I went to Congregational, as a girl in Mankato, but my college was
      Universalist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;But of course as the Bible says, is it the Bible, at
      least I know I have heard it in church and everybody admits it, it's
      proper for the little bride to take her husband's vessel of faith, so we
      all hope we shall see you at the Baptist Church and&mdash;&mdash;As I was
      saying, of course I agree with Reverend Zitterel in thinking that the
      great trouble with this nation today is lack of spiritual faith&mdash;so
      few going to church, and people automobiling on Sunday and heaven knows
      what all. But still I do think that one trouble is this terrible waste of
      money, people feeling that they've got to have bath-tubs and telephones in
      their houses&mdash;&mdash;I heard you were selling the old furniture
      cheap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;of course you know your own mind, but I can't help thinking,
      when Will's ma was down here keeping house for him&mdash;SHE used to run
      in to SEE me, real OFTEN!&mdash;it was good enough furniture for her. But
      there, there, I mustn't croak, I just wanted to let you know that when you
      find you can't depend on a lot of these gadding young folks like the
      Haydocks and the Dyers&mdash;and heaven only knows how much money Juanita
      Haydock blows in in a year&mdash;why then you may be glad to know that
      slow old Aunty Bogart is always right there, and heaven knows&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       A portentous sigh. &ldquo;&mdash;I HOPE you and your husband won't have any of
      the troubles, with sickness and quarreling and wasting money and all that
      so many of these young couples do have and&mdash;&mdash;But I must be
      running along now, dearie. It's been such a pleasure and&mdash;&mdash;Just
      run in and see me any time. I hope Will is well? I thought he looked a wee
      mite peaked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was twenty minutes later when Mrs. Bogart finally oozed out of the
      front door. Carol ran back into the living-room and jerked open the
      windows. &ldquo;That woman has left damp finger-prints in the air,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was extravagant, but at least she did not try to clear herself of
      blame by going about whimpering, &ldquo;I know I'm terribly extravagant but I
      don't seem to be able to help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had never thought of giving her an allowance. His mother had
      never had one! As a wage-earning spinster Carol had asserted to her fellow
      librarians that when she was married, she was going to have an allowance
      and be business-like and modern. But it was too much trouble to explain to
      Kennicott's kindly stubbornness that she was a practical housekeeper as
      well as a flighty playmate. She bought a budget-plan account book and made
      her budgets as exact as budgets are likely to be when they lack budgets.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first month it was a honeymoon jest to beg prettily, to confess,
      &ldquo;I haven't a cent in the house, dear,&rdquo; and to be told, &ldquo;You're an
      extravagant little rabbit.&rdquo; But the budget book made her realize how
      inexact were her finances. She became self-conscious; occasionally she was
      indignant that she should always have to petition him for the money with
      which to buy his food. She caught herself criticizing his belief that,
      since his joke about trying to keep her out of the poorhouse had once been
      accepted as admirable humor, it should continue to be his daily bon mot.
      It was a nuisance to have to run down the street after him because she had
      forgotten to ask him for money at breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she couldn't &ldquo;hurt his feelings,&rdquo; she reflected. He liked the
      lordliness of giving largess.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to reduce the frequency of begging by opening accounts and
      having the bills sent to him. She had found that staple groceries, sugar,
      flour, could be most cheaply purchased at Axel Egge's rustic general
      store. She said sweetly to Axel:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I'd better open a charge account here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't do no business except for cash,&rdquo; grunted Axel.
    </p>
    <p>
      She flared, &ldquo;Do you know who I am?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yuh, sure, I know. The doc is good for it. But that's yoost a rule I
      made. I make low prices. I do business for cash.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stared at his red impassive face, and her fingers had the undignified
      desire to slap him, but her reason agreed with him. &ldquo;You're quite right.
      You shouldn't break your rule for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her rage had not been lost. It had been transferred to her husband. She
      wanted ten pounds of sugar in a hurry, but she had no money. She ran up
      the stairs to Kennicott's office. On the door was a sign advertising a
      headache cure and stating, &ldquo;The doctor is out, back at&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       Naturally, the blank space was not filled out. She stamped her foot. She
      ran down to the drug store&mdash;the doctor's club.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she entered she heard Mrs. Dyer demanding, &ldquo;Dave, I've got to have some
      money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol saw that her husband was there, and two other men, all listening in
      amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dave Dyer snapped, &ldquo;How much do you want? Dollar be enough?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it won't! I've got to get some underclothes for the kids.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, good Lord, they got enough now to fill the closet so I couldn't find
      my hunting boots, last time I wanted them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care. They're all in rags. You got to give me ten dollars&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol perceived that Mrs. Dyer was accustomed to this indignity. She
      perceived that the men, particularly Dave, regarded it as an excellent
      jest. She waited&mdash;she knew what would come&mdash;it did. Dave yelped,
      &ldquo;Where's that ten dollars I gave you last year?&rdquo; and he looked to the
      other men to laugh. They laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cold and still, Carol walked up to Kennicott and commanded, &ldquo;I want to see
      you upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;something the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He clumped after her, up the stairs, into his barren office. Before he
      could get out a query she stated:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday, in front of a saloon, I heard a German farm-wife beg her
      husband for a quarter, to get a toy for the baby&mdash;and he refused.
      Just now I've heard Mrs. Dyer going through the same humiliation. And I&mdash;I'm
      in the same position! I have to beg you for money. Daily! I have just been
      informed that I couldn't have any sugar because I hadn't the money to pay
      for it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who said that? By God, I'll kill any&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut. It wasn't his fault. It was yours. And mine. I now humbly beg you to
      give me the money with which to buy meals for you to eat. And hereafter to
      remember it. The next time, I sha'n't beg. I shall simply starve. Do you
      understand? I can't go on being a slave&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her defiance, her enjoyment of the role, ran out. She was sobbing against
      his overcoat, &ldquo;How can you shame me so?&rdquo; and he was blubbering, &ldquo;Dog-gone
      it, I meant to give you some, and I forgot it. I swear I won't again. By
      golly I won't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pressed fifty dollars upon her, and after that he remembered to give
      her money regularly . . . sometimes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Daily she determined, &ldquo;But I must have a stated amount&mdash;be
      business-like. System. I must do something about it.&rdquo; And daily she didn't
      do anything about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart had, by the simpering viciousness of her comments on the new
      furniture, stirred Carol to economy. She spoke judiciously to Bea about
      left-overs. She read the cookbook again and, like a child with a
      picture-book, she studied the diagram of the beef which gallantly
      continues to browse though it is divided into cuts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she was a deliberate and joyous spendthrift in her preparations for
      her first party, the housewarming. She made lists on every envelope and
      laundry-slip in her desk. She sent orders to Minneapolis &ldquo;fancy grocers.&rdquo;
       She pinned patterns and sewed. She was irritated when Kennicott was
      jocular about &ldquo;these frightful big doings that are going on.&rdquo; She regarded
      the affair as an attack on Gopher Prairie's timidity in pleasure. &ldquo;I'll
      make 'em lively, if nothing else. I'll make 'em stop regarding parties as
      committee-meetings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott usually considered himself the master of the house. At his
      desire, she went hunting, which was his symbol of happiness, and she
      ordered porridge for breakfast, which was his symbol of morality. But when
      he came home on the afternoon before the housewarming he found himself a
      slave, an intruder, a blunderer. Carol wailed, &ldquo;Fix the furnace so you
      won't have to touch it after supper. And for heaven's sake take that
      horrible old door-mat off the porch. And put on your nice brown and white
      shirt. Why did you come home so late? Would you mind hurrying? Here it is
      almost suppertime, and those fiends are just as likely as not to come at
      seven instead of eight. PLEASE hurry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was as unreasonable as an amateur leading woman on a first night, and
      he was reduced to humility. When she came down to supper, when she stood
      in the doorway, he gasped. She was in a silver sheath, the calyx of a
      lily, her piled hair like black glass; she had the fragility and
      costliness of a Viennese goblet; and her eyes were intense. He was stirred
      to rise from the table and to hold the chair for her; and all through
      supper he ate his bread dry because he felt that she would think him
      common if he said &ldquo;Will you hand me the butter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She had reached the calmness of not caring whether her guests liked the
      party or not, and a state of satisfied suspense in regard to Bea's
      technique in serving, before Kennicott cried from the bay-window in the
      living-room, &ldquo;Here comes somebody!&rdquo; and Mr. and Mrs. Luke Dawson faltered
      in, at a quarter to eight. Then in a shy avalanche arrived the entire
      aristocracy of Gopher Prairie: all persons engaged in a profession, or
      earning more than twenty-five hundred dollars a year, or possessed of
      grandparents born in America.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even while they were removing their overshoes they were peeping at the new
      decorations. Carol saw Dave Dyer secretively turn over the gold pillows to
      find a price-tag, and heard Mr. Julius Flickerbaugh, the attorney, gasp,
      &ldquo;Well, I'll be switched,&rdquo; as he viewed the vermilion print hanging against
      the Japanese obi. She was amused. But her high spirits slackened as she
      beheld them form in dress parade, in a long, silent, uneasy circle clear
      round the living-room. She felt that she had been magically whisked back
      to her first party, at Sam Clark's.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I got to lift them, like so many pigs of iron? I don't know that I
      can make them happy, but I'll make them hectic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A silver flame in the darkling circle, she whirled around, drew them with
      her smile, and sang, &ldquo;I want my party to be noisy and undignified! This is
      the christening of my house, and I want you to help me have a bad
      influence on it, so that it will be a giddy house. For me, won't you all
      join in an old-fashioned square dance? And Mr. Dyer will call.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had a record on the phonograph; Dave Dyer was capering in the center
      of the floor, loose-jointed, lean, small, rusty headed, pointed of nose,
      clapping his hands and shouting, &ldquo;Swing y' pardners&mdash;alamun lef!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even the millionaire Dawsons and Ezra Stowbody and &ldquo;Professor&rdquo; George
      Edwin Mott danced, looking only slightly foolish; and by rushing about the
      room and being coy and coaxing to all persons over forty-five, Carol got
      them into a waltz and a Virginia Reel. But when she left them to disenjoy
      themselves in their own way Harry Haydock put a one-step record on the
      phonograph, the younger people took the floor, and all the elders sneaked
      back to their chairs, with crystallized smiles which meant, &ldquo;Don't believe
      I'll try this one myself, but I do enjoy watching the youngsters dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Half of them were silent; half resumed the discussions of that afternoon
      in the store. Ezra Stowbody hunted for something to say, hid a yawn, and
      offered to Lyman Cass, the owner of the flour-mill, &ldquo;How d' you folks like
      the new furnace, Lym? Huh? So.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, let them alone. Don't pester them. They must like it, or they
      wouldn't do it.&rdquo; Carol warned herself. But they gazed at her so
      expectantly when she flickered past that she was reconvinced that in their
      debauches of respectability they had lost the power of play as well as the
      power of impersonal thought. Even the dancers were gradually crushed by
      the invisible force of fifty perfectly pure and well-behaved and negative
      minds; and they sat down, two by two. In twenty minutes the party was
      again elevated to the decorum of a prayer-meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're going to do something exciting,&rdquo; Carol exclaimed to her new
      confidante, Vida Sherwin. She saw that in the growing quiet her voice had
      carried across the room. Nat Hicks, Ella Stowbody, and Dave Dyer were
      abstracted, fingers and lips slightly moving. She knew with a cold
      certainty that Dave was rehearsing his &ldquo;stunt&rdquo; about the Norwegian
      catching the hen, Ella running over the first lines of &ldquo;An Old Sweetheart
      of Mine,&rdquo; and Nat thinking of his popular parody on Mark Antony's oration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I will not have anybody use the word 'stunt' in my house,&rdquo; she
      whispered to Miss Sherwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's good. I tell you: why not have Raymond Wutherspoon sing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Raymie? Why, my dear, he's the most sentimental yearner in town!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, child! Your opinions on house-decorating are sound, but your
      opinions of people are rotten! Raymie does wag his tail. But the poor dear&mdash;&mdash;Longing
      for what he calls 'self-expression' and no training in anything except
      selling shoes. But he can sing. And some day when he gets away from Harry
      Haydock's patronage and ridicule, he'll do something fine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol apologized for her superciliousness. She urged Raymie, and warned
      the planners of &ldquo;stunts,&rdquo; &ldquo;We all want you to sing, Mr. Wutherspoon.
      You're the only famous actor I'm going to let appear on the stage
      tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Raymie blushed and admitted, &ldquo;Oh, they don't want to hear me,&rdquo; he
      was clearing his throat, pulling his clean handkerchief farther out of his
      breast pocket, and thrusting his fingers between the buttons of his vest.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her affection for Raymie's defender, in her desire to &ldquo;discover
      artistic talent,&rdquo; Carol prepared to be delighted by the recital.
    </p>
    <p>
      Raymie sang &ldquo;Fly as a Bird,&rdquo; &ldquo;Thou Art My Dove,&rdquo; and &ldquo;When the Little
      Swallow Leaves Its Tiny Nest,&rdquo; all in a reasonably bad offertory tenor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was shuddering with the vicarious shame which sensitive people feel
      when they listen to an &ldquo;elocutionist&rdquo; being humorous, or to a precocious
      child publicly doing badly what no child should do at all. She wanted to
      laugh at the gratified importance in Raymie's half-shut eyes; she wanted
      to weep over the meek ambitiousness which clouded like an aura his pale
      face, flap ears, and sandy pompadour. She tried to look admiring, for the
      benefit of Miss Sherwin, that trusting admirer of all that was or
      conceivably could be the good, the true, and the beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the third ornithological lyric Miss Sherwin roused from her
      attitude of inspired vision and breathed to Carol, &ldquo;My! That was sweet! Of
      course Raymond hasn't an unusually good voice, but don't you think he puts
      such a lot of feeling into it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol lied blackly and magnificently, but without originality: &ldquo;Oh yes, I
      do think he has so much FEELING!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw that after the strain of listening in a cultured manner the
      audience had collapsed; had given up their last hope of being amused. She
      cried, &ldquo;Now we're going to play an idiotic game which I learned in
      Chicago. You will have to take off your shoes, for a starter! After that
      you will probably break your knees and shoulder-blades.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Much attention and incredulity. A few eyebrows indicating a verdict that
      Doc Kennicott's bride was noisy and improper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall choose the most vicious, like Juanita Haydock and myself, as the
      shepherds. The rest of you are wolves. Your shoes are the sheep. The
      wolves go out into the hall. The shepherds scatter the sheep through this
      room, then turn off all the lights, and the wolves crawl in from the hall
      and in the darkness they try to get the shoes away from the shepherds&mdash;who
      are permitted to do anything except bite and use black-jacks. The wolves
      chuck the captured shoes out into the hall. No one excused! Come on! Shoes
      off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every one looked at every one else and waited for every one else to begin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol kicked off her silver slippers, and ignored the universal glance at
      her arches. The embarrassed but loyal Vida Sherwin unbuttoned her high
      black shoes. Ezra Stowbody cackled, &ldquo;Well, you're a terror to old folks.
      You're like the gals I used to go horseback-riding with, back in the
      sixties. Ain't much accustomed to attending parties barefoot, but here
      goes!&rdquo; With a whoop and a gallant jerk Ezra snatched off his elastic-sided
      Congress shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others giggled and followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the sheep had been penned up, in the darkness the timorous wolves
      crept into the living-room, squealing, halting, thrown out of their habit
      of stolidity by the strangeness of advancing through nothingness toward a
      waiting foe, a mysterious foe which expanded and grew more menacing. The
      wolves peered to make out landmarks, they touched gliding arms which did
      not seem to be attached to a body, they quivered with a rapture of fear.
      Reality had vanished. A yelping squabble suddenly rose, then Juanita
      Haydock's high titter, and Guy Pollock's astonished, &ldquo;Ouch! Quit! You're
      scalping me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luke Dawson galloped backward on stiff hands and knees into the
      safety of the lighted hallway, moaning, &ldquo;I declare, I nev' was so upset in
      my life!&rdquo; But the propriety was shaken out of her, and she delightedly
      continued to ejaculate &ldquo;Nev' in my LIFE&rdquo; as she saw the living-room door
      opened by invisible hands and shoes hurling through it, as she heard from
      the darkness beyond the door a squawling, a bumping, a resolute &ldquo;Here's a
      lot of shoes. Come on, you wolves. Ow! Y' would, would you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Carol abruptly turned on the lights in the embattled living-room,
      half of the company were sitting back against the walls, where they had
      craftily remained throughout the engagement, but in the middle of the
      floor Kennicott was wrestling with Harry Haydock&mdash;their collars torn
      off, their hair in their eyes; and the owlish Mr. Julius Flickerbaugh was
      retreating from Juanita Haydock, and gulping with unaccustomed laughter.
      Guy Pollock's discreet brown scarf hung down his back. Young Rita Simons's
      net blouse had lost two buttons, and betrayed more of her delicious plump
      shoulder than was regarded as pure in Gopher Prairie. Whether by shock,
      disgust, joy of combat, or physical activity, all the party were freed
      from their years of social decorum. George Edwin Mott giggled; Luke Dawson
      twisted his beard; Mrs. Clark insisted, &ldquo;I did too, Sam&mdash;I got a shoe&mdash;I
      never knew I could fight so terrible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was certain that she was a great reformer.
    </p>
    <p>
      She mercifully had combs, mirrors, brushes, needle and thread ready. She
      permitted them to restore the divine decency of buttons.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grinning Bea brought down-stairs a pile of soft thick sheets of paper
      with designs of lotos blossoms, dragons, apes, in cobalt and crimson and
      gray, and patterns of purple birds flying among sea-green trees in the
      valleys of Nowhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These,&rdquo; Carol announced, &ldquo;are real Chinese masquerade costumes. I got
      them from an importing shop in Minneapolis. You are to put them on over
      your clothes, and please forget that you are Minnesotans, and turn into
      mandarins and coolies and&mdash;and samurai (isn't it?), and anything else
      you can think of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While they were shyly rustling the paper costumes she disappeared. Ten
      minutes after she gazed down from the stairs upon grotesquely ruddy Yankee
      heads above Oriental robes, and cried to them, &ldquo;The Princess Winky Poo
      salutes her court!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they looked up she caught their suspense of admiration. They saw an
      airy figure in trousers and coat of green brocade edged with gold; a high
      gold collar under a proud chin; black hair pierced with jade pins; a
      languid peacock fan in an out-stretched hand; eyes uplifted to a vision of
      pagoda towers. When she dropped her pose and smiled down she discovered
      Kennicott apoplectic with domestic pride&mdash;and gray Guy Pollock
      staring beseechingly. For a second she saw nothing in all the pink and
      brown mass of their faces save the hunger of the two men.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shook off the spell and ran down. &ldquo;We're going to have a real Chinese
      concert. Messrs. Pollock, Kennicott, and, well, Stowbody are drummers; the
      rest of us sing and play the fife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fifes were combs with tissue paper; the drums were tabourets and the
      sewing-table. Loren Wheeler, editor of the Dauntless, led the orchestra,
      with a ruler and a totally inaccurate sense of rhythm. The music was a
      reminiscence of tom-toms heard at circus fortune-telling tents or at the
      Minnesota State Fair, but the whole company pounded and puffed and whined
      in a sing-song, and looked rapturous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before they were quite tired of the concert Carol led them in a dancing
      procession to the dining-room, to blue bowls of chow mein, with Lichee
      nuts and ginger preserved in syrup.
    </p>
    <p>
      None of them save that city-rounder Harry Haydock had heard of any Chinese
      dish except chop sooey. With agreeable doubt they ventured through the
      bamboo shoots into the golden fried noodles of the chow mein; and Dave
      Dyer did a not very humorous Chinese dance with Nat Hicks; and there was
      hubbub and contentment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol relaxed, and found that she was shockingly tired. She had carried
      them on her thin shoulders. She could not keep it up. She longed for her
      father, that artist at creating hysterical parties. She thought of smoking
      a cigarette, to shock them, and dismissed the obscene thought before it
      was quite formed. She wondered whether they could for five minutes be
      coaxed to talk about something besides the winter top of Knute Stamquist's
      Ford, and what Al Tingley had said about his mother-in-law. She sighed,
      &ldquo;Oh, let 'em alone. I've done enough.&rdquo; She crossed her trousered legs, and
      snuggled luxuriously above her saucer of ginger; she caught Pollock's
      congratulatory still smile, and thought well of herself for having thrown
      a rose light on the pallid lawyer; repented the heretical supposition that
      any male save her husband existed; jumped up to find Kennicott and
      whisper, &ldquo;Happy, my lord? . . . No, it didn't cost much!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Best party this town ever saw. Only&mdash;&mdash;Don't cross your legs in
      that costume. Shows your knees too plain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was vexed. She resented his clumsiness. She returned to Guy Pollock
      and talked of Chinese religions&mdash;not that she knew anything whatever
      about Chinese religions, but he had read a book on the subject as, on
      lonely evenings in his office, he had read at least one book on every
      subject in the world. Guy's thin maturity was changing in her vision to
      flushed youth and they were roaming an island in the yellow sea of chatter
      when she realized that the guests were beginning that cough which
      indicated, in the universal instinctive language, that they desired to go
      home and go to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they asserted that it had been &ldquo;the nicest party they'd ever seen&mdash;my!
      so clever and original,&rdquo; she smiled tremendously, shook hands, and cried
      many suitable things regarding children, and being sure to wrap up warmly,
      and Raymie's singing and Juanita Haydock's prowess at games. Then she
      turned wearily to Kennicott in a house filled with quiet and crumbs and
      shreds of Chinese costumes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was gurgling, &ldquo;I tell you, Carrie, you certainly are a wonder, and
      guess you're right about waking folks up. Now you've showed 'em how, they
      won't go on having the same old kind of parties and stunts and everything.
      Here! Don't touch a thing! Done enough. Pop up to bed, and I'll clear up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His wise surgeon's-hands stroked her shoulder, and her irritation at his
      clumsiness was lost in his strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      From the Weekly Dauntless:
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most delightful social events of recent months was held
      Wednesday evening in the housewarming of Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott, who have
      completely redecorated their charming home on Poplar Street, and is now
      extremely nifty in modern color scheme. The doctor and his bride were at
      home to their numerous friends and a number of novelties in diversions
      were held, including a Chinese orchestra in original and genuine Oriental
      costumes, of which Ye Editor was leader. Dainty refreshments were served
      in true Oriental style, and one and all voted a delightful time.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      The week after, the Chet Dashaways gave a party. The circle of mourners
      kept its place all evening, and Dave Dyer did the &ldquo;stunt&rdquo; of the Norwegian
      and the hen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      GOPHER PRAIRIE was digging in for the winter. Through late November and
      all December it snowed daily; the thermometer was at zero and might drop
      to twenty below, or thirty. Winter is not a season in the North
      Middlewest; it is an industry. Storm sheds were erected at every door. In
      every block the householders, Sam Clark, the wealthy Mr. Dawson, all save
      asthmatic Ezra Stowbody who extravagantly hired a boy, were seen
      perilously staggering up ladders, carrying storm windows and screwing them
      to second-story jambs. While Kennicott put up his windows Carol danced
      inside the bedrooms and begged him not to swallow the screws, which he
      held in his mouth like an extraordinary set of external false teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The universal sign of winter was the town handyman&mdash;Miles Bjornstam,
      a tall, thick, red-mustached bachelor, opinionated atheist, general-store
      arguer, cynical Santa Claus. Children loved him, and he sneaked away from
      work to tell them improbable stories of sea-faring and horse-trading and
      bears. The children's parents either laughed at him or hated him. He was
      the one democrat in town. He called both Lyman Cass the miller and the
      Finn homesteader from Lost Lake by their first names. He was known as &ldquo;The
      Red Swede,&rdquo; and considered slightly insane.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjornstam could do anything with his hands&mdash;solder a pan, weld an
      automobile spring, soothe a frightened filly, tinker a clock, carve a
      Gloucester schooner which magically went into a bottle. Now, for a week,
      he was commissioner general of Gopher Prairie. He was the only person
      besides the repairman at Sam Clark's who understood plumbing. Everybody
      begged him to look over the furnace and the water-pipes. He rushed from
      house to house till after bedtime&mdash;ten o'clock. Icicles from burst
      water-pipes hung along the skirt of his brown dog-skin overcoat; his plush
      cap, which he never took off in the house, was a pulp of ice and
      coal-dust; his red hands were cracked to rawness; he chewed the stub of a
      cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he was courtly to Carol. He stooped to examine the furnace flues; he
      straightened, glanced down at her, and hemmed, &ldquo;Got to fix your furnace,
      no matter what else I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poorer houses of Gopher Prairie, where the services of Miles Bjornstam
      were a luxury&mdash;which included the shanty of Miles Bjornstam&mdash;were
      banked to the lower windows with earth and manure. Along the railroad the
      sections of snow fence, which had been stacked all summer in romantic
      wooden tents occupied by roving small boys, were set up to prevent drifts
      from covering the track.
    </p>
    <p>
      The farmers came into town in home-made sleighs, with bed-quilts and hay
      piled in the rough boxes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fur coats, fur caps, fur mittens, overshoes buckling almost to the knees,
      gray knitted scarfs ten feet long, thick woolen socks, canvas jackets
      lined with fluffy yellow wool like the plumage of ducklings, moccasins,
      red flannel wristlets for the blazing chapped wrists of boys&mdash;these
      protections against winter were busily dug out of moth-ball-sprinkled
      drawers and tar-bags in closets, and all over town small boys were
      squealing, &ldquo;Oh, there's my mittens!&rdquo; or &ldquo;Look at my shoe-packs!&rdquo; There is
      so sharp a division between the panting summer and the stinging winter of
      the Northern plains that they rediscovered with surprise and a feeling of
      heroism this armor of an Artic explorer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Winter garments surpassed even personal gossip as the topic at parties. It
      was good form to ask, &ldquo;Put on your heavies yet?&rdquo; There were as many
      distinctions in wraps as in motor cars. The lesser sort appeared in yellow
      and black dogskin coats, but Kennicott was lordly in a long raccoon ulster
      and a new seal cap. When the snow was too deep for his motor he went off
      on country calls in a shiny, floral, steel-tipped cutter, only his ruddy
      nose and his cigar emerging from the fur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol herself stirred Main Street by a loose coat of nutria. Her
      finger-tips loved the silken fur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her liveliest activity now was organizing outdoor sports in the
      motor-paralyzed town.
    </p>
    <p>
      The automobile and bridge-whist had not only made more evident the social
      divisions in Gopher Prairie but they had also enfeebled the love of
      activity. It was so rich-looking to sit and drive&mdash;and so easy.
      Skiing and sliding were &ldquo;stupid&rdquo; and &ldquo;old-fashioned.&rdquo; In fact, the village
      longed for the elegance of city recreations almost as much as the cities
      longed for village sports; and Gopher Prairie took as much pride in
      neglecting coasting as St. Paul&mdash;or New York&mdash;in going coasting.
      Carol did inspire a successful skating-party in mid-November. Plover Lake
      glistened in clear sweeps of gray-green ice, ringing to the skates. On
      shore the ice-tipped reeds clattered in the wind, and oak twigs with
      stubborn last leaves hung against a milky sky. Harry Haydock did
      figure-eights, and Carol was certain that she had found the perfect life.
      But when snow had ended the skating and she tried to get up a moonlight
      sliding party, the matrons hesitated to stir away from their radiators and
      their daily bridge-whist imitations of the city. She had to nag them. They
      scooted down a long hill on a bob-sled, they upset and got snow down their
      necks they shrieked that they would do it again immediately&mdash;and they
      did not do it again at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      She badgered another group into going skiing. They shouted and threw
      snowballs, and informed her that it was SUCH fun, and they'd have another
      skiing expedition right away, and they jollily returned home and never
      thereafter left their manuals of bridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was discouraged. She was grateful when Kennicott invited her to go
      rabbit-hunting in the woods. She waded down stilly cloisters between burnt
      stump and icy oak, through drifts marked with a million hieroglyphics of
      rabbit and mouse and bird. She squealed as he leaped on a pile of brush
      and fired at the rabbit which ran out. He belonged there, masculine in
      reefer and sweater and high-laced boots. That night she ate prodigiously
      of steak and fried potatoes; she produced electric sparks by touching his
      ear with her finger-tip; she slept twelve hours; and awoke to think how
      glorious was this brave land.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose to a radiance of sun on snow. Snug in her furs she trotted
      up-town. Frosted shingles smoked against a sky colored like flax-blossoms,
      sleigh-bells clinked, shouts of greeting were loud in the thin bright air,
      and everywhere was a rhythmic sound of wood-sawing. It was Saturday, and
      the neighbors' sons were getting up the winter fuel. Behind walls of
      corded wood in back yards their sawbucks stood in depressions scattered
      with canary-yellow flakes of sawdust. The frames of their buck-saws were
      cherry-red, the blades blued steel, and the fresh cut ends of the sticks&mdash;poplar,
      maple, iron-wood, birch&mdash;were marked with engraved rings of growth.
      The boys wore shoe-packs, blue flannel shirts with enormous pearl buttons,
      and mackinaws of crimson, lemon yellow, and foxy brown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol cried &ldquo;Fine day!&rdquo; to the boys; she came in a glow to Howland &amp;
      Gould's grocery, her collar white with frost from her breath; she bought a
      can of tomatoes as though it were Orient fruit; and returned home planning
      to surprise Kennicott with an omelet creole for dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      So brilliant was the snow-glare that when she entered the house she saw
      the door-knobs, the newspaper on the table, every white surface as
      dazzling mauve, and her head was dizzy in the pyrotechnic dimness. When
      her eyes had recovered she felt expanded, drunk with health, mistress of
      life. The world was so luminous that she sat down at her rickety little
      desk in the living-room to make a poem. (She got no farther than &ldquo;The sky
      is bright, the sun is warm, there ne'er will be another storm.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      In the mid-afternoon of this same day Kennicott was called into the
      country. It was Bea's evening out&mdash;her evening for the Lutheran
      Dance. Carol was alone from three till midnight. She wearied of reading
      pure love stories in the magazines and sat by a radiator, beginning to
      brood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus she chanced to discover that she had nothing to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She had, she meditated, passed through the novelty of seeing the town and
      meeting people, of skating and sliding and hunting. Bea was competent;
      there was no household labor except sewing and darning and gossipy
      assistance to Bea in bed-making. She couldn't satisfy her ingenuity in
      planning meals. At Dahl &amp; Oleson's Meat Market you didn't give orders&mdash;you
      wofully inquired whether there was anything today besides steak and pork
      and ham. The cuts of beef were not cuts. They were hacks. Lamb chops were
      as exotic as sharks' fins. The meat-dealers shipped their best to the
      city, with its higher prices.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all the shops there was the same lack of choice. She could not find a
      glass-headed picture-nail in town; she did not hunt for the sort of
      veiling she wanted&mdash;she took what she could get; and only at Howland
      &amp; Gould's was there such a luxury as canned asparagus. Routine care
      was all she could devote to the house. Only by such fussing as the Widow
      Bogart's could she make it fill her time.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not have outside employment. To the village doctor's wife it was
      taboo.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a woman with a working brain and no work.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were only three things which she could do: Have children; start her
      career of reforming; or become so definitely a part of the town that she
      would be fulfilled by the activities of church and study-club and
      bridge-parties.
    </p>
    <p>
      Children, yes, she wanted them, but&mdash;&mdash;She was not quite ready.
      She had been embarrassed by Kennicott's frankness, but she agreed with him
      that in the insane condition of civilization, which made the rearing of
      citizens more costly and perilous than any other crime, it was inadvisable
      to have children till he had made more money. She was sorry&mdash;&mdash;Perhaps
      he had made all the mystery of love a mechanical cautiousness but&mdash;&mdash;She
      fled from the thought with a dubious, &ldquo;Some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her &ldquo;reforms,&rdquo; her impulses toward beauty in raw Main Street, they had
      become indistinct. But she would set them going now. She would! She swore
      it with soft fist beating the edges of the radiator. And at the end of all
      her vows she had no notion as to when and where the crusade was to begin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Become an authentic part of the town? She began to think with unpleasant
      lucidity. She reflected that she did not know whether the people liked
      her. She had gone to the women at afternoon-coffees, to the merchants in
      their stores, with so many outpouring comments and whimsies that she
      hadn't given them a chance to betray their opinions of her. The men smiled&mdash;but
      did they like her? She was lively among the women&mdash;but was she one of
      them? She could not recall many times when she had been admitted to the
      whispering of scandal which is the secret chamber of Gopher Prairie
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was poisoned with doubt, as she drooped up to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day, through her shopping, her mind sat back and observed. Dave Dyer
      and Sam Clark were as cordial as she had been fancying; but wasn't there
      an impersonal abruptness in the &ldquo;H' are yuh?&rdquo; of Chet Dashaway? Howland
      the grocer was curt. Was that merely his usual manner?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's infuriating to have to pay attention to what people think. In St.
      Paul I didn't care. But here I'm spied on. They're watching me. I mustn't
      let it make me self-conscious,&rdquo; she coaxed herself&mdash;overstimulated by
      the drug of thought, and offensively on the defensive.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      A thaw which stripped the snow from the sidewalks; a ringing iron night
      when the lakes could be heard booming; a clear roistering morning. In tam
      o'shanter and tweed skirt Carol felt herself a college junior going out to
      play hockey. She wanted to whoop, her legs ached to run. On the way home
      from shopping she yielded, as a pup would have yielded. She galloped down
      a block and as she jumped from a curb across a welter of slush, she gave a
      student &ldquo;Yippee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw that in a window three old women were gasping. Their triple glare
      was paralyzing. Across the street, at another window, the curtain had
      secretively moved. She stopped, walked on sedately, changed from the girl
      Carol into Mrs. Dr. Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      She never again felt quite young enough and defiant enough and free enough
      to run and halloo in the public streets; and it was as a Nice Married
      Woman that she attended the next weekly bridge of the Jolly Seventeen.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jolly Seventeen (the membership of which ranged from fourteen to
      twenty-six) was the social cornice of Gopher Prairie. It was the country
      club, the diplomatic set, the St. Cecilia, the Ritz oval room, the Club de
      Vingt. To belong to it was to be &ldquo;in.&rdquo; Though its membership partly
      coincided with that of the Thanatopsis study club, the Jolly Seventeen as
      a separate entity guffawed at the Thanatopsis, and considered it
      middle-class and even &ldquo;highbrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Most of the Jolly Seventeen were young married women, with their husbands
      as associate members. Once a week they had a women's afternoon-bridge;
      once a month the husbands joined them for supper and evening-bridge; twice
      a year they had dances at I. O. O. F. Hall. Then the town exploded. Only
      at the annual balls of the Firemen and of the Eastern Star was there such
      prodigality of chiffon scarfs and tangoing and heart-burnings, and these
      rival institutions were not select&mdash;hired girls attended the
      Firemen's Ball, with section-hands and laborers. Ella Stowbody had once
      gone to a Jolly Seventeen Soiree in the village hack, hitherto confined to
      chief mourners at funerals; and Harry Haydock and Dr. Terry Gould always
      appeared in the town's only specimens of evening clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The afternoon-bridge of the Jolly Seventeen which followed Carol's lonely
      doubting was held at Juanita Haydock's new concrete bungalow, with its
      door of polished oak and beveled plate-glass, jar of ferns in the
      plastered hall, and in the living-room, a fumed oak Morris chair, sixteen
      color-prints, and a square varnished table with a mat made of
      cigar-ribbons on which was one Illustrated Gift Edition and one pack of
      cards in a burnt-leather case.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol stepped into a sirocco of furnace heat. They were already playing.
      Despite her flabby resolves she had not yet learned bridge. She was
      winningly apologetic about it to Juanita, and ashamed that she should have
      to go on being apologetic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dave Dyer, a sallow woman with a thin prettiness devoted to
      experiments in religious cults, illnesses, and scandal-bearing, shook her
      finger at Carol and trilled, &ldquo;You're a naughty one! I don't believe you
      appreciate the honor, when you got into the Jolly Seventeen so easy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Chet Dashaway nudged her neighbor at the second table. But Carol kept
      up the appealing bridal manner so far as possible. She twittered, &ldquo;You're
      perfectly right. I'm a lazy thing. I'll make Will start teaching me this
      very evening.&rdquo; Her supplication had all the sound of birdies in the nest,
      and Easter church-bells, and frosted Christmas cards. Internally she
      snarled, &ldquo;That ought to be saccharine enough.&rdquo; She sat in the smallest
      rocking-chair, a model of Victorian modesty. But she saw or she imagined
      that the women who had gurgled at her so welcomingly when she had first
      come to Gopher Prairie were nodding at her brusquely.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the pause after the first game she petitioned Mrs. Jackson Elder,
      &ldquo;Don't you think we ought to get up another bob-sled party soon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's so cold when you get dumped in the snow,&rdquo; said Mrs. Elder,
      indifferently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hate snow down my neck,&rdquo; volunteered Mrs. Dave Dyer, with an unpleasant
      look at Carol and, turning her back, she bubbled at Rita Simons, &ldquo;Dearie,
      won't you run in this evening? I've got the loveliest new Butterick
      pattern I want to show you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol crept back to her chair. In the fervor of discussing the game they
      ignored her. She was not used to being a wallflower. She struggled to keep
      from oversensitiveness, from becoming unpopular by the sure method of
      believing that she was unpopular; but she hadn't much reserve of patience,
      and at the end of the second game, when Ella Stowbody sniffily asked her,
      &ldquo;Are you going to send to Minneapolis for your dress for the next soiree&mdash;heard
      you were,&rdquo; Carol said &ldquo;Don't know yet&rdquo; with unnecessary sharpness.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was relieved by the admiration with which the jeune fille Rita Simons
      looked at the steel buckles on her pumps; but she resented Mrs. Howland's
      tart demand, &ldquo;Don't you find that new couch of yours is too broad to be
      practical?&rdquo; She nodded, then shook her head, and touchily left Mrs.
      Howland to get out of it any meaning she desired. Immediately she wanted
      to make peace. She was close to simpering in the sweetness with which she
      addressed Mrs Howland: &ldquo;I think that is the prettiest display of beef-tea
      your husband has in his store.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, Gopher Prairie isn't so much behind the times,&rdquo; gibed Mrs.
      Howland. Some one giggled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their rebuffs made her haughty; her haughtiness irritated them to franker
      rebuffs; they were working up to a state of painfully righteous war when
      they were saved by the coming of food.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though Juanita Haydock was highly advanced in the matters of finger-bowls,
      doilies, and bath-mats, her &ldquo;refreshments&rdquo; were typical of all the
      afternoon-coffees. Juanita's best friends, Mrs. Dyer and Mrs. Dashaway,
      passed large dinner plates, each with a spoon, a fork, and a coffee cup
      without saucer. They apologized and discussed the afternoon's game as they
      passed through the thicket of women's feet. Then they distributed hot
      buttered rolls, coffee poured from an enamel-ware pot, stuffed olives,
      potato salad, and angel's-food cake. There was, even in the most strictly
      conforming Gopher Prairie circles, a certain option as to collations. The
      olives need not be stuffed. Doughnuts were in some houses well thought of
      as a substitute for the hot buttered rolls. But there was in all the town
      no heretic save Carol who omitted angel's-food.
    </p>
    <p>
      They ate enormously. Carol had a suspicion that the thriftier housewives
      made the afternoon treat do for evening supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to get back into the current. She edged over to Mrs. McGanum.
      Chunky, amiable, young Mrs. McGanum with her breast and arms of a
      milkmaid, and her loud delayed laugh which burst startlingly from a sober
      face, was the daughter of old Dr. Westlake, and the wife of Westlake's
      partner, Dr. McGanum. Kennicott asserted that Westlake and McGanum and
      their contaminated families were tricky, but Carol had found them
      gracious. She asked for friendliness by crying to Mrs. McGanum, &ldquo;How is
      the baby's throat now?&rdquo; and she was attentive while Mrs. McGanum rocked
      and knitted and placidly described symptoms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida Sherwin came in after school, with Miss Ethel Villets, the town
      librarian. Miss Sherwin's optimistic presence gave Carol more confidence.
      She talked. She informed the circle &ldquo;I drove almost down to Wahkeenyan
      with Will, a few days ago. Isn't the country lovely! And I do admire the
      Scandinavian farmers down there so: their big red barns and silos and
      milking-machines and everything. Do you all know that lonely Lutheran
      church, with the tin-covered spire, that stands out alone on a hill? It's
      so bleak; somehow it seems so brave. I do think the Scandinavians are the
      hardiest and best people&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do you THINK so?&rdquo; protested Mrs. Jackson Elder. &ldquo;My husband says the
      Svenskas that work in the planing-mill are perfectly terrible&mdash;so
      silent and cranky, and so selfish, the way they keep demanding raises. If
      they had their way they'd simply ruin the business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and they're simply GHASTLY hired girls!&rdquo; wailed Mrs. Dave Dyer. &ldquo;I
      swear, I work myself to skin and bone trying to please my hired girls&mdash;when
      I can get them! I do everything in the world for them. They can have their
      gentleman friends call on them in the kitchen any time, and they get just
      the same to eat as we do, if there's, any left over, and I practically
      never jump on them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juanita Haydock rattled, &ldquo;They're ungrateful, all that class of people. I
      do think the domestic problem is simply becoming awful. I don't know what
      the country's coming to, with these Scandahoofian clodhoppers demanding
      every cent you can save, and so ignorant and impertinent, and on my word,
      demanding bath-tubs and everything&mdash;as if they weren't mighty good
      and lucky at home if they got a bath in the wash-tub.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were off, riding hard. Carol thought of Bea and waylaid them:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But isn't it possibly the fault of the mistresses if the maids are
      ungrateful? For generations we've given them the leavings of food, and
      holes to live in. I don't want to boast, but I must say I don't have much
      trouble with Bea. She's so friendly. The Scandinavians are sturdy and
      honest&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dave Dyer snapped, &ldquo;Honest? Do you call it honest to hold us up for
      every cent of pay they can get? I can't say that I've had any of them
      steal anything (though you might call it stealing to eat so much that a
      roast of beef hardly lasts three days), but just the same I don't intend
      to let them think they can put anything over on ME! I always make them
      pack and unpack their trunks down-stairs, right under my eyes, and then I
      know they aren't being tempted to dishonesty by any slackness on MY part!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much do the maids get here?&rdquo; Carol ventured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. B. J. Gougerling, wife of the banker, stated in a shocked manner,
      &ldquo;Any place from three-fifty to five-fifty a week! I know positively that
      Mrs. Clark, after swearing that she wouldn't weaken and encourage them in
      their outrageous demands, went and paid five-fifty&mdash;think of it!
      practically a dollar a day for unskilled work and, of course, her food and
      room and a chance to do her own washing right in with the rest of the
      wash. HOW MUCH DO YOU PAY, Mrs. KENNICOTT?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! How much do you pay?&rdquo; insisted half a dozen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W-why, I pay six a week,&rdquo; she feebly confessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      They gasped. Juanita protested, &ldquo;Don't you think it's hard on the rest of
      us when you pay so much?&rdquo; Juanita's demand was reinforced by the universal
      glower.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was angry. &ldquo;I don't care! A maid has one of the hardest jobs on
      earth. She works from ten to eighteen hours a day. She has to wash slimy
      dishes and dirty clothes. She tends the children and runs to the door with
      wet chapped hands and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dave Dyer broke into Carol's peroration with a furious, &ldquo;That's all
      very well, but believe me, I do those things myself when I'm without a
      maid&mdash;and that's a good share of the time for a person that isn't
      willing to yield and pay exorbitant wages!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was retorting, &ldquo;But a maid does it for strangers, and all she gets
      out of it is the pay&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Their eyes were hostile. Four of them were talking at once. Vida Sherwin's
      dictatorial voice cut through, took control of the revolution:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut, tut, tut, tut! What angry passions&mdash;and what an idiotic
      discussion! All of you getting too serious. Stop it! Carol Kennicott,
      you're probably right, but you're too much ahead of the times. Juanita,
      quit looking so belligerent. What is this, a card party or a hen fight?
      Carol, you stop admiring yourself as the Joan of Arc of the hired girls,
      or I'll spank you. You come over here and talk libraries with Ethel
      Villets. Boooooo! If there's any more pecking, I'll take charge of the hen
      roost myself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They all laughed artificially, and Carol obediently &ldquo;talked libraries.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A small-town bungalow, the wives of a village doctor and a village
      dry-goods merchant, a provincial teacher, a colloquial brawl over paying a
      servant a dollar more a week. Yet this insignificance echoed cellar-plots
      and cabinet meetings and labor conferences in Persia and Prussia, Rome and
      Boston, and the orators who deemed themselves international leaders were
      but the raised voices of a billion Juanitas denouncing a million Carols,
      with a hundred thousand Vida Sherwins trying to shoo away the storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol felt guilty. She devoted herself to admiring the spinsterish Miss
      Villets&mdash;and immediately committed another offense against the laws
      of decency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We haven't seen you at the library yet,&rdquo; Miss Villets reproved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've wanted to run in so much but I've been getting settled and&mdash;&mdash;I'll
      probably come in so often you'll get tired of me! I hear you have such a
      nice library.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are many who like it. We have two thousand more books than
      Wakamin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't that fine. I'm sure you are largely responsible. I've had some
      experience, in St. Paul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I have been informed. Not that I entirely approve of library methods
      in these large cities. So careless, letting tramps and all sorts of dirty
      persons practically sleep in the reading-rooms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, but the poor souls&mdash;&mdash;Well, I'm sure you will agree
      with me in one thing: The chief task of a librarian is to get people to
      read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You feel so? My feeling, Mrs. Kennicott, and I am merely quoting the
      librarian of a very large college, is that the first duty of the
      CONSCIENTIOUS librarian is to preserve the books.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; Carol repented her &ldquo;Oh.&rdquo; Miss Villets stiffened, and attacked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be all very well in cities, where they have unlimited funds, to
      let nasty children ruin books and just deliberately tear them up, and
      fresh young men take more books out than they are entitled to by the
      regulations, but I'm never going to permit it in this library!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if some children are destructive? They learn to read. Books are
      cheaper than minds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing is cheaper than the minds of some of these children that come in
      and bother me simply because their mothers don't keep them home where they
      belong. Some librarians may choose to be so wishy-washy and turn their
      libraries into nursing-homes and kindergartens, but as long as I'm in
      charge, the Gopher Prairie library is going to be quiet and decent, and
      the books well kept!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol saw that the others were listening, waiting for her to be
      objectionable. She flinched before their dislike. She hastened to smile in
      agreement with Miss Villets, to glance publicly at her wrist-watch, to
      warble that it was &ldquo;so late&mdash;have to hurry home&mdash;husband&mdash;such
      nice party&mdash;maybe you were right about maids, prejudiced because Bea
      so nice&mdash;such perfectly divine angel's-food, Mrs. Haydock must give
      me the recipe&mdash;good-by, such happy party&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She walked home. She reflected, &ldquo;It was my fault. I was touchy. And I
      opposed them so much. Only&mdash;&mdash;I can't! I can't be one of them if
      I must damn all the maids toiling in filthy kitchens, all the ragged
      hungry children. And these women are to be my arbiters, the rest of my
      life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She ignored Bea's call from the kitchen; she ran up-stairs to the
      unfrequented guest-room; she wept in terror, her body a pale arc as she
      knelt beside a cumbrous black-walnut bed, beside a puffy mattress covered
      with a red quilt, in a shuttered and airless room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;DON'T I, in looking for things to do, show that I'm not attentive enough
      to Will? Am I impressed enough by his work? I will be. Oh, I will be. If I
      can't be one of the town, if I must be an outcast&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Kennicott came home she bustled, &ldquo;Dear, you must tell me a lot more
      about your cases. I want to know. I want to understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. You bet.&rdquo; And he went down to fix the furnace.
    </p>
    <p>
      At supper she asked, &ldquo;For instance, what did you do today?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do today? How do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Medically. I want to understand&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Today? Oh, there wasn't much of anything: couple chumps with bellyaches,
      and a sprained wrist, and a fool woman that thinks she wants to kill
      herself because her husband doesn't like her and&mdash;&mdash;Just routine
      work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the unhappy woman doesn't sound routine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her? Just case of nerves. You can't do much with these marriage mix-ups.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But dear, PLEASE, will you tell me about the next case that you do think
      is interesting?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. You bet. Tell you about anything that&mdash;&mdash;Say that's
      pretty good salmon. Get it at Howland's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Four days after the Jolly Seventeen debacle Vida Sherwin called and
      casually blew Carol's world to pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I come in and gossip a while?&rdquo; she said, with such excess of bright
      innocence that Carol was uneasy. Vida took off her furs with a bounce, she
      sat down as though it were a gymnasium exercise, she flung out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Feel disgracefully good, this weather! Raymond Wutherspoon says if he had
      my energy he'd be a grand opera singer. I always think this climate is the
      finest in the world, and my friends are the dearest people in the world,
      and my work is the most essential thing in the world. Probably I fool
      myself. But I know one thing for certain: You're the pluckiest little
      idiot in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so you are about to flay me alive.&rdquo; Carol was cheerful about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I? Perhaps. I've been wondering&mdash;I know that the third party to a
      squabble is often the most to blame: the one who runs between A and B
      having a beautiful time telling each of them what the other has said. But
      I want you to take a big part in vitalizing Gopher Prairie and so&mdash;&mdash;Such
      a very unique opportunity and&mdash;&mdash;Am I silly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what you mean. I was too abrupt at the Jolly Seventeen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't that. Matter of fact, I'm glad you told them some wholesome
      truths about servants. (Though perhaps you were just a bit tactless.) It's
      bigger than that. I wonder if you understand that in a secluded community
      like this every newcomer is on test? People cordial to her but watching
      her all the time. I remember when a Latin teacher came here from
      Wellesley, they resented her broad A. Were sure it was affected. Of course
      they have discussed you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they talked about me much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always feel as though I walked around in a cloud, looking out at others
      but not being seen. I feel so inconspicuous and so normal&mdash;so normal
      that there's nothing about me to discuss. I can't realize that Mr. and
      Mrs. Haydock must gossip about me.&rdquo; Carol was working up a small passion
      of distaste. &ldquo;And I don't like it. It makes me crawly to think of their
      daring to talk over all I do and say. Pawing me over! I resent it. I hate&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait, child! Perhaps they resent some things in you. I want you to try
      and be impersonal. They'd paw over anybody who came in new. Didn't you,
      with newcomers in College?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then! Will you be impersonal? I'm paying you the compliment of
      supposing that you can be. I want you to be big enough to help me make
      this town worth while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be as impersonal as cold boiled potatoes. (Not that I shall ever be
      able to help you 'make the town worth while.') What do they say about me?
      Really. I want to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course the illiterate ones resent your references to anything farther
      away than Minneapolis. They're so suspicious&mdash;that's it, suspicious.
      And some think you dress too well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, they do, do they! Shall I dress in gunny-sacking to suit them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! Are you going to be a baby?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be good,&rdquo; sulkily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You certainly will, or I won't tell you one single thing. You must
      understand this: I'm not asking you to change yourself. Just want you to
      know what they think. You must do that, no matter how absurd their
      prejudices are, if you're going to handle them. Is it your ambition to
      make this a better town, or isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know whether it is or not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;why&mdash;&mdash;Tut, tut, now, of course it is! Why, I depend
      on you. You're a born reformer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not&mdash;not any more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if I really could help&mdash;&mdash;So they think I'm affected?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lamb, they do! Now don't say they're nervy. After all, Gopher Prairie
      standards are as reasonable to Gopher Prairie as Lake Shore Drive
      standards are to Chicago. And there's more Gopher Prairies than there are
      Chicagos. Or Londons. And&mdash;&mdash;I'll tell you the whole story: They
      think you're showing off when you say 'American' instead of 'Ammurrican.'
      They think you're too frivolous. Life's so serious to them that they can't
      imagine any kind of laughter except Juanita's snortling. Ethel Villets was
      sure you were patronizing her when&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I was not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;you talked about encouraging reading; and Mrs. Elder
      thought you were patronizing when you said she had 'such a pretty little
      car.' She thinks it's an enormous car! And some of the merchants say
      you're too flip when you talk to them in the store and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor me, when I was trying to be friendly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;every housewife in town is doubtful about your being so
      chummy with your Bea. All right to be kind, but they say you act as though
      she were your cousin. (Wait now! There's plenty more.) And they think you
      were eccentric in furnishing this room&mdash;they think the broad couch
      and that Japanese dingus are absurd. (Wait! I know they're silly.) And I
      guess I've heard a dozen criticize you because you don't go to church
      oftener and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't stand it&mdash;I can't bear to realize that they've been saying
      all these things while I've been going about so happily and liking them. I
      wonder if you ought to have told me? It will make me self-conscious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder the same thing. Only answer I can get is the old saw about
      knowledge being power. And some day you'll see how absorbing it is to have
      power, even here; to control the town&mdash;&mdash;Oh, I'm a crank. But I
      do like to see things moving.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It hurts. It makes these people seem so beastly and treacherous, when
      I've been perfectly natural with them. But let's have it all. What did
      they say about my Chinese house-warming party?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, uh&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on. Or I'll make up worse things than anything you can tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They did enjoy it. But I guess some of them felt you were showing off&mdash;pretending
      that your husband is richer than he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't&mdash;&mdash;Their meanness of mind is beyond any horrors I could
      imagine. They really thought that I&mdash;&mdash;And you want to 'reform'
      people like that when dynamite is so cheap? Who dared to say that? The
      rich or the poor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fairly well assorted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't they at least understand me well enough to see that though I might
      be affected and culturine, at least I simply couldn't commit that other
      kind of vulgarity? If they must know, you may tell them, with my
      compliments, that Will makes about four thousand a year, and the party
      cost half of what they probably thought it did. Chinese things are not
      very expensive, and I made my own costume&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop it! Stop beating me! I know all that. What they meant was: they felt
      you were starting dangerous competition by giving a party such as most
      people here can't afford. Four thousand is a pretty big income for this
      town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never thought of starting competition. Will you believe that it was in
      all love and friendliness that I tried to give them the gayest party I
      could? It was foolish; it was childish and noisy. But I did mean it so
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, of course. And it certainly is unfair of them to make fun of your
      having that Chinese food&mdash;chow men, was it?&mdash;and to laugh about
      your wearing those pretty trousers&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol sprang up, whimpering, &ldquo;Oh, they didn't do that! They didn't poke
      fun at my feast, that I ordered so carefully for them! And my little
      Chinese costume that I was so happy making&mdash;I made it secretly, to
      surprise them. And they've been ridiculing it, all this while!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was huddled on the couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was stroking her hair, muttering, &ldquo;I shouldn't&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Shrouded in shame, Carol did not know when Vida slipped away. The clock's
      bell, at half past five, aroused her. &ldquo;I must get hold of myself before
      Will comes. I hope he never knows what a fool his wife is. . . . Frozen,
      sneering, horrible hearts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like a very small, very lonely girl she trudged up-stairs, slow step by
      step, her feet dragging, her hand on the rail. It was not her husband to
      whom she wanted to run for protection&mdash;it was her father, her smiling
      understanding father, dead these twelve years.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was yawning, stretched in the largest chair, between the
      radiator and a small kerosene stove.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cautiously, &ldquo;Will dear, I wonder if the people here don't criticize me
      sometimes? They must. I mean: if they ever do, you mustn't let it bother
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Criticize you? Lord, I should say not. They all keep telling me you're
      the swellest girl they ever saw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I've just fancied&mdash;&mdash;The merchants probably think I'm too
      fussy about shopping. I'm afraid I bore Mr. Dashaway and Mr. Howland and
      Mr. Ludelmeyer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can tell you how that is. I didn't want to speak of it but since you've
      brought it up: Chet Dashaway probably resents the fact that you got this
      new furniture down in the Cities instead of here. I didn't want to raise
      any objection at the time but&mdash;&mdash;After all, I make my money here
      and they naturally expect me to spend it here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mr. Dashaway will kindly tell me how any civilized person can furnish
      a room out of the mortuary pieces that he calls&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She
      remembered. She said meekly, &ldquo;But I understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And Howland and Ludelmeyer&mdash;&mdash;Oh, you've probably handed 'em a
      few roasts for the bum stocks they carry, when you just meant to jolly
      'em. But rats, what do we care! This is an independent town, not like
      these Eastern holes where you have to watch your step all the time, and
      live up to fool demands and social customs, and a lot of old tabbies
      always busy criticizing. Everybody's free here to do what he wants to.&rdquo; He
      said it with a flourish, and Carol perceived that he believed it. She
      turned her breath of fury into a yawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way, Carrie, while we're talking of this: Of course I like to keep
      independent, and I don't believe in this business of binding yourself to
      trade with the man that trades with you unless you really want to, but
      same time: I'd be just as glad if you dealt with Jenson or Ludelmeyer as
      much as you ran, instead of Howland &amp; Gould, who go to Dr. Gould every
      last time, and the whole tribe of 'em the same way. I don't see why I
      should be paying out my good money for groceries and having them pass it
      on to Terry Gould!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've gone to Howland &amp; Gould because they're better, and cleaner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. I don't mean cut them out entirely. Course Jenson is tricky&mdash;give
      you short weight&mdash;and Ludelmeyer is a shiftless old Dutch hog. But
      same time, I mean let's keep the trade in the family whenever it is
      convenient, see how I mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, guess it's about time to turn in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He yawned, went out to look at the thermometer, slammed the door, patted
      her head, unbuttoned his waistcoat, yawned, wound the clock, went down to
      look at the furnace, yawned, and clumped up-stairs to bed, casually
      scratching his thick woolen undershirt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Till he bawled, &ldquo;Aren't you ever coming up to bed?&rdquo; she sat unmoving.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      I
    </p>
    <p>
      SHE had tripped into the meadow to teach the lambs a pretty educational
      dance and found that the lambs were wolves. There was no way out between
      their pressing gray shoulders. She was surrounded by fangs and sneering
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not go on enduring the hidden derision. She wanted to flee. She
      wanted to hide in the generous indifference of cities. She practised
      saying to Kennicott, &ldquo;Think perhaps I'll run down to St. Paul for a few
      days.&rdquo; But she could not trust herself to say it carelessly; could not
      abide his certain questioning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reform the town? All she wanted was to be tolerated!
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not look directly at people. She flushed and winced before
      citizens who a week ago had been amusing objects of study, and in their
      good-mornings she heard a cruel sniggering.
    </p>
    <p>
      She encountered Juanita Haydock at Ole Jenson's grocery. She besought,
      &ldquo;Oh, how do you do! Heavens, what beautiful celery that is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, doesn't it look fresh. Harry simply has to have his celery on
      Sunday, drat the man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol hastened out of the shop exulting, &ldquo;She didn't make fun of me. . . .
      Did she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a week she had recovered from consciousness of insecurity, of shame and
      whispering notoriety, but she kept her habit of avoiding people. She
      walked the streets with her head down. When she spied Mrs. McGanum or Mrs.
      Dyer ahead she crossed over with an elaborate pretense of looking at a
      billboard. Always she was acting, for the benefit of every one she saw&mdash;and
      for the benefit of the ambushed leering eyes which she did not see.
    </p>
    <p>
      She perceived that Vida Sherwin had told the truth. Whether she entered a
      store, or swept the back porch, or stood at the bay-window in the
      living-room, the village peeped at her. Once she had swung along the
      street triumphant in making a home. Now she glanced at each house, and
      felt, when she was safely home, that she had won past a thousand enemies
      armed with ridicule. She told herself that her sensitiveness was
      preposterous, but daily she was thrown into panic. She saw curtains slide
      back into innocent smoothness. Old women who had been entering their
      houses slipped out again to stare at her&mdash;in the wintry quiet she
      could hear them tiptoeing on their porches. When she had for a blessed
      hour forgotten the searchlight, when she was scampering through a chill
      dusk, happy in yellow windows against gray night, her heart checked as she
      realized that a head covered with a shawl was thrust up over a snow-tipped
      bush to watch her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She admitted that she was taking herself too seriously; that villagers
      gape at every one. She became placid, and thought well of her philosophy.
      But next morning she had a shock of shame as she entered Ludelmeyer's. The
      grocer, his clerk, and neurotic Mrs. Dave Dyer had been giggling about
      something. They halted, looked embarrassed, babbled about onions. Carol
      felt guilty. That evening when Kennicott took her to call on the crochety
      Lyman Casses, their hosts seemed flustered at their arrival. Kennicott
      jovially hooted, &ldquo;What makes you so hang-dog, Lym?&rdquo; The Casses tittered
      feebly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Except Dave Dyer, Sam Clark, and Raymie Wutherspoon, there were no
      merchants of whose welcome Carol was certain. She knew that she read
      mockery into greetings but she could not control her suspicion, could not
      rise from her psychic collapse. She alternately raged and flinched at the
      superiority of the merchants. They did not know that they were being rude,
      but they meant to have it understood that they were prosperous and &ldquo;not
      scared of no doctor's wife.&rdquo; They often said, &ldquo;One man's as good as
      another&mdash;and a darn sight better.&rdquo; This motto, however, they did not
      commend to farmer customers who had had crop failures. The Yankee
      merchants were crabbed; and Ole Jenson, Ludelmeyer, and Gus Dahl, from the
      &ldquo;Old Country,&rdquo; wished to be taken for Yankees. James Madison Howland, born
      in New Hampshire, and Ole Jenson, born in Sweden, both proved that they
      were free American citizens by grunting, &ldquo;I don't know whether I got any
      or not,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Well, you can't expect me to get it delivered by noon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was good form for the customers to fight back. Juanita Haydock
      cheerfully jabbered, &ldquo;You have it there by twelve or I'll snatch that
      fresh delivery-boy bald-headed.&rdquo; But Carol had never been able to play the
      game of friendly rudeness; and now she was certain that she never would
      learn it. She formed the cowardly habit of going to Axel Egge's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Axel was not respectable and rude. He was still a foreigner, and he
      expected to remain one. His manner was heavy and uninterrogative. His
      establishment was more fantastic than any cross-roads store. No one save
      Axel himself could find anything. A part of the assortment of children's
      stockings was under a blanket on a shelf, a part in a tin ginger-snap box,
      the rest heaped like a nest of black-cotton snakes upon a flour-barrel
      which was surrounded by brooms, Norwegian Bibles, dried cod for ludfisk,
      boxes of apricots, and a pair and a half of lumbermen's rubber-footed
      boots. The place was crowded with Scandinavian farmwives, standing aloof
      in shawls and ancient fawn-colored leg o' mutton jackets, awaiting the
      return of their lords. They spoke Norwegian or Swedish, and looked at
      Carol uncomprehendingly. They were a relief to her&mdash;they were not
      whispering that she was a poseur.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what she told herself was that Axel Egge's was &ldquo;so picturesque and
      romantic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was in the matter of clothes that she was most self-conscious.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she dared to go shopping in her new checked suit with the
      black-embroidered sulphur collar, she had as good as invited all of Gopher
      Prairie (which interested itself in nothing so intimately as in new
      clothes and the cost thereof) to investigate her. It was a smart suit with
      lines unfamiliar to the dragging yellow and pink frocks of the town. The
      Widow Bogart's stare, from her porch, indicated, &ldquo;Well I never saw
      anything like that before!&rdquo; Mrs. McGanum stopped Carol at the notions shop
      to hint, &ldquo;My, that's a nice suit&mdash;wasn't it terribly expensive?&rdquo; The
      gang of boys in front of the drug store commented, &ldquo;Hey, Pudgie, play you
      a game of checkers on that dress.&rdquo; Carol could not endure it. She drew her
      fur coat over the suit and hastily fastened the buttons, while the boys
      snickered.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      No group angered her quite so much as these staring young roues.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had tried to convince herself that the village, with its fresh air,
      its lakes for fishing and swimming, was healthier than the artificial
      city. But she was sickened by glimpses of the gang of boys from fourteen
      to twenty who loafed before Dyer's Drug Store, smoking cigarettes,
      displaying &ldquo;fancy&rdquo; shoes and purple ties and coats of diamond-shaped
      buttons, whistling the Hoochi-Koochi and catcalling, &ldquo;Oh, you baby-doll&rdquo;
       at every passing girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw them playing pool in the stinking room behind Del Snafflin's
      barber shop, and shaking dice in &ldquo;The Smoke House,&rdquo; and gathered in a
      snickering knot to listen to the &ldquo;juicy stories&rdquo; of Bert Tybee, the
      bartender of the Minniemashie House. She heard them smacking moist lips
      over every love-scene at the Rosebud Movie Palace. At the counter of the
      Greek Confectionery Parlor, while they ate dreadful messes of decayed
      bananas, acid cherries, whipped cream, and gelatinous ice-cream, they
      screamed to one another, &ldquo;Hey, lemme 'lone,&rdquo; &ldquo;Quit dog-gone you, looka
      what you went and done, you almost spilled my glass swater,&rdquo; &ldquo;Like hell I
      did,&rdquo; &ldquo;Hey, gol darn your hide, don't you go sticking your coffin nail in
      my i-scream,&rdquo; &ldquo;Oh you Batty, how juh like dancing with Tillie McGuire,
      last night? Some squeezing, heh, kid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By diligent consultation of American fiction she discovered that this was
      the only virile and amusing manner in which boys could function; that boys
      who were not compounded of the gutter and the mining-camp were
      mollycoddles and unhappy. She had taken this for granted. She had studied
      the boys pityingly, but impersonally. It had not occurred to her that they
      might touch her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now she was aware that they knew all about her; that they were waiting for
      some affectation over which they could guffaw. No schoolgirl passed their
      observation-posts more flushingly than did Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. In shame
      she knew that they glanced appraisingly at her snowy overshoes,
      speculating about her legs. Theirs were not young eyes&mdash;there was no
      youth in all the town, she agonized. They were born old, grim and old and
      spying and censorious.
    </p>
    <p>
      She cried again that their youth was senile and cruel on the day when she
      overheard Cy Bogart and Earl Haydock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cyrus N. Bogart, son of the righteous widow who lived across the alley,
      was at this time a boy of fourteen or fifteen. Carol had already seen
      quite enough of Cy Bogart. On her first evening in Gopher Prairie Cy had
      appeared at the head of a &ldquo;charivari,&rdquo; banging immensely upon a discarded
      automobile fender. His companions were yelping in imitation of coyotes.
      Kennicott had felt rather complimented; had gone out and distributed a
      dollar. But Cy was a capitalist in charivaris. He returned with an
      entirely new group, and this time there were three automobile fenders and
      a carnival rattle. When Kennicott again interrupted his shaving, Cy piped,
      &ldquo;Naw, you got to give us two dollars,&rdquo; and he got it. A week later Cy
      rigged a tic-tac to a window of the living-room, and the tattoo out of the
      darkness frightened Carol into screaming. Since then, in four months, she
      had beheld Cy hanging a cat, stealing melons, throwing tomatoes at the
      Kennicott house, and making ski-tracks across the lawn, and had heard him
      explaining the mysteries of generation, with great audibility and
      dismaying knowledge. He was, in fact, a museum specimen of what a small
      town, a well-disciplined public school, a tradition of hearty humor, and a
      pious mother could produce from the material of a courageous and ingenious
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was afraid of him. Far from protesting when he set his mongrel on a
      kitten, she worked hard at not seeing him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Kennicott garage was a shed littered with paint-cans, tools, a
      lawn-mower, and ancient wisps of hay. Above it was a loft which Cy Bogart
      and Earl Haydock, young brother of Harry, used as a den, for smoking,
      hiding from whippings, and planning secret societies. They climbed to it
      by a ladder on the alley side of the shed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This morning of late January, two or three weeks after Vida's revelations,
      Carol had gone into the stable-garage to find a hammer. Snow softened her
      step. She heard voices in the loft above her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah gee, lez&mdash;oh, lez go down the lake and swipe some mushrats out of
      somebody's traps,&rdquo; Cy was yawning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And get our ears beat off!&rdquo; grumbled Earl Haydock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gosh, these cigarettes are dandy. 'Member when we were just kids, and
      used to smoke corn-silk and hayseed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yup. Gosh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Spit. &ldquo;Silence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say Earl, ma says if you chew tobacco you get consumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw rats, your old lady is a crank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yuh, that's so.&rdquo; Pause. &ldquo;But she says she knows a fella that did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aw, gee whiz, didn't Doc Kennicott used to chew tobacco all the time
      before he married this-here girl from the Cities? He used to spit&mdash;-Gee!
      Some shot! He could hit a tree ten feet off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was news to the girl from the Cities.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, how is she?&rdquo; continued Earl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh? How's who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know who I mean, smarty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tussle, a thumping of loose boards, silence, weary narration from Cy:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Kennicott? Oh, she's all right, I guess.&rdquo; Relief to Carol, below.
      &ldquo;She gimme a hunk o' cake, one time. But Ma says she's stuck-up as hell.
      Ma's always talking about her. Ma says if Mrs. Kennicott thought as much
      about the doc as she does about her clothes, the doc wouldn't look so
      peaked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Spit. Silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yuh. Juanita's always talking about her, too,&rdquo; from Earl. &ldquo;She says Mrs.
      Kennicott thinks she knows it all. Juanita says she has to laugh till she
      almost busts every time she sees Mrs. Kennicott peerading along the street
      with that 'take a look&mdash;I'm a swell skirt' way she's got. But gosh, I
      don't pay no attention to Juanita. She's meaner 'n a crab.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ma was telling somebody that she heard that Mrs. Kennicott claimed she
      made forty dollars a week when she was on some job in the Cities, and Ma
      says she knows posolutely that she never made but eighteen a week&mdash;Ma
      says that when she's lived here a while she won't go round making a fool
      of herself, pulling that bighead stuff on folks that know a whole lot more
      than she does. They're all laughing up their sleeves at her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, jever notice how Mrs. Kennicott fusses around the house? Other
      evening when I was coming over here, she'd forgot to pull down the
      curtain, and I watched her for ten minutes. Jeeze, you'd 'a' died
      laughing. She was there all alone, and she must 'a' spent five minutes
      getting a picture straight. It was funny as hell the way she'd stick out
      her finger to straighten the picture&mdash;deedle-dee, see my tunnin'
      'ittle finger, oh my, ain't I cute, what a fine long tail my cat's got!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But say, Earl, she's some good-looker, just the same, and O Ignatz! the
      glad rags she must of bought for her wedding. Jever notice these low-cut
      dresses and these thin shimmy-shirts she wears? I had a good squint at 'em
      when they were out on the line with the wash. And some ankles she's got,
      heh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Carol fled.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her innocence she had not known that the whole town could discuss even
      her garments, her body. She felt that she was being dragged naked down
      Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment it was dusk she pulled down the window-shades, all the shades
      flush with the sill, but beyond them she felt moist fleering eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She remembered, and tried to forget, and remembered more sharply the
      vulgar detail of her husband's having observed the ancient customs of the
      land by chewing tobacco. She would have preferred a prettier vice&mdash;gambling
      or a mistress. For these she might have found a luxury of forgiveness. She
      could not remember any fascinatingly wicked hero of fiction who chewed
      tobacco. She asserted that it proved him to be a man of the bold free
      West. She tried to align him with the hairy-chested heroes of the
      motion-pictures. She curled on the couch a pallid softness in the
      twilight, and fought herself, and lost the battle. Spitting did not
      identify him with rangers riding the buttes; it merely bound him to Gopher
      Prairie&mdash;to Nat Hicks the tailor and Bert Tybee the bartender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he gave it up for me. Oh, what does it matter! We're all filthy in
      some things. I think of myself as so superior, but I do eat and digest, I
      do wash my dirty paws and scratch. I'm not a cool slim goddess on a
      column. There aren't any! He gave it up for me. He stands by me, believing
      that every one loves me. He's the Rock of Ages&mdash;in a storm of
      meanness that's driving me mad . . . it will drive me mad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All evening she sang Scotch ballads to Kennicott, and when she noticed
      that he was chewing an unlighted cigar she smiled maternally at his
      secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not escape asking (in the exact words and mental intonations
      which a thousand million women, dairy wenches and mischief-making queens,
      had used before her, and which a million million women will know
      hereafter), &ldquo;Was it all a horrible mistake, my marrying him?&rdquo; She quieted
      the doubt&mdash;without answering it.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had taken her north to Lac-qui-Meurt, in the Big Woods. It was
      the entrance to a Chippewa Indian reservation, a sandy settlement among
      Norway pines on the shore of a huge snow-glaring lake. She had her first
      sight of his mother, except the glimpse at the wedding. Mrs. Kennicott had
      a hushed and delicate breeding which dignified her woodeny over-scrubbed
      cottage with its worn hard cushions in heavy rockers. She had never lost
      the child's miraculous power of wonder. She asked questions about books
      and cities. She murmured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will is a dear hard-working boy but he's inclined to be too serious, and
      you've taught him how to play. Last night I heard you both laughing about
      the old Indian basket-seller, and I just lay in bed and enjoyed your
      happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol forgot her misery-hunting in this solidarity of family life. She
      could depend upon them; she was not battling alone. Watching Mrs.
      Kennicott flit about the kitchen she was better able to translate
      Kennicott himself. He was matter-of-fact, yes, and incurably mature. He
      didn't really play; he let Carol play with him. But he had his mother's
      genius for trusting, her disdain for prying, her sure integrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the two days at Lac-qui-Meurt Carol drew confidence in herself, and
      she returned to Gopher Prairie in a throbbing calm like those golden
      drugged seconds when, because he is for an instant free from pain, a sick
      man revels in living.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bright hard winter day, the wind shrill, black and silver clouds booming
      across the sky, everything in panicky motion during the brief light. They
      struggled against the surf of wind, through deep snow. Kennicott was
      cheerful. He hailed Loren Wheeler, &ldquo;Behave yourself while I been away?&rdquo;
       The editor bellowed, &ldquo;B' gosh you stayed so long that all your patients
      have got well!&rdquo; and importantly took notes for the Dauntless about their
      journey. Jackson Elder cried, &ldquo;Hey, folks! How's tricks up North?&rdquo; Mrs.
      McGanum waved to them from her porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're glad to see us. We mean something here. These people are
      satisfied. Why can't I be? But can I sit back all my life and be satisfied
      with 'Hey, folks'? They want shouts on Main Street, and I want violins in
      a paneled room. Why&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida Sherwin ran in after school a dozen times. She was tactful,
      torrentially anecdotal. She had scuttled about town and plucked
      compliments: Mrs. Dr. Westlake had pronounced Carol a &ldquo;very sweet, bright,
      cultured young woman,&rdquo; and Brad Bemis, the tinsmith at Clark's Hardware
      Store, had declared that she was &ldquo;easy to work for and awful easy to look
      at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Carol could not yet take her in. She resented this outsider's
      knowledge of her shame. Vida was not too long tolerant. She hinted,
      &ldquo;You're a great brooder, child. Buck up now. The town's quit criticizing
      you, almost entirely. Come with me to the Thanatopsis Club. They have some
      of the BEST papers, and current-events discussions&mdash;SO interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In Vida's demands Carol felt a compulsion, but she was too listless to
      obey.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Bea Sorenson who was really her confidante.
    </p>
    <p>
      However charitable toward the Lower Classes she may have thought herself,
      Carol had been reared to assume that servants belong to a distinct and
      inferior species. But she discovered that Bea was extraordinarily like
      girls she had loved in college, and as a companion altogether superior to
      the young matrons of the Jolly Seventeen. Daily they became more frankly
      two girls playing at housework. Bea artlessly considered Carol the most
      beautiful and accomplished lady in the country; she was always shrieking,
      &ldquo;My, dot's a swell hat!&rdquo; or, &ldquo;Ay t'ink all dese ladies yoost die when dey
      see how elegant you do your hair!&rdquo; But it was not the humbleness of a
      servant, nor the hypocrisy of a slave; it was the admiration of Freshman
      for Junior.
    </p>
    <p>
      They made out the day's menus together. Though they began with propriety,
      Carol sitting by the kitchen table and Bea at the sink or blacking the
      stove, the conference was likely to end with both of them by the table,
      while Bea gurgled over the ice-man's attempt to kiss her, or Carol
      admitted, &ldquo;Everybody knows that the doctor is lots more clever than Dr.
      McGanum.&rdquo; When Carol came in from marketing, Bea plunged into the hall to
      take off her coat, rub her frostied hands, and ask, &ldquo;Vos dere lots of
      folks up-town today?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the welcome upon which Carol depended.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Through her weeks of cowering there was no change in her surface life. No
      one save Vida was aware of her agonizing. On her most despairing days she
      chatted to women on the street, in stores. But without the protection of
      Kennicott's presence she did not go to the Jolly Seventeen; she delivered
      herself to the judgment of the town only when she went shopping and on the
      ritualistic occasions of formal afternoon calls, when Mrs. Lyman Cass or
      Mrs. George Edwin Mott, with clean gloves and minute handkerchiefs and
      sealskin card-cases and countenances of frozen approbation, sat on the
      edges of chairs and inquired, &ldquo;Do you find Gopher Prairie pleasing?&rdquo; When
      they spent evenings of social profit-and-loss at the Haydocks' or the
      Dyers' she hid behind Kennicott, playing the simple bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now she was unprotected. Kennicott had taken a patient to Rochester for an
      operation. He would be away for two or three days. She had not minded; she
      would loosen the matrimonial tension and be a fanciful girl for a time.
      But now that he was gone the house was listeningly empty. Bea was out this
      afternoon&mdash;presumably drinking coffee and talking about &ldquo;fellows&rdquo;
       with her cousin Tina. It was the day for the monthly supper and
      evening-bridge of the Jolly Seventeen, but Carol dared not go.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE house was haunted, long before evening. Shadows slipped down the walls
      and waited behind every chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did that door move?
    </p>
    <p>
      No. She wouldn't go to the Jolly Seventeen. She hadn't energy enough to
      caper before them, to smile blandly at Juanita's rudeness. Not today. But
      she did want a party. Now! If some one would come in this afternoon, some
      one who liked her&mdash;Vida or Mrs. Sam Clark or old Mrs. Champ Perry or
      gentle Mrs. Dr. Westlake. Or Guy Pollock! She'd telephone&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      No. That wouldn't be it. They must come of themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps they would.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why not?
    </p>
    <p>
      She'd have tea ready, anyway. If they came&mdash;splendid. If not&mdash;what
      did she care? She wasn't going to yield to the village and let down; she
      was going to keep up a belief in the rite of tea, to which she had always
      looked forward as the symbol of a leisurely fine existence. And it would
      be just as much fun, even if it was so babyish, to have tea by herself and
      pretend that she was entertaining clever men. It would!
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned the shining thought into action. She bustled to the kitchen,
      stoked the wood-range, sang Schumann while she boiled the kettle, warmed
      up raisin cookies on a newspaper spread on the rack in the oven. She
      scampered up-stairs to bring down her filmiest tea-cloth. She arranged a
      silver tray. She proudly carried it into the living-room and set it on the
      long cherrywood table, pushing aside a hoop of embroidery, a volume of
      Conrad from the library, copies of the Saturday Evening Post, the Literary
      Digest, and Kennicott's National Geographic Magazine.
    </p>
    <p>
      She moved the tray back and forth and regarded the effect. She shook her
      head. She busily unfolded the sewing-table set it in the bay-window,
      patted the tea-cloth to smoothness, moved the tray. &ldquo;Some time I'll have a
      mahogany tea-table,&rdquo; she said happily.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had brought in two cups, two plates. For herself, a straight chair,
      but for the guest the big wing-chair, which she pantingly tugged to the
      table.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had finished all the preparations she could think of. She sat and
      waited. She listened for the door-bell, the telephone. Her eagerness was
      stilled. Her hands drooped.
    </p>
    <p>
      Surely Vida Sherwin would hear the summons.
    </p>
    <p>
      She glanced through the bay-window. Snow was sifting over the ridge of the
      Howland house like sprays of water from a hose. The wide yards across the
      street were gray with moving eddies. The black trees shivered. The roadway
      was gashed with ruts of ice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked at the extra cup and plate. She looked at the wing-chair. It
      was so empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tea was cold in the pot. With wearily dipping fingertip she tested it.
      Yes. Quite cold. She couldn't wait any longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cup across from her was icily clean, glisteningly empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Simply absurd to wait. She poured her own cup of tea. She sat and stared
      at it. What was it she was going to do now? Oh yes; how idiotic; take a
      lump of sugar.
    </p>
    <p>
      She didn't want the beastly tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was springing up. She was on the couch, sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She was thinking more sharply than she had for weeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      She reverted to her resolution to change the town&mdash;awaken it, prod
      it, &ldquo;reform&rdquo; it. What if they were wolves instead of lambs? They'd eat her
      all the sooner if she was meek to them. Fight or be eaten. It was easier
      to change the town completely than to conciliate it! She could not take
      their point of view; it was a negative thing; an intellectual squalor; a
      swamp of prejudices and fears. She would have to make them take hers. She
      was not a Vincent de Paul, to govern and mold a people. What of that? The
      tiniest change in their distrust of beauty would be the beginning of the
      end; a seed to sprout and some day with thickening roots to crack their
      wall of mediocrity. If she could not, as she desired, do a great thing
      nobly and with laughter, yet she need not be content with village
      nothingness. She would plant one seed in the blank wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was she just? Was it merely a blank wall, this town which to three
      thousand and more people was the center of the universe? Hadn't she,
      returning from Lac-qui-Meurt, felt the heartiness of their greetings? No.
      The ten thousand Gopher Prairies had no monopoly of greetings and friendly
      hands. Sam Clark was no more loyal than girl librarians she knew in St.
      Paul, the people she had met in Chicago. And those others had so much that
      Gopher Prairie complacently lacked&mdash;the world of gaiety and
      adventure, of music and the integrity of bronze, of remembered mists from
      tropic isles and Paris nights and the walls of Bagdad, of industrial
      justice and a God who spake not in doggerel hymns.
    </p>
    <p>
      One seed. Which seed it was did not matter. All knowledge and freedom were
      one. But she had delayed so long in finding that seed. Could she do
      something with this Thanatopsis Club? Or should she make her house so
      charming that it would be an influence? She'd make Kennicott like poetry.
      That was it, for a beginning! She conceived so clear a picture of their
      bending over large fair pages by the fire (in a non-existent fireplace)
      that the spectral presences slipped away. Doors no longer moved; curtains
      were not creeping shadows but lovely dark masses in the dusk; and when Bea
      came home Carol was singing at the piano which she had not touched for
      many days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their supper was the feast of two girls. Carol was in the dining-room, in
      a frock of black satin edged with gold, and Bea, in blue gingham and an
      apron, dined in the kitchen; but the door was open between, and Carol was
      inquiring, &ldquo;Did you see any ducks in Dahl's window?&rdquo; and Bea chanting,
      &ldquo;No, ma'am. Say, ve have a svell time, dis afternoon. Tina she have coffee
      and knackebrod, and her fella vos dere, and ve yoost laughed and laughed,
      and her fella say he vos president and he going to make me queen of
      Finland, and Ay stick a fedder in may hair and say Ay bane going to go to
      var&mdash;oh, ve vos so foolish and ve LAUGH so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Carol sat at the piano again she did not think of her husband but of
      the book-drugged hermit, Guy Pollock. She wished that Pollock would come
      calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If a girl really kissed him, he'd creep out of his den and be human. If
      Will were as literate as Guy, or Guy were as executive as Will, I think I
      could endure even Gopher Prairie. It's so hard to mother Will. I could be
      maternal with Guy. Is that what I want, something to mother, a man or a
      baby or a town? I WILL have a baby. Some day. But to have him isolated
      here all his receptive years&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I found my real level in Bea and kitchen-gossip?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I do miss you, Will. But it will be pleasant to turn over in bed as
      often as I want to, without worrying about waking you up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I really this settled thing called a 'married woman'? I feel so
      unmarried tonight. So free. To think that there was once a Mrs. Kennicott
      who let herself worry over a town called Gopher Prairie when there was a
      whole world outside it!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course Will is going to like poetry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      A black February day. Clouds hewn of ponderous timber weighing down on the
      earth; an irresolute dropping of snow specks upon the trampled wastes.
      Gloom but no veiling of angularity. The lines of roofs and sidewalks sharp
      and inescapable.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second day of Kennicott's absence.
    </p>
    <p>
      She fled from the creepy house for a walk. It was thirty below zero; too
      cold to exhilarate her. In the spaces between houses the wind caught her.
      It stung, it gnawed at nose and ears and aching cheeks, and she hastened
      from shelter to shelter, catching her breath in the lee of a barn,
      grateful for the protection of a billboard covered with ragged posters
      showing layer under layer of paste-smeared green and streaky red.
    </p>
    <p>
      The grove of oaks at the end of the street suggested Indians, hunting,
      snow-shoes, and she struggled past the earth-banked cottages to the open
      country, to a farm and a low hill corrugated with hard snow. In her loose
      nutria coat, seal toque, virginal cheeks unmarked by lines of village
      jealousies, she was as out of place on this dreary hillside as a scarlet
      tanager on an ice-floe. She looked down on Gopher Prairie. The snow,
      stretching without break from streets to devouring prairie beyond, wiped
      out the town's pretense of being a shelter. The houses were black specks
      on a white sheet. Her heart shivered with that still loneliness as her
      body shivered with the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran back into the huddle of streets, all the while protesting that she
      wanted a city's yellow glare of shop-windows and restaurants, or the
      primitive forest with hooded furs and a rifle, or a barnyard warm and
      steamy, noisy with hens and cattle, certainly not these dun houses, these
      yards choked with winter ash-piles, these roads of dirty snow and clotted
      frozen mud. The zest of winter was gone. Three months more, till May, the
      cold might drag on, with the snow ever filthier, the weakened body less
      resistent. She wondered why the good citizens insisted on adding the chill
      of prejudice, why they did not make the houses of their spirits more warm
      and frivolous, like the wise chatterers of Stockholm and Moscow.
    </p>
    <p>
      She circled the outskirts of the town and viewed the slum of &ldquo;Swede
      Hollow.&rdquo; Wherever as many as three houses are gathered there will be a
      slum of at least one house. In Gopher Prairie, the Sam Clarks boasted,
      &ldquo;you don't get any of this poverty that you find in cities&mdash;always
      plenty of work&mdash;no need of charity&mdash;man got to be blame
      shiftless if he don't get ahead.&rdquo; But now that the summer mask of leaves
      and grass was gone, Carol discovered misery and dead hope. In a shack of
      thin boards covered with tar-paper she saw the washerwoman, Mrs. Steinhof,
      working in gray steam. Outside, her six-year-old boy chopped wood. He had
      a torn jacket, muffler of a blue like skimmed milk. His hands were covered
      with red mittens through which protruded his chapped raw knuckles. He
      halted to blow on them, to cry disinterestedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      A family of recently arrived Finns were camped in an abandoned stable. A
      man of eighty was picking up lumps of coal along the railroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not know what to do about it. She felt that these independent
      citizens, who had been taught that they belonged to a democracy, would
      resent her trying to play Lady Bountiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      She lost her loneliness in the activity of the village industries&mdash;the
      railroad-yards with a freight-train switching, the wheat-elevator,
      oil-tanks, a slaughter-house with blood-marks on the snow, the creamery
      with the sleds of farmers and piles of milk-cans, an unexplained stone hut
      labeled &ldquo;Danger&mdash;Powder Stored Here.&rdquo; The jolly tombstone-yard, where
      a utilitarian sculptor in a red calfskin overcoat whistled as he hammered
      the shiniest of granite headstones. Jackson Elder's small planing-mill,
      with the smell of fresh pine shavings and the burr of circular saws. Most
      important, the Gopher Prairie Flour and Milling Company, Lyman Cass
      president. Its windows were blanketed with flour-dust, but it was the most
      stirring spot in town. Workmen were wheeling barrels of flour into a
      box-car; a farmer sitting on sacks of wheat in a bobsled argued with the
      wheat-buyer; machinery within the mill boomed and whined, water gurgled in
      the ice-freed mill-race.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clatter was a relief to Carol after months of smug houses. She wished
      that she could work in the mill; that she did not belong to the caste of
      professional-man's-wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started for home, through the small slum. Before a tar-paper shack, at
      a gateless gate, a man in rough brown dogskin coat and black plush cap
      with lappets was watching her. His square face was confident, his foxy
      mustache was picaresque. He stood erect, his hands in his side-pockets,
      his pipe puffing slowly. He was forty-five or -six, perhaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do, Mrs. Kennicott,&rdquo; he drawled.
    </p>
    <p>
      She recalled him&mdash;the town handyman, who had repaired their furnace
      at the beginning of winter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how do you do,&rdquo; she fluttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name 's Bjornstam. 'The Red Swede' they call me. Remember? Always
      thought I'd kind of like to say howdy to you again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye&mdash;yes&mdash;&mdash;I've been exploring the outskirts of town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump. Fine mess. No sewage, no street cleaning, and the Lutheran minister
      and the priest represent the arts and sciences. Well, thunder, we
      submerged tenth down here in Swede Hollow are no worse off than you folks.
      Thank God, we don't have to go and purr at Juanity Haydock at the Jolly
      Old Seventeen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Carol who regarded herself as completely adaptable was uncomfortable
      at being chosen as comrade by a pipe-reeking odd-job man. Probably he was
      one of her husband's patients. But she must keep her dignity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, even the Jolly Seventeen isn't always so exciting. It's very cold
      again today, isn't it. Well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bjornstam was not respectfully valedictory. He showed no signs of pulling
      a forelock. His eyebrows moved as though they had a life of their own.
      With a subgrin he went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I hadn't ought to talk about Mrs. Haydock and her Solemcholy
      Seventeen in that fresh way. I suppose I'd be tickled to death if I was
      invited to sit in with that gang. I'm what they call a pariah, I guess.
      I'm the town badman, Mrs. Kennicott: town atheist, and I suppose I must be
      an anarchist, too. Everybody who doesn't love the bankers and the Grand
      Old Republican Party is an anarchist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol had unconsciously slipped from her attitude of departure into an
      attitude of listening, her face full toward him, her muff lowered. She
      fumbled:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I suppose so.&rdquo; Her own grudges came in a flood. &ldquo;I don't see why you
      shouldn't criticize the Jolly Seventeen if you want to. They aren't
      sacred.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, they are! The dollar-sign has chased the crucifix clean off the
      map. But then, I've got no kick. I do what I please, and I suppose I ought
      to let them do the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean by saying you're a pariah?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm poor, and yet I don't decently envy the rich. I'm an old bach. I make
      enough money for a stake, and then I sit around by myself, and shake hands
      with myself, and have a smoke, and read history, and I don't contribute to
      the wealth of Brother Elder or Daddy Cass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;&mdash;I fancy you read a good deal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yep. In a hit-or-a-miss way. I'll tell you: I'm a lone wolf. I trade
      horses, and saw wood, and work in lumber-camps&mdash;I'm a first-rate
      swamper. Always wished I could go to college. Though I s'pose I'd find it
      pretty slow, and they'd probably kick me out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You really are a curious person, Mr.&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bjornstam. Miles Bjornstam. Half Yank and half Swede. Usually known as
      'that damn lazy big-mouthed calamity-howler that ain't satisfied with the
      way we run things.' No, I ain't curious&mdash;whatever you mean by that!
      I'm just a bookworm. Probably too much reading for the amount of digestion
      I've got. Probably half-baked. I'm going to get in 'half-baked' first, and
      beat you to it, because it's dead sure to be handed to a radical that
      wears jeans!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They grinned together. She demanded:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that the Jolly Seventeen is stupid. What makes you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, trust us borers into the foundation to know about your leisure class.
      Fact, Mrs. Kennicott, I'll say that far as I can make out, the only people
      in this man's town that do have any brains&mdash;I don't mean
      ledger-keeping brains or duck-hunting brains or baby-spanking brains, but
      real imaginative brains&mdash;are you and me and Guy Pollock and the
      foreman at the flour-mill. He's a socialist, the foreman. (Don't tell Lym
      Cass that! Lym would fire a socialist quicker than he would a
      horse-thief!)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed no, I sha'n't tell him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This foreman and I have some great set-to's. He's a regular old-line
      party-member. Too dogmatic. Expects to reform everything from
      deforestration to nosebleed by saying phrases like 'surplus value.' Like
      reading the prayer-book. But same time, he's a Plato J. Aristotle compared
      with people like Ezry Stowbody or Professor Mott or Julius Flickerbaugh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's interesting to hear about him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He dug his toe into a drift, like a schoolboy. &ldquo;Rats. You mean I talk too
      much. Well, I do, when I get hold of somebody like you. You probably want
      to run along and keep your nose from freezing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I must go, I suppose. But tell me: Why did you leave Miss Sherwin,
      of the high school, out of your list of the town intelligentsia?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess maybe she does belong in it. From all I can hear she's in
      everything and behind everything that looks like a reform&mdash;lot more
      than most folks realize. She lets Mrs. Reverend Warren, the president of
      this-here Thanatopsis Club, think she's running the works, but Miss
      Sherwin is the secret boss, and nags all the easy-going dames into doing
      something. But way I figure it out&mdash;&mdash;You see, I'm not
      interested in these dinky reforms. Miss Sherwin's trying to repair the
      holes in this barnacle-covered ship of a town by keeping busy bailing out
      the water. And Pollock tries to repair it by reading poetry to the crew!
      Me, I want to yank it up on the ways, and fire the poor bum of a shoemaker
      that built it so it sails crooked, and have it rebuilt right, from the
      keel up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;that&mdash;that would be better. But I must run home. My poor
      nose is nearly frozen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, you better come in and get warm, and see what an old bach's shack is
      like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked doubtfully at him, at the low shanty, the yard that was
      littered with cord-wood, moldy planks, a hoopless wash-tub. She was
      disquieted, but Bjornstam did not give her the opportunity to be delicate.
      He flung out his hand in a welcoming gesture which assumed that she was
      her own counselor, that she was not a Respectable Married Woman but fully
      a human being. With a shaky, &ldquo;Well, just a moment, to warm my nose,&rdquo; she
      glanced down the street to make sure that she was not spied on, and bolted
      toward the shanty.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remained for one hour, and never had she known a more considerate host
      than the Red Swede.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had but one room: bare pine floor, small work-bench, wall bunk with
      amazingly neat bed, frying-pan and ash-stippled coffee-pot on the shelf
      behind the pot-bellied cannon-ball stove, backwoods chairs&mdash;one
      constructed from half a barrel, one from a tilted plank&mdash;and a row of
      books incredibly assorted; Byron and Tennyson and Stevenson, a manual of
      gas-engines, a book by Thorstein Veblen, and a spotty treatise on &ldquo;The
      Care, Feeding, Diseases, and Breeding of Poultry and Cattle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was but one picture&mdash;a magazine color-plate of a steep-roofed
      village in the Harz Mountains which suggested kobolds and maidens with
      golden hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjornstam did not fuss over her. He suggested, &ldquo;Might throw open your coat
      and put your feet up on the box in front of the stove.&rdquo; He tossed his
      dogskin coat into the bunk, lowered himself into the barrel chair, and
      droned on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yeh, I'm probably a yahoo, but by gum I do keep my independence by doing
      odd jobs, and that's more 'n these polite cusses like the clerks in the
      banks do. When I'm rude to some slob, it may be partly because I don't
      know better (and God knows I'm not no authority on trick forks and what
      pants you wear with a Prince Albert), but mostly it's because I mean
      something. I'm about the only man in Johnson County that remembers the
      joker in the Declaration of Independence about Americans being supposed to
      have the right to 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I meet old Ezra Stowbody on the street. He looks at me like he wants me
      to remember he's a highmuckamuck and worth two hundred thousand dollars,
      and he says, 'Uh, Bjornquist&mdash;&mdash;'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Bjornstam's my name, Ezra,' I says. HE knows my name, all rightee.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Well, whatever your name is,' he says, 'I understand you have a gasoline
      saw. I want you to come around and saw up four cords of maple for me,' he
      says.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'So you like my looks, eh?' I says, kind of innocent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'What difference does that make? Want you to saw that wood before
      Saturday,' he says, real sharp. Common workman going and getting fresh
      with a fifth of a million dollars all walking around in a hand-me-down fur
      coat!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Here's the difference it makes,' I says, just to devil him. 'How do you
      know I like YOUR looks?' Maybe he didn't look sore! 'Nope,' I says,
      thinking it all over, 'I don't like your application for a loan. Take it
      to another bank, only there ain't any,' I says, and I walks off on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. Probably I was surly&mdash;and foolish. But I figured there had to
      be ONE man in town independent enough to sass the banker!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hitched out of his chair, made coffee, gave Carol a cup, and talked on,
      half defiant and half apologetic, half wistful for friendliness and half
      amused by her surprise at the discovery that there was a proletarian
      philosophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the door, she hinted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Bjornstam, if you were I, would you worry when people thought you
      were affected?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh? Kick 'em in the face! Say, if I were a sea-gull, and all over
      silver, think I'd care what a pack of dirty seals thought about my
      flying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not the wind at her back, it was the thrust of Bjornstam's scorn
      which carried her through town. She faced Juanita Haydock, cocked her head
      at Maud Dyer's brief nod, and came home to Bea radiant. She telephoned
      Vida Sherwin to &ldquo;run over this evening.&rdquo; She lustily played Tschaikowsky&mdash;the
      virile chords an echo of the red laughing philosopher of the tar-paper
      shack.
    </p>
    <p>
      (When she hinted to Vida, &ldquo;Isn't there a man here who amuses himself by
      being irreverent to the village gods&mdash;Bjornstam, some such a name?&rdquo;
       the reform-leader said &ldquo;Bjornstam? Oh yes. Fixes things. He's awfully
      impertinent.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had returned at midnight. At breakfast he said four several
      times that he had missed her every moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      On her way to market Sam Clark hailed her, &ldquo;The top o' the mornin' to yez!
      Going to stop and pass the time of day mit Sam'l? Warmer, eh? What'd the
      doc's thermometer say it was? Say, you folks better come round and visit
      with us, one of these evenings. Don't be so dog-gone proud, staying by
      yourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Champ Perry the pioneer, wheat-buyer at the elevator, stopped her in the
      post-office, held her hand in his withered paws, peered at her with faded
      eyes, and chuckled, &ldquo;You are so fresh and blooming, my dear. Mother was
      saying t'other day that a sight of you was better 'n a dose of medicine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the Bon Ton Store she found Guy Pollock tentatively buying a modest
      gray scarf. &ldquo;We haven't seen you for so long,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Wouldn't you
      like to come in and play cribbage, some evening?&rdquo; As though he meant it,
      Pollock begged, &ldquo;May I, really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While she was purchasing two yards of malines the vocal Raymie Wutherspoon
      tiptoed up to her, his long sallow face bobbing, and he besought, &ldquo;You've
      just got to come back to my department and see a pair of patent leather
      slippers I set aside for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a manner of more than sacerdotal reverence he unlaced her boots, tucked
      her skirt about her ankles, slid on the slippers. She took them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're a good salesman,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not a salesman at all! I just like elegant things. All this is so
      inartistic.&rdquo; He indicated with a forlornly waving hand the shelves of
      shoe-boxes, the seat of thin wood perforated in rosettes, the display of
      shoe-trees and tin boxes of blacking, the lithograph of a smirking young
      woman with cherry cheeks who proclaimed in the exalted poetry of
      advertising, &ldquo;My tootsies never got hep to what pedal perfection was till
      I got a pair of clever classy Cleopatra Shoes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But sometimes,&rdquo; Raymie sighed, &ldquo;there is a pair of dainty little shoes
      like these, and I set them aside for some one who will appreciate. When I
      saw these I said right away, 'Wouldn't it be nice if they fitted Mrs.
      Kennicott,' and I meant to speak to you first chance I had. I haven't
      forgotten our jolly talks at Mrs. Gurrey's!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That evening Guy Pollock came in and, though Kennicott instantly impressed
      him into a cribbage game, Carol was happy again.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not, in recovering something of her buoyancy, forget her
      determination to begin the liberalizing of Gopher Prairie by the easy and
      agreeable propaganda of teaching Kennicott to enjoy reading poetry in the
      lamplight. The campaign was delayed. Twice he suggested that they call on
      neighbors; once he was in the country. The fourth evening he yawned
      pleasantly, stretched, and inquired, &ldquo;Well, what'll we do tonight? Shall
      we go to the movies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know exactly what we're going to do. Now don't ask questions! Come and
      sit down by the table. There, are you comfy? Lean back and forget you're a
      practical man, and listen to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It may be that she had been influenced by the managerial Vida Sherwin;
      certainly she sounded as though she was selling culture. But she dropped
      it when she sat on the couch, her chin in her hands, a volume of Yeats on
      her knees, and read aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instantly she was released from the homely comfort of a prairie town. She
      was in the world of lonely things&mdash;the flutter of twilight linnets,
      the aching call of gulls along a shore to which the netted foam crept out
      of darkness, the island of Aengus and the elder gods and the eternal
      glories that never were, tall kings and women girdled with crusted gold,
      the woful incessant chanting and the&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heh-cha-cha!&rdquo; coughed Dr. Kennicott. She stopped. She remembered that he
      was the sort of person who chewed tobacco. She glared, while he uneasily
      petitioned, &ldquo;That's great stuff. Study it in college? I like poetry fine&mdash;James
      Whitcomb Riley and some of Longfellow&mdash;this 'Hiawatha.' Gosh, I wish
      I could appreciate that highbrow art stuff. But I guess I'm too old a dog
      to learn new tricks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With pity for his bewilderment, and a certain desire to giggle, she
      consoled him, &ldquo;Then let's try some Tennyson. You've read him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tennyson? You bet. Read him in school. There's that:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     And let there be no (what is it?) of farewell
     When I put out to sea,
     But let the&mdash;&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      Well, I don't remember all of it but&mdash;&mdash;Oh, sure! And there's
      that 'I met a little country boy who&mdash;&mdash;' I don't remember
      exactly how it goes, but the chorus ends up, 'We are seven.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Well&mdash;&mdash;Shall we try 'The Idylls of the King?' They're so
      full of color.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to it. Shoot.&rdquo; But he hastened to shelter himself behind a cigar.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was not transported to Camelot. She read with an eye cocked on him,
      and when she saw how much he was suffering she ran to him, kissed his
      forehead, cried, &ldquo;You poor forced tube-rose that wants to be a decent
      turnip!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here now, that ain't&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anyway, I sha'n't torture you any longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not quite give up. She read Kipling, with a great deal of
      emphasis:
    </p>
    <p>
      There's a REGIMENT a-COMING down the GRAND Trunk ROAD.
    </p>
    <p>
      He tapped his foot to the rhythm; he looked normal and reassured. But when
      he complimented her, &ldquo;That was fine. I don't know but what you can elocute
      just as good as Ella Stowbody,&rdquo; she banged the book and suggested that
      they were not too late for the nine o'clock show at the movies.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was her last effort to harvest the April wind, to teach divine
      unhappiness by a correspondence course, to buy the lilies of Avalon and
      the sunsets of Cockaigne in tin cans at Ole Jenson's Grocery.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the fact is that at the motion-pictures she discovered herself
      laughing as heartily as Kennicott at the humor of an actor who stuffed
      spaghetti down a woman's evening frock. For a second she loathed her
      laughter; mourned for the day when on her hill by the Mississippi she had
      walked the battlements with queens. But the celebrated cinema jester's
      conceit of dropping toads into a soup-plate flung her into unwilling
      tittering, and the afterglow faded, the dead queens fled through darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      She went to the Jolly Seventeen's afternoon bridge. She had learned the
      elements of the game from the Sam Clarks. She played quietly and
      reasonably badly. She had no opinions on anything more polemic than woolen
      union-suits, a topic on which Mrs. Howland discoursed for five minutes.
      She smiled frequently, and was the complete canary-bird in her manner of
      thanking the hostess, Mrs. Dave Dyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her only anxious period was during the conference on husbands.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young matrons discussed the intimacies of domesticity with a frankness
      and a minuteness which dismayed Carol. Juanita Haydock communicated
      Harry's method of shaving, and his interest in deer-shooting. Mrs.
      Gougerling reported fully, and with some irritation, her husband's
      inappreciation of liver and bacon. Maud Dyer chronicled Dave's digestive
      disorders; quoted a recent bedtime controversy with him in regard to
      Christian Science, socks and the sewing of buttons upon vests; announced
      that she &ldquo;simply wasn't going to stand his always pawing girls when he
      went and got crazy-jealous if a man just danced with her&rdquo;; and rather more
      than sketched Dave's varieties of kisses.
    </p>
    <p>
      So meekly did Carol give attention, so obviously was she at last desirous
      of being one of them, that they looked on her fondly, and encouraged her
      to give such details of her honeymoon as might be of interest. She was
      embarrassed rather than resentful. She deliberately misunderstood. She
      talked of Kennicott's overshoes and medical ideals till they were
      thoroughly bored. They regarded her as agreeable but green.
    </p>
    <p>
      Till the end she labored to satisfy the inquisition. She bubbled at
      Juanita, the president of the club, that she wanted to entertain them.
      &ldquo;Only,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I don't know that I can give you any refreshments as
      nice as Mrs. Dyer's salad, or that simply delicious angel's-food we had at
      your house, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine! We need a hostess for the seventeenth of March. Wouldn't it be
      awfully original if you made it a St. Patrick's Day bridge! I'll be
      tickled to death to help you with it. I'm glad you've learned to play
      bridge. At first I didn't hardly know if you were going to like Gopher
      Prairie. Isn't it dandy that you've settled down to being homey with us!
      Maybe we aren't as highbrow as the Cities, but we do have the daisiest
      times and&mdash;oh, we go swimming in summer, and dances and&mdash;oh,
      lots of good times. If folks will just take us as we are, I think we're a
      pretty good bunch!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure of it. Thank you so much for the idea about having a St.
      Patrick's Day bridge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that's nothing. I always think the Jolly Seventeen are so good at
      original ideas. If you knew these other towns Wakamin and Joralemon and
      all, you'd find out and realize that G. P. is the liveliest, smartest town
      in the state. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan, the famous auto
      manufacturer, came from here and&mdash;&mdash;Yes, I think that a St.
      Patrick's Day party would be awfully cunning and original, and yet not too
      queer or freaky or anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      SHE had often been invited to the weekly meetings of the Thanatopsis, the
      women's study club, but she had put it off. The Thanatopsis was, Vida
      Sherwin promised, &ldquo;such a cozy group, and yet it puts you in touch with
      all the intellectual thoughts that are going on everywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Early in March Mrs. Westlake, wife of the veteran physician, marched into
      Carol's living-room like an amiable old pussy and suggested, &ldquo;My dear, you
      really must come to the Thanatopsis this afternoon. Mrs. Dawson is going
      to be leader and the poor soul is frightened to death. She wanted me to
      get you to come. She says she's sure you will brighten up the meeting with
      your knowledge of books and writings. (English poetry is our topic today.)
      So shoo! Put on your coat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;English poetry? Really? I'd love to go. I didn't realize you were reading
      poetry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we're not so slow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Luke Dawson, wife of the richest man in town, gaped at them piteously
      when they appeared. Her expensive frock of beaver-colored satin with rows,
      plasters, and pendants of solemn brown beads was intended for a woman
      twice her size. She stood wringing her hands in front of nineteen folding
      chairs, in her front parlor with its faded photograph of Minnehaha Falls
      in 1890, its &ldquo;colored enlargement&rdquo; of Mr. Dawson, its bulbous lamp painted
      with sepia cows and mountains and standing on a mortuary marble column.
    </p>
    <p>
      She creaked, &ldquo;O Mrs. Kennicott, I'm in such a fix. I'm supposed to lead
      the discussion, and I wondered would you come and help?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What poet do you take up today?&rdquo; demanded Carol, in her library tone of
      &ldquo;What book do you wish to take out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the English ones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not all of them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W-why yes. We're learning all of European Literature this year. The club
      gets such a nice magazine, Culture Hints, and we follow its programs. Last
      year our subject was Men and Women of the Bible, and next year we'll
      probably take up Furnishings and China. My, it does make a body hustle to
      keep up with all these new culture subjects, but it is improving. So will
      you help us with the discussion today?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On her way over Carol had decided to use the Thanatopsis as the tool with
      which to liberalize the town. She had immediately conceived enormous
      enthusiasm; she had chanted, &ldquo;These are the real people. When the
      housewives, who bear the burdens, are interested in poetry, it means
      something. I'll work with them&mdash;for them&mdash;anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her enthusiasm had become watery even before thirteen women resolutely
      removed their overshoes, sat down meatily, ate peppermints, dusted their
      fingers, folded their hands, composed their lower thoughts, and invited
      the naked muse of poetry to deliver her most improving message. They had
      greeted Carol affectionately, and she tried to be a daughter to them. But
      she felt insecure. Her chair was out in the open, exposed to their gaze,
      and it was a hard-slatted, quivery, slippery church-parlor chair, likely
      to collapse publicly and without warning. It was impossible to sit on it
      without folding the hands and listening piously.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to kick the chair and run. It would make a magnificent clatter.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw that Vida Sherwin was watching her. She pinched her wrist, as
      though she were a noisy child in church, and when she was decent and
      cramped again, she listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dawson opened the meeting by sighing, &ldquo;I'm sure I'm glad to see you
      all here today, and I understand that the ladies have prepared a number of
      very interesting papers, this is such an interesting subject, the poets,
      they have been an inspiration for higher thought, in fact wasn't it
      Reverend Benlick who said that some of the poets have been as much an
      inspiration as a good many of the ministers, and so we shall be glad to
      hear&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor lady smiled neuralgically, panted with fright, scrabbled about
      the small oak table to find her eye-glasses, and continued, &ldquo;We will first
      have the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Jenson on the subject 'Shakespeare and
      Milton.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Ole Jenson said that Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616. He
      lived in London, England, and in Stratford-on-Avon, which many American
      tourists loved to visit, a lovely town with many curios and old houses
      well worth examination. Many people believed that Shakespeare was the
      greatest play-wright who ever lived, also a fine poet. Not much was known
      about his life, but after all that did not really make so much difference,
      because they loved to read his numerous plays, several of the best known
      of which she would now criticize.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the best known of his plays was &ldquo;The Merchant of Venice,&rdquo; having a
      beautiful love story and a fine appreciation of a woman's brains, which a
      woman's club, even those who did not care to commit themselves on the
      question of suffrage, ought to appreciate. (Laughter.) Mrs. Jenson was
      sure that she, for one, would love to be like Portia. The play was about a
      Jew named Shylock, and he didn't want his daughter to marry a Venice
      gentleman named Antonio&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leonard Warren, a slender, gray, nervous woman, president of the
      Thanatopsis and wife of the Congregational pastor, reported the birth and
      death dates of Byron, Scott, Moore, Burns; and wound up:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Burns was quite a poor boy and he did not enjoy the advantages we enjoy
      today, except for the advantages of the fine old Scotch kirk where he
      heard the Word of God preached more fearlessly than even in the finest big
      brick churches in the big and so-called advanced cities of today, but he
      did not have our educational advantages and Latin and the other treasures
      of the mind so richly strewn before the, alas, too ofttimes inattentive
      feet of our youth who do not always sufficiently appreciate the privileges
      freely granted to every American boy rich or poor. Burns had to work hard
      and was sometimes led by evil companionship into low habits. But it is
      morally instructive to know that he was a good student and educated
      himself, in striking contrast to the loose ways and so-called aristocratic
      society-life of Lord Byron, on which I have just spoken. And certainly
      though the lords and earls of his day may have looked down upon Burns as a
      humble person, many of us have greatly enjoyed his pieces about the mouse
      and other rustic subjects, with their message of humble beauty&mdash;I am
      so sorry I have not got the time to quote some of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. George Edwin Mott gave ten minutes to Tennyson and Browning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Nat Hicks, a wry-faced, curiously sweet woman, so awed by her betters
      that Carol wanted to kiss her, completed the day's grim task by a paper on
      &ldquo;Other Poets.&rdquo; The other poets worthy of consideration were Coleridge,
      Wordsworth, Shelley, Gray, Mrs. Hemans, and Kipling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Ella Stowbody obliged with a recital of &ldquo;The Recessional&rdquo; and
      extracts from &ldquo;Lalla Rookh.&rdquo; By request, she gave &ldquo;An Old Sweetheart of
      Mine&rdquo; as encore.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gopher Prairie had finished the poets. It was ready for the next week's
      labor: English Fiction and Essays.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dawson besought, &ldquo;Now we will have a discussion of the papers, and I
      am sure we shall all enjoy hearing from one who we hope to have as a new
      member, Mrs. Kennicott, who with her splendid literary training and all
      should be able to give us many pointers and&mdash;many helpful pointers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol had warned herself not to be so &ldquo;beastly supercilious.&rdquo; She had
      insisted that in the belated quest of these work-stained women was an
      aspiration which ought to stir her tears. &ldquo;But they're so self-satisfied.
      They think they're doing Burns a favor. They don't believe they have a
      'belated quest.' They're sure that they have culture salted and hung up.&rdquo;
       It was out of this stupor of doubt that Mrs. Dawson's summons roused her.
      She was in a panic. How could she speak without hurting them?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Champ Perry leaned over to stroke her hand and whisper, &ldquo;You look
      tired, dearie. Don't you talk unless you want to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Affection flooded Carol; she was on her feet, searching for words and
      courtesies:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only thing in the way of suggestion&mdash;&mdash;I know you are
      following a definite program, but I do wish that now you've had such a
      splendid introduction, instead of going on with some other subject next
      year you could return and take up the poets more in detail. Especially
      actual quotations&mdash;even though their lives are so interesting and, as
      Mrs. Warren said, so morally instructive. And perhaps there are several
      poets not mentioned today whom it might be worth while considering&mdash;Keats,
      for instance, and Matthew Arnold and Rossetti and Swinburne. Swinburne
      would be such a&mdash;well, that is, such a contrast to life as we all
      enjoy it in our beautiful Middle-west&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw that Mrs. Leonard Warren was not with her. She captured her by
      innocently continuing:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless perhaps Swinburne tends to be, uh, more outspoken than you, than
      we really like. What do you think, Mrs. Warren?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pastor's wife decided, &ldquo;Why, you've caught my very thoughts, Mrs.
      Kennicott. Of course I have never READ Swinburne, but years ago, when he
      was in vogue, I remember Mr. Warren saying that Swinburne (or was it Oscar
      Wilde? but anyway:) he said that though many so-called intellectual people
      posed and pretended to find beauty in Swinburne, there can never be
      genuine beauty without the message from the heart. But at the same time I
      do think you have an excellent idea, and though we have talked about
      Furnishings and China as the probable subject for next year, I believe
      that it would be nice if the program committee would try to work in
      another day entirely devoted to English poetry! In fact, Madame Chairman,
      I so move you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Mrs. Dawson's coffee and angel's-food had helped them to recover from
      the depression caused by thoughts of Shakespeare's death they all told
      Carol that it was a pleasure to have her with them. The membership
      committee retired to the sitting-room for three minutes and elected her a
      member.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she stopped being patronizing.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to be one of them. They were so loyal and kind. It was they who
      would carry out her aspiration. Her campaign against village sloth was
      actually begun! On what specific reform should she first loose her army?
      During the gossip after the meeting Mrs. George Edwin Mott remarked that
      the city hall seemed inadequate for the splendid modern Gopher Prairie.
      Mrs. Nat Hicks timidly wished that the young people could have free dances
      there&mdash;the lodge dances were so exclusive. The city hall. That was
      it! Carol hurried home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had not realized that Gopher Prairie was a city. From Kennicott she
      discovered that it was legally organized with a mayor and city-council and
      wards. She was delighted by the simplicity of voting one's self a
      metropolis. Why not?
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a proud and patriotic citizen, all evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She examined the city hall, next morning. She had remembered it only as a
      bleak inconspicuousness. She found it a liver-colored frame coop half a
      block from Main Street. The front was an unrelieved wall of clapboards and
      dirty windows. It had an unobstructed view of a vacant lot and Nat Hicks's
      tailor shop. It was larger than the carpenter shop beside it, but not so
      well built.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one was about. She walked into the corridor. On one side was the
      municipal court, like a country school; on the other, the room of the
      volunteer fire company, with a Ford hose-cart and the ornamental helmets
      used in parades, at the end of the hall, a filthy two-cell jail, now empty
      but smelling of ammonia and ancient sweat. The whole second story was a
      large unfinished room littered with piles of folding chairs, a
      lime-crusted mortar-mixing box, and the skeletons of Fourth of July floats
      covered with decomposing plaster shields and faded red, white, and blue
      bunting. At the end was an abortive stage. The room was large enough for
      the community dances which Mrs. Nat Hicks advocated. But Carol was after
      something bigger than dances.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the afternoon she scampered to the public library.
    </p>
    <p>
      The library was open three afternoons and four evenings a week. It was
      housed in an old dwelling, sufficient but unattractive. Carol caught
      herself picturing pleasanter reading-rooms, chairs for children, an art
      collection, a librarian young enough to experiment.
    </p>
    <p>
      She berated herself, &ldquo;Stop this fever of reforming everything! I WILL be
      satisfied with the library! The city hall is enough for a beginning. And
      it's really an excellent library. It's&mdash;it isn't so bad. . . . Is it
      possible that I am to find dishonesties and stupidity in every human
      activity I encounter? In schools and business and government and
      everything? Is there never any contentment, never any rest?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her head as though she were shaking off water, and hastened into
      the library, a young, light, amiable presence, modest in unbuttoned fur
      coat, blue suit, fresh organdy collar, and tan boots roughened from
      scuffling snow. Miss Villets stared at her, and Carol purred, &ldquo;I was so
      sorry not to see you at the Thanatopsis yesterday. Vida said you might
      come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh. You went to the Thanatopsis. Did you enjoy it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much. Such good papers on the poets.&rdquo; Carol lied resolutely. &ldquo;But I
      did think they should have had you give one of the papers on poetry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;Of course I'm not one of the bunch that seem to have
      the time to take and run the club, and if they prefer to have papers on
      literature by other ladies who have no literary training&mdash;after all,
      why should I complain? What am I but a city employee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're not! You're the one person that does&mdash;that does&mdash;oh, you
      do so much. Tell me, is there, uh&mdash;&mdash;Who are the people who
      control the club?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Villets emphatically stamped a date in the front of &ldquo;Frank on the
      Lower Mississippi&rdquo; for a small flaxen boy, glowered at him as though she
      were stamping a warning on his brain, and sighed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn't put myself forward or criticize any one for the world, and
      Vida is one of my best friends, and such a splendid teacher, and there is
      no one in town more advanced and interested in all movements, but I must
      say that no matter who the president or the committees are, Vida Sherwin
      seems to be behind them all the time, and though she is always telling me
      about what she is pleased to call my 'fine work in the library,' I notice
      that I'm not often called on for papers, though Mrs. Lyman Cass once
      volunteered and told me that she thought my paper on 'The Cathedrals of
      England' was the most interesting paper we had, the year we took up
      English and French travel and architecture. But&mdash;&mdash;And of course
      Mrs. Mott and Mrs. Warren are very important in the club, as you might
      expect of the wives of the superintendent of schools and the
      Congregational pastor, and indeed they are both very cultured, but&mdash;&mdash;No,
      you may regard me as entirely unimportant. I'm sure what I say doesn't
      matter a bit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're much too modest, and I'm going to tell Vida so, and, uh, I wonder
      if you can give me just a teeny bit of your time and show me where the
      magazine files are kept?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had won. She was profusely escorted to a room like a grandmother's
      attic, where she discovered periodicals devoted to house-decoration and
      town-planning, with a six-year file of the National Geographic. Miss
      Villets blessedly left her alone. Humming, fluttering pages with delighted
      fingers, Carol sat cross-legged on the floor, the magazines in heaps about
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found pictures of New England streets: the dignity of Falmouth, the
      charm of Concord, Stockbridge and Farmington and Hillhouse Avenue. The
      fairy-book suburb of Forest Hills on Long Island. Devonshire cottages and
      Essex manors and a Yorkshire High Street and Port Sunlight. The Arab
      village of Djeddah&mdash;an intricately chased jewel-box. A town in
      California which had changed itself from the barren brick fronts and
      slatternly frame sheds of a Main Street to a way which led the eye down a
      vista of arcades and gardens.
    </p>
    <p>
      Assured that she was not quite mad in her belief that a small American
      town might be lovely, as well as useful in buying wheat and selling plows,
      she sat brooding, her thin fingers playing a tattoo on her cheeks. She saw
      in Gopher Prairie a Georgian city hall: warm brick walls with white
      shutters, a fanlight, a wide hall and curving stair. She saw it the common
      home and inspiration not only of the town but of the country about. It
      should contain the court-room (she couldn't get herself to put in a jail),
      public library, a collection of excellent prints, rest-room and model
      kitchen for farmwives, theater, lecture room, free community ballroom,
      farm-bureau, gymnasium. Forming about it and influenced by it, as
      mediaeval villages gathered about the castle, she saw a new Georgian town
      as graceful and beloved as Annapolis or that bowery Alexandria to which
      Washington rode.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this the Thanatopsis Club was to accomplish with no difficulty
      whatever, since its several husbands were the controllers of business and
      politics. She was proud of herself for this practical view.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had taken only half an hour to change a wire-fenced potato-plot into a
      walled rose-garden. She hurried out to apprize Mrs. Leonard Warren, as
      president of the Thanatopsis, of the miracle which had been worked.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      At a quarter to three Carol had left home; at half-past four she had
      created the Georgian town; at a quarter to five she was in the dignified
      poverty of the Congregational parsonage, her enthusiasm pattering upon
      Mrs. Leonard Warren like summer rain upon an old gray roof; at two minutes
      to five a town of demure courtyards and welcoming dormer windows had been
      erected, and at two minutes past five the entire town was as flat as
      Babylon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erect in a black William and Mary chair against gray and speckly-brown
      volumes of sermons and Biblical commentaries and Palestine geographies
      upon long pine shelves, her neat black shoes firm on a rag-rug, herself as
      correct and low-toned as her background, Mrs. Warren listened without
      comment till Carol was quite through, then answered delicately:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I think you draw a very nice picture of what might easily come to
      pass&mdash;some day. I have no doubt that such villages will be found on
      the prairie&mdash;some day. But if I might make just the least little
      criticism: it seems to me that you are wrong in supposing either that the
      city hall would be the proper start, or that the Thanatopsis would be the
      right instrument. After all, it's the churches, isn't it, that are the
      real heart of the community. As you may possibly know, my husband is
      prominent in Congregational circles all through the state for his advocacy
      of church-union. He hopes to see all the evangelical denominations joined
      in one strong body, opposing Catholicism and Christian Science, and
      properly guiding all movements that make for morality and prohibition.
      Here, the combined churches could afford a splendid club-house, maybe a
      stucco and half-timber building with gargoyles and all sorts of pleasing
      decorations on it, which, it seems to me, would be lots better to impress
      the ordinary class of people than just a plain old-fashioned colonial
      house, such as you describe. And that would be the proper center for all
      educational and pleasurable activities, instead of letting them fall into
      the hands of the politicians.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't suppose it will take more than thirty or forty years for the
      churches to get together?&rdquo; Carol said innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly that long even; things are moving so rapidly. So it would be a
      mistake to make any other plans.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not recover her zeal till two days after, when she tried Mrs.
      George Edwin Mott, wife of the superintendent of schools.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Mott commented, &ldquo;Personally, I am terribly busy with dressmaking and
      having the seamstress in the house and all, but it would be splendid to
      have the other members of the Thanatopsis take up the question. Except for
      one thing: First and foremost, we must have a new schoolbuilding. Mr. Mott
      says they are terribly cramped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol went to view the old building. The grades and the high school were
      combined in a damp yellow-brick structure with the narrow windows of an
      antiquated jail&mdash;a hulk which expressed hatred and compulsory
      training. She conceded Mrs. Mott's demand so violently that for two days
      she dropped her own campaign. Then she built the school and city hall
      together, as the center of the reborn town.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ventured to the lead-colored dwelling of Mrs. Dave Dyer. Behind the
      mask of winter-stripped vines and a wide porch only a foot above the
      ground, the cottage was so impersonal that Carol could never visualize it.
      Nor could she remember anything that was inside it. But Mrs. Dyer was
      personal enough. With Carol, Mrs. Howland, Mrs. McGanum, and Vida Sherwin
      she was a link between the Jolly Seventeen and the serious Thanatopsis (in
      contrast to Juanita Haydock, who unnecessarily boasted of being a
      &ldquo;lowbrow&rdquo; and publicly stated that she would &ldquo;see herself in jail before
      she'd write any darned old club papers&rdquo;). Mrs. Dyer was superfeminine in
      the kimono in which she received Carol. Her skin was fine, pale, soft,
      suggesting a weak voluptuousness. At afternoon-coffees she had been rude
      but now she addressed Carol as &ldquo;dear,&rdquo; and insisted on being called Maud.
      Carol did not quite know why she was uncomfortable in this talcum-powder
      atmosphere, but she hastened to get into the fresh air of her plans.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maud Dyer granted that the city hall wasn't &ldquo;so very nice,&rdquo; yet, as Dave
      said, there was no use doing anything about it till they received an
      appropriation from the state and combined a new city hall with a national
      guard armory. Dave had given verdict, &ldquo;What these mouthy youngsters that
      hang around the pool-room need is universal military training. Make men of
      'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dyer removed the new schoolbuilding from the city hall:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, so Mrs. Mott has got you going on her school craze! She's been
      dinging at that till everybody's sick and tired. What she really wants is
      a big office for her dear bald-headed Gawge to sit around and look
      important in. Of course I admire Mrs. Mott, and I'm very fond of her,
      she's so brainy, even if she does try to butt in and run the Thanatopsis,
      but I must say we're sick of her nagging. The old building was good enough
      for us when we were kids! I hate these would-be women politicians, don't
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The first week of March had given promise of spring and stirred Carol with
      a thousand desires for lakes and fields and roads. The snow was gone
      except for filthy woolly patches under trees, the thermometer leaped in a
      day from wind-bitten chill to itchy warmth. As soon as Carol was convinced
      that even in this imprisoned North, spring could exist again, the snow
      came down as abruptly as a paper storm in a theater; the northwest gale
      flung it up in a half blizzard; and with her hope of a glorified town went
      hope of summer meadows.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a week later, though the snow was everywhere in slushy heaps, the
      promise was unmistakable. By the invisible hints in air and sky and earth
      which had aroused her every year through ten thousand generations she knew
      that spring was coming. It was not a scorching, hard, dusty day like the
      treacherous intruder of a week before, but soaked with languor, softened
      with a milky light. Rivulets were hurrying in each alley; a calling robin
      appeared by magic on the crab-apple tree in the Howlands' yard. Everybody
      chuckled, &ldquo;Looks like winter is going,&rdquo; and &ldquo;This 'll bring the frost out
      of the roads&mdash;have the autos out pretty soon now&mdash;wonder what
      kind of bass-fishing we'll get this summer&mdash;ought to be good crops
      this year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Each evening Kennicott repeated, &ldquo;We better not take off our Heavy
      Underwear or the storm windows too soon&mdash;might be 'nother spell of
      cold&mdash;got to be careful 'bout catching cold&mdash;wonder if the coal
      will last through?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The expanding forces of life within her choked the desire for reforming.
      She trotted through the house, planning the spring cleaning with Bea. When
      she attended her second meeting of the Thanatopsis she said nothing about
      remaking the town. She listened respectably to statistics on Dickens,
      Thackeray, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Scott, Hardy, Lamb, De Quincey, and
      Mrs. Humphry Ward, who, it seemed, constituted the writers of English
      Fiction and Essays.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not till she inspected the rest-room did she again become a fanatic. She
      had often glanced at the store-building which had been turned into a
      refuge in which farmwives could wait while their husbands transacted
      business. She had heard Vida Sherwin and Mrs. Warren caress the virtue of
      the Thanatopsis in establishing the rest-room and in sharing with the city
      council the expense of maintaining it. But she had never entered it till
      this March day.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went in impulsively; nodded at the matron, a plump worthy widow named
      Nodelquist, and at a couple of farm-women who were meekly rocking. The
      rest-room resembled a second-hand store. It was furnished with discarded
      patent rockers, lopsided reed chairs, a scratched pine table, a gritty
      straw mat, old steel engravings of milkmaids being morally amorous under
      willow-trees, faded chromos of roses and fish, and a kerosene stove for
      warming lunches. The front window was darkened by torn net curtains and by
      a mound of geraniums and rubber-plants.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was listening to Mrs. Nodelquist's account of how many thousands
      of farmers' wives used the rest-room every year, and how much they
      &ldquo;appreciated the kindness of the ladies in providing them with this lovely
      place, and all free,&rdquo; she thought, &ldquo;Kindness nothing! The kind-ladies'
      husbands get the farmers' trade. This is mere commercial accommodation.
      And it's horrible. It ought to be the most charming room in town, to
      comfort women sick of prairie kitchens. Certainly it ought to have a clear
      window, so that they can see the metropolitan life go by. Some day I'm
      going to make a better rest-room&mdash;a club-room. Why! I've already
      planned that as part of my Georgian town hall!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So it chanced that she was plotting against the peace of the Thanatopsis
      at her third meeting (which covered Scandinavian, Russian, and Polish
      Literature, with remarks by Mrs. Leonard Warren on the sinful paganism of
      the Russian so-called church). Even before the entrance of the coffee and
      hot rolls Carol seized on Mrs. Champ Perry, the kind and ample-bosomed
      pioneer woman who gave historic dignity to the modern matrons of the
      Thanatopsis. She poured out her plans. Mrs. Perry nodded and stroked
      Carol's hand, but at the end she sighed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I could agree with you, dearie. I'm sure you're one of the Lord's
      anointed (even if we don't see you at the Baptist Church as often as we'd
      like to)! But I'm afraid you're too tender-hearted. When Champ and I came
      here we teamed-it with an ox-cart from Sauk Centre to Gopher Prairie, and
      there was nothing here then but a stockade and a few soldiers and some log
      cabins. When we wanted salt pork and gunpowder, we sent out a man on
      horseback, and probably he was shot dead by the Injuns before he got back.
      We ladies&mdash;of course we were all farmers at first&mdash;we didn't
      expect any rest-room in those days. My, we'd have thought the one they
      have now was simply elegant! My house was roofed with hay and it leaked
      something terrible when it rained&mdash;only dry place was under a shelf.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when the town grew up we thought the new city hall was real fine. And
      I don't see any need for dance-halls. Dancing isn't what it was, anyway.
      We used to dance modest, and we had just as much fun as all these young
      folks do now with their terrible Turkey Trots and hugging and all. But if
      they must neglect the Lord's injunction that young girls ought to be
      modest, then I guess they manage pretty well at the K. P. Hall and the
      Oddfellows', even if some of tie lodges don't always welcome a lot of
      these foreigners and hired help to all their dances. And I certainly don't
      see any need of a farm-bureau or this domestic science demonstration you
      talk about. In my day the boys learned to farm by honest sweating, and
      every gal could cook, or her ma learned her how across her knee! Besides,
      ain't there a county agent at Wakamin? He comes here once a fortnight,
      maybe. That's enough monkeying with this scientific farming&mdash;Champ
      says there's nothing to it anyway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as for a lecture hall&mdash;haven't we got the churches? Good deal
      better to listen to a good old-fashioned sermon than a lot of geography
      and books and things that nobody needs to know&mdash;more 'n enough
      heathen learning right here in the Thanatopsis. And as for trying to make
      a whole town in this Colonial architecture you talk about&mdash;&mdash;I
      do love nice things; to this day I run ribbons into my petticoats, even if
      Champ Perry does laugh at me, the old villain! But just the same I don't
      believe any of us old-timers would like to see the town that we worked so
      hard to build being tore down to make a place that wouldn't look like
      nothing but some Dutch story-book and not a bit like the place we loved.
      And don't you think it's sweet now? All the trees and lawns? And such
      comfy houses, and hot-water heat and electric lights and telephones and
      cement walks and everything? Why, I thought everybody from the Twin Cities
      always said it was such a beautiful town!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol forswore herself; declared that Gopher Prairie had the color of
      Algiers and the gaiety of Mardi Gras.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the next afternoon she was pouncing on Mrs. Lyman Cass, the hook-nosed
      consort of the owner of the flour-mill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Cass's parlor belonged to the crammed-Victorian school, as Mrs. Luke
      Dawson's belonged to the bare-Victorian. It was furnished on two
      principles: First, everything must resemble something else. A rocker had a
      back like a lyre, a near-leather seat imitating tufted cloth, and arms
      like Scotch Presbyterian lions; with knobs, scrolls, shields, and
      spear-points on unexpected portions of the chair. The second principle of
      the crammed-Victorian school was that every inch of the interior must be
      filled with useless objects.
    </p>
    <p>
      The walls of Mrs. Cass's parlor were plastered with &ldquo;hand-painted&rdquo;
       pictures, &ldquo;buckeye&rdquo; pictures, of birch-trees, news-boys, puppies, and
      church-steeples on Christmas Eve; with a plaque depicting the Exposition
      Building in Minneapolis, burnt-wood portraits of Indian chiefs of no tribe
      in particular, a pansy-decked poetic motto, a Yard of Roses, and the
      banners of the educational institutions attended by the Casses' two sons&mdash;Chicopee
      Falls Business College and McGillicuddy University. One small square table
      contained a card-receiver of painted china with a rim of wrought and
      gilded lead, a Family Bible, Grant's Memoirs, the latest novel by Mrs.
      Gene Stratton Porter, a wooden model of a Swiss chalet which was also a
      bank for dimes, a polished abalone shell holding one black-headed pin and
      one empty spool, a velvet pin-cushion in a gilded metal slipper with
      &ldquo;Souvenir of Troy, N. Y.&rdquo; stamped on the toe, and an unexplained red glass
      dish which had warts.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Cass's first remark was, &ldquo;I must show you all my pretty things and
      art objects.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She piped, after Carol's appeal:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see. You think the New England villages and Colonial houses are so much
      more cunning than these Middlewestern towns. I'm glad you feel that way.
      You'll be interested to know I was born in Vermont.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And don't you think we ought to try to make Gopher Prai&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My gracious no! We can't afford it. Taxes are much too high as it is. We
      ought to retrench, and not let the city council spend another cent. Uh&mdash;&mdash;Don't
      you think that was a grand paper Mrs. Westlake read about Tolstoy? I was
      so glad she pointed out how all his silly socialistic ideas failed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What Mrs. Cass said was what Kennicott said, that evening. Not in twenty
      years would the council propose or Gopher Prairie vote the funds for a new
      city hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had avoided exposing her plans to Vida Sherwin. She was shy of the
      big-sister manner; Vida would either laugh at her or snatch the idea and
      change it to suit herself. But there was no other hope. When Vida came in
      to tea Carol sketched her Utopia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was soothing but decisive:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, you're all off. I would like to see it: a real gardeny place to
      shut out the gales. But it can't be done. What could the clubwomen
      accomplish?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their husbands are the most important men in town. They ARE the town!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the town as a separate unit is not the husband of the Thanatopsis. If
      you knew the trouble we had in getting the city council to spend the money
      and cover the pumping-station with vines! Whatever you may think of Gopher
      Prairie women, they're twice as progressive as the men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But can't the men see the ugliness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't think it's ugly. And how can you prove it? Matter of taste.
      Why should they like what a Boston architect likes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What they like is to sell prunes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, why not? Anyway, the point is that you have to work from the
      inside, with what we have, rather than from the outside, with foreign
      ideas. The shell ought not to be forced on the spirit. It can't be! The
      bright shell has to grow out of the spirit, and express it. That means
      waiting. If we keep after the city council for another ten years they MAY
      vote the bonds for a new school.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I refuse to believe that if they saw it the big men would be too
      tight-fisted to spend a few dollars each for a building&mdash;think!&mdash;dancing
      and lectures and plays, all done co-operatively!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mention the word 'co-operative' to the merchants and they'll lynch
      you! The one thing they fear more than mail-order houses is that farmers'
      co-operative movements may get started.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The secret trails that lead to scared pocket-books! Always, in
      everything! And I don't have any of the fine melodrama of fiction: the
      dictagraphs and speeches by torchlight. I'm merely blocked by stupidity.
      Oh, I know I'm a fool. I dream of Venice, and I live in Archangel and
      scold because the Northern seas aren't tender-colored. But at least they
      sha'n't keep me from loving Venice, and sometime I'll run away&mdash;&mdash;All
      right. No more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She flung out her hands in a gesture of renunciation.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Early May; wheat springing up in blades like grass; corn and potatoes
      being planted; the land humming. For two days there had been steady rain.
      Even in town the roads were a furrowed welter of mud, hideous to view and
      difficult to cross. Main Street was a black swamp from curb to curb; on
      residence streets the grass parking beside the walks oozed gray water. It
      was prickly hot, yet the town was barren under the bleak sky. Softened
      neither by snow nor by waving boughs the houses squatted and scowled,
      revealed in their unkempt harshness.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she dragged homeward Carol looked with distaste at her clay-loaded
      rubbers, the smeared hem of her skirt. She passed Lyman Cass's pinnacled,
      dark-red, hulking house. She waded a streaky yellow pool. This morass was
      not her home, she insisted. Her home, and her beautiful town, existed in
      her mind. They had already been created. The task was done. What she
      really had been questing was some one to share them with her. Vida would
      not; Kennicott could not.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some one to share her refuge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she was thinking of Guy Pollock.
    </p>
    <p>
      She dismissed him. He was too cautious. She needed a spirit as young and
      unreasonable as her own. And she would never find it. Youth would never
      come singing. She was beaten.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet that same evening she had an idea which solved the rebuilding of
      Gopher Prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within ten minutes she was jerking the old-fashioned bell-pull of Luke
      Dawson. Mrs. Dawson opened the door and peered doubtfully about the edge
      of it. Carol kissed her cheek, and frisked into the lugubrious
      sitting-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, you're a sight for sore eyes!&rdquo; chuckled Mr. Dawson, dropping
      his newspaper, pushing his spectacles back on his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem so excited,&rdquo; sighed Mrs. Dawson.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am! Mr. Dawson, aren't you a millionaire?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He cocked his head, and purred, &ldquo;Well, I guess if I cashed in on all my
      securities and farm-holdings and my interests in iron on the Mesaba and in
      Northern timber and cut-over lands, I could push two million dollars
      pretty close, and I've made every cent of it by hard work and having the
      sense to not go out and spend every&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I want most of it from you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Dawsons glanced at each other in appreciation of the jest; and he
      chirped, &ldquo;You're worse than Reverend Benlick! He don't hardly ever strike
      me for more than ten dollars&mdash;at a time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not joking. I mean it! Your children in the Cities are grown-up and
      well-to-do. You don't want to die and leave your name unknown. Why not do
      a big, original thing? Why not rebuild the whole town? Get a great
      architect, and have him plan a town that would be suitable to the prairie.
      Perhaps he'd create some entirely new form of architecture. Then tear down
      all these shambling buildings&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Dawson had decided that she really did mean it. He wailed, &ldquo;Why, that
      would cost at least three or four million dollars!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you alone, just one man, have two of those millions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? Spend all my hard-earned cash on building houses for a lot of
      shiftless beggars that never had the sense to save their money? Not that
      I've ever been mean. Mama could always have a hired girl to do the work&mdash;when
      we could find one. But her and I have worked our fingers to the bone and&mdash;spend
      it on a lot of these rascals&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! Don't be angry! I just mean&mdash;I mean&mdash;&mdash;Oh, not
      spend all of it, of course, but if you led off the list, and the others
      came in, and if they heard you talk about a more attractive town&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why now, child, you've got a lot of notions. Besides what's the matter
      with the town? Looks good to me. I've had people that have traveled all
      over the world tell me time and again that Gopher Prairie is the prettiest
      place in the Middlewest. Good enough for anybody. Certainly good enough
      for Mama and me. Besides! Mama and me are planning to go out to Pasadena
      and buy a bungalow and live there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      She had met Miles Bjornstam on the street. For the second of welcome
      encounter this workman with the bandit mustache and the muddy overalls
      seemed nearer than any one else to the credulous youth which she was
      seeking to fight beside her, and she told him, as a cheerful anecdote, a
      little of her story.
    </p>
    <p>
      He grunted, &ldquo;I never thought I'd be agreeing with Old Man Dawson, the
      penny-pinching old land-thief&mdash;and a fine briber he is, too. But you
      got the wrong slant. You aren't one of the people&mdash;yet. You want to
      do something for the town. I don't! I want the town to do something for
      itself. We don't want old Dawson's money&mdash;not if it's a gift, with a
      string. We'll take it away from him, because it belongs to us. You got to
      get more iron and cussedness into you. Come join us cheerful bums, and
      some day&mdash;when we educate ourselves and quit being bums&mdash;we'll
      take things and run 'em straight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had changed from her friend to a cynical man in overalls. She could not
      relish the autocracy of &ldquo;cheerful bums.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She forgot him as she tramped the outskirts of town.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had replaced the city hall project by an entirely new and highly
      exhilarating thought of how little was done for these unpicturesque poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      The spring of the plains is not a reluctant virgin but brazen and soon
      away. The mud roads of a few days ago are powdery dust and the puddles
      beside them have hardened into lozenges of black sleek earth like cracked
      patent leather.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was panting as she crept to the meeting of the Thanatopsis program
      committee which was to decide the subject for next fall and winter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madam Chairman (Miss Ella Stowbody in an oyster-colored blouse) asked if
      there was any new business.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol rose. She suggested that the Thanatopsis ought to help the poor of
      the town. She was ever so correct and modern. She did not, she said, want
      charity for them, but a chance of self-help; an employment bureau,
      direction in washing babies and making pleasing stews, possibly a
      municipal fund for home-building. &ldquo;What do you think of my plans, Mrs.
      Warren?&rdquo; she concluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Speaking judiciously, as one related to the church by marriage, Mrs.
      Warren gave verdict:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure we're all heartily in accord with Mrs. Kennicott in feeling that
      wherever genuine poverty is encountered, it is not only noblesse oblige
      but a joy to fulfil our duty to the less fortunate ones. But I must say it
      seems to me we should lose the whole point of the thing by not regarding
      it as charity. Why, that's the chief adornment of the true Christian and
      the church! The Bible has laid it down for our guidance. 'Faith, Hope, and
      CHARITY,' it says, and, 'The poor ye have with ye always,' which indicates
      that there never can be anything to these so-called scientific schemes for
      abolishing charity, never! And isn't it better so? I should hate to think
      of a world in which we were deprived of all the pleasure of giving.
      Besides, if these shiftless folks realize they're getting charity, and not
      something to which they have a right, they're so much more grateful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides,&rdquo; snorted Miss Ella Stowbody, &ldquo;they've been fooling you, Mrs.
      Kennicott. There isn't any real poverty here. Take that Mrs. Steinhof you
      speak of: I send her our washing whenever there's too much for our hired
      girl&mdash;I must have sent her ten dollars' worth the past year alone!
      I'm sure Papa would never approve of a city home-building fund. Papa says
      these folks are fakers. Especially all these tenant farmers that pretend
      they have so much trouble getting seed and machinery. Papa says they
      simply won't pay their debts. He says he's sure he hates to foreclose
      mortgages, but it's the only way to make them respect the law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then think of all the clothes we give these people!&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Jackson Elder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol intruded again. &ldquo;Oh yes. The clothes. I was going to speak of that.
      Don't you think that when we give clothes to the poor, if we do give them
      old ones, we ought to mend them first and make them as presentable as we
      can? Next Christmas when the Thanatopsis makes its distribution, wouldn't
      it be jolly if we got together and sewed on the clothes, and trimmed hats,
      and made them&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens and earth, they have more time than we have! They ought to be
      mighty good and grateful to get anything, no matter what shape it's in. I
      know I'm not going to sit and sew for that lazy Mrs. Vopni, with all I've
      got to do!&rdquo; snapped Ella Stowbody.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were glaring at Carol. She reflected that Mrs. Vopni, whose husband
      had been killed by a train, had ten children.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks was smiling. Mrs. Wilks was the proprietor of Ye
      Art Shoppe and Magazine and Book Store, and the reader of the small
      Christian Science church. She made it all clear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this class of people had an understanding of Science and that we are
      the children of God and nothing can harm us, they wouldn't be in error and
      poverty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Jackson Elder confirmed, &ldquo;Besides, it strikes me the club is already
      doing enough, with tree-planting and the anti-fly campaign and the
      responsibility for the rest-room&mdash;to say nothing of the fact that
      we've talked of trying to get the railroad to put in a park at the
      station!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so too!&rdquo; said Madam Chairman. She glanced uneasily at Miss
      Sherwin. &ldquo;But what do you think, Vida?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vida smiled tactfully at each of the committee, and announced, &ldquo;Well, I
      don't believe we'd better start anything more right now. But it's been a
      privilege to hear Carol's dear generous ideas, hasn't it! Oh! There is one
      thing we must decide on at once. We must get together and oppose any move
      on the part of the Minneapolis clubs to elect another State Federation
      president from the Twin Cities. And this Mrs. Edgar Potbury they're
      putting forward&mdash;I know there are people who think she's a bright
      interesting speaker, but I regard her as very shallow. What do you say to
      my writing to the Lake Ojibawasha Club, telling them that if their
      district will support Mrs. Warren for second vice-president, we'll support
      their Mrs. Hagelton (and such a dear, lovely, cultivated woman, too) for
      president.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! We ought to show up those Minneapolis folks!&rdquo; Ella Stowbody said
      acidly. &ldquo;And oh, by the way, we must oppose this movement of Mrs.
      Potbury's to have the state clubs come out definitely in favor of woman
      suffrage. Women haven't any place in politics. They would lose all their
      daintiness and charm if they became involved in these horried plots and
      log-rolling and all this awful political stuff about scandal and
      personalities and so on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All&mdash;save one&mdash;nodded. They interrupted the formal
      business-meeting to discuss Mrs. Edgar Potbury's husband, Mrs. Potbury's
      income, Mrs. Potbury's sedan, Mrs. Potbury's residence, Mrs. Potbury's
      oratorical style, Mrs. Potbury's mandarin evening coat, Mrs. Potbury's
      coiffure, and Mrs. Potbury's altogether reprehensible influence on the
      State Federation of Women's Clubs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the program committee adjourned they took three minutes to decide
      which of the subjects suggested by the magazine Culture Hints, Furnishings
      and China, or The Bible as Literature, would be better for the coming
      year. There was one annoying incident. Mrs. Dr. Kennicott interfered and
      showed off again. She commented, &ldquo;Don't you think that we already get
      enough of the Bible in our churches and Sunday Schools?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Leonard Warren, somewhat out of order but much more out of temper,
      cried, &ldquo;Well upon my word! I didn't suppose there was any one who felt
      that we could get enough of the Bible! I guess if the Grand Old Book has
      withstood the attacks of infidels for these two thousand years it is worth
      our SLIGHT consideration!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I didn't mean&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Carol begged. Inasmuch as she did mean,
      it was hard to be extremely lucid. &ldquo;But I wish, instead of limiting
      ourselves either to the Bible, or to anecdotes about the Brothers Adam's
      wigs, which Culture Hints seems to regard as the significant point about
      furniture, we could study some of the really stirring ideas that are
      springing up today&mdash;whether it's chemistry or anthropology or labor
      problems&mdash;the things that are going to mean so terribly much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Everybody cleared her polite throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madam Chairman inquired, &ldquo;Is there any other discussion? Will some one
      make a motion to adopt the suggestion of Vida Sherwin&mdash;to take up
      Furnishings and China?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was adopted, unanimously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Checkmate!&rdquo; murmured Carol, as she held up her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had she actually believed that she could plant a seed of liberalism in the
      blank wall of mediocrity? How had she fallen into the folly of trying to
      plant anything whatever in a wall so smooth and sun-glazed, and so
      satisfying to the happy sleepers within?
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      ONE week of authentic spring, one rare sweet week of May, one tranquil
      moment between the blast of winter and the charge of summer. Daily Carol
      walked from town into flashing country hysteric with new life.
    </p>
    <p>
      One enchanted hour when she returned to youth and a belief in the
      possibility of beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had walked northward toward the upper shore of Plover Lake, taking to
      the railroad track, whose directness and dryness make it the natural
      highway for pedestrians on the plains. She stepped from tie to tie, in
      long strides. At each road-crossing she had to crawl over a cattle-guard
      of sharpened timbers. She walked the rails, balancing with arms extended,
      cautious heel before toe. As she lost balance her body bent over, her arms
      revolved wildly, and when she toppled she laughed aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      The thick grass beside the track, coarse and prickly with many burnings,
      hid canary-yellow buttercups and the mauve petals and woolly sage-green
      coats of the pasque flowers. The branches of the kinnikinic brush were red
      and smooth as lacquer on a saki bowl.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran down the gravelly embankment, smiled at children gathering flowers
      in a little basket, thrust a handful of the soft pasque flowers into the
      bosom of her white blouse. Fields of springing wheat drew her from the
      straight propriety of the railroad and she crawled through the rusty
      barbed-wire fence. She followed a furrow between low wheat blades and a
      field of rye which showed silver lights as it flowed before the wind. She
      found a pasture by the lake. So sprinkled was the pasture with rag-baby
      blossoms and the cottony herb of Indian tobacco that it spread out like a
      rare old Persian carpet of cream and rose and delicate green. Under her
      feet the rough grass made a pleasant crunching. Sweet winds blew from the
      sunny lake beside her, and small waves sputtered on the meadowy shore. She
      leaped a tiny creek bowered in pussy-willow buds. She was nearing a
      frivolous grove of birch and poplar and wild plum trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poplar foliage had the downiness of a Corot arbor; the green and
      silver trunks were as candid as the birches, as slender and lustrous as
      the limbs of a Pierrot. The cloudy white blossoms of the plum trees filled
      the grove with a springtime mistiness which gave an illusion of distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran into the wood, crying out for joy of freedom regained after
      winter. Choke-cherry blossoms lured her from the outer sun-warmed spaces
      to depths of green stillness, where a submarine light came through the
      young leaves. She walked pensively along an abandoned road. She found a
      moccasin-flower beside a lichen-covered log. At the end of the road she
      saw the open acres&mdash;dipping rolling fields bright with wheat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe! The woodland gods still live! And out there, the great land.
      It's beautiful as the mountains. What do I care for Thanatopsises?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came out on the prairie, spacious under an arch of boldly cut clouds.
      Small pools glittered. Above a marsh red-winged blackbirds chased a crow
      in a swift melodrama of the air. On a hill was silhouetted a man following
      a drag. His horse bent its neck and plodded, content.
    </p>
    <p>
      A path took her to the Corinth road, leading back to town. Dandelions
      glowed in patches amidst the wild grass by the way. A stream golloped
      through a concrete culvert beneath the road. She trudged in healthy
      weariness.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man in a bumping Ford rattled up beside her, hailed, &ldquo;Give you a lift,
      Mrs. Kennicott?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. It's awfully good of you, but I'm enjoying the walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great day, by golly. I seen some wheat that must of been five inches
      high. Well, so long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hadn't the dimmest notion who he was, but his greeting warmed her.
      This countryman gave her a companionship which she had never (whether by
      her fault or theirs or neither) been able to find in the matrons and
      commercial lords of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      Half a mile from town, in a hollow between hazelnut bushes and a brook,
      she discovered a gipsy encampment: a covered wagon, a tent, a bunch of
      pegged-out horses. A broad-shouldered man was squatted on his heels,
      holding a frying-pan over a camp-fire. He looked toward her. He was Miles
      Bjornstam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, what you doing out here?&rdquo; he roared. &ldquo;Come have a hunk o'
      bacon. Pete! Hey, Pete!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A tousled person came from behind the covered wagon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pete, here's the one honest-to-God lady in my bum town. Come on, crawl in
      and set a couple minutes, Mrs. Kennicott. I'm hiking off for all summer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Red Swede staggered up, rubbed his cramped knees, lumbered to the wire
      fence, held the strands apart for her. She unconsciously smiled at him as
      she went through. Her skirt caught on a barb; he carefully freed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beside this man in blue flannel shirt, baggy khaki trousers, uneven
      suspenders, and vile felt hat, she was small and exquisite.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surly Pete set out an upturned bucket for her. She lounged on it, her
      elbows on her knees. &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just starting off for the summer, horse-trading.&rdquo; Bjornstam chuckled. His
      red mustache caught the sun. &ldquo;Regular hoboes and public benefactors we
      are. Take a hike like this every once in a while. Sharks on horses. Buy
      'em from farmers and sell 'em to others. We're honest&mdash;frequently.
      Great time. Camp along the road. I was wishing I had a chance to say
      good-by to you before I ducked out but&mdash;&mdash;Say, you better come
      along with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd like to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While you're playing mumblety-peg with Mrs. Lym Cass, Pete and me will be
      rambling across Dakota, through the Bad Lands, into the butte country, and
      when fall comes, we'll be crossing over a pass of the Big Horn Mountains,
      maybe, and camp in a snow-storm, quarter of a mile right straight up above
      a lake. Then in the morning we'll lie snug in our blankets and look up
      through the pines at an eagle. How'd it strike you? Heh? Eagle soaring and
      soaring all day&mdash;big wide sky&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't! Or I will go with you, and I'm afraid there might be some slight
      scandal. Perhaps some day I'll do it. Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hand disappeared in his blackened leather glove. From the turn in the
      road she waved at him. She walked on more soberly now, and she was lonely.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the wheat and grass were sleek velvet under the sunset; the prairie
      clouds were tawny gold; and she swung happily into Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the first days of June she drove with Kennicott on his calls. She
      identified him with the virile land; she admired him as she saw with what
      respect the farmers obeyed him. She was out in the early chill, after a
      hasty cup of coffee, reaching open country as the fresh sun came up in
      that unspoiled world. Meadow larks called from the tops of thin split
      fence-posts. The wild roses smelled clean.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they returned in late afternoon the low sun was a solemnity of radial
      bands, like a heavenly fan of beaten gold; the limitless circle of the
      grain was a green sea rimmed with fog, and the willow wind-breaks were
      palmy isles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before July the close heat blanketed them. The tortured earth cracked.
      Farmers panted through corn-fields behind cultivators and the sweating
      flanks of horses. While she waited for Kennicott in the car, before a
      farmhouse, the seat burned her fingers and her head ached with the glare
      on fenders and hood.
    </p>
    <p>
      A black thunder-shower was followed by a dust storm which turned the sky
      yellow with the hint of a coming tornado. Impalpable black dust far-borne
      from Dakota covered the inner sills of the closed windows.
    </p>
    <p>
      The July heat was ever more stifling. They crawled along Main Street by
      day; they found it hard to sleep at night. They brought mattresses down to
      the living-room, and thrashed and turned by the open window. Ten times a
      night they talked of going out to soak themselves with the hose and wade
      through the dew, but they were too listless to take the trouble. On cool
      evenings, when they tried to go walking, the gnats appeared in swarms
      which peppered their faces and caught in their throats.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wanted the Northern pines, the Eastern sea, but Kennicott declared
      that it would be &ldquo;kind of hard to get away, just NOW.&rdquo; The Health and
      Improvement Committee of the Thanatopsis asked her to take part in the
      anti-fly campaign, and she toiled about town persuading householders to
      use the fly-traps furnished by the club, or giving out money prizes to
      fly-swatting children. She was loyal enough but not ardent, and without
      ever quite intending to, she began to neglect the task as heat sucked at
      her strength.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott and she motored North and spent a week with his mother&mdash;that
      is, Carol spent it with his mother, while he fished for bass.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great event was their purchase of a summer cottage, down on Lake
      Minniemashie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the most amiable feature of life in Gopher Prairie was the summer
      cottages. They were merely two-room shanties, with a seepage of
      broken-down chairs, peeling veneered tables, chromos pasted on wooden
      walls, and inefficient kerosene stoves. They were so thin-walled and so
      close together that you could&mdash;and did&mdash;hear a baby being
      spanked in the fifth cottage off. But they were set among elms and lindens
      on a bluff which looked across the lake to fields of ripened wheat sloping
      up to green woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the matrons forgot social jealousies, and sat gossiping in gingham;
      or, in old bathing-suits, surrounded by hysterical children, they paddled
      for hours. Carol joined them; she ducked shrieking small boys, and helped
      babies construct sand-basins for unfortunate minnows. She liked Juanita
      Haydock and Maud Dyer when she helped them make picnic-supper for the men,
      who came motoring out from town each evening. She was easier and more
      natural with them. In the debate as to whether there should be veal loaf
      or poached egg on hash, she had no chance to be heretical and
      oversensitive.
    </p>
    <p>
      They danced sometimes, in the evening; they had a minstrel show, with
      Kennicott surprisingly good as end-man; always they were encircled by
      children wise in the lore of woodchucks and gophers and rafts and willow
      whistles.
    </p>
    <p>
      If they could have continued this normal barbaric life Carol would have
      been the most enthusiastic citizen of Gopher Prairie. She was relieved to
      be assured that she did not want bookish conversation alone; that she did
      not expect the town to become a Bohemia. She was content now. She did not
      criticize.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in September, when the year was at its richest, custom dictated that
      it was time to return to town; to remove the children from the waste
      occupation of learning the earth, and send them back to lessons about the
      number of potatoes which (in a delightful world untroubled by
      commission-houses or shortages in freight-cars) William sold to John. The
      women who had cheerfully gone bathing all summer looked doubtful when
      Carol begged, &ldquo;Let's keep up an outdoor life this winter, let's slide and
      skate.&rdquo; Their hearts shut again till spring, and the nine months of
      cliques and radiators and dainty refreshments began all over.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had started a salon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since Kennicott, Vida Sherwin, and Guy Pollock were her only lions, and
      since Kennicott would have preferred Sam Clark to all the poets and
      radicals in the entire world, her private and self-defensive clique did
      not get beyond one evening dinner for Vida and Guy, on her first wedding
      anniversary; and that dinner did not get beyond a controversy regarding
      Raymie Wutherspoon's yearnings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guy Pollock was the gentlest person she had found here. He spoke of her
      new jade and cream frock naturally, not jocosely; he held her chair for
      her as they sat down to dinner; and he did not, like Kennicott, interrupt
      her to shout, &ldquo;Oh say, speaking of that, I heard a good story today.&rdquo; But
      Guy was incurably hermit. He sat late and talked hard, and did not come
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she met Champ Perry in the post-office&mdash;and decided that in the
      history of the pioneers was the panacea for Gopher Prairie, for all of
      America. We have lost their sturdiness, she told herself. We must restore
      the last of the veterans to power and follow them on the backward path to
      the integrity of Lincoln, to the gaiety of settlers dancing in a saw-mill.
    </p>
    <p>
      She read in the records of the Minnesota Territorial Pioneers that only
      sixty years ago, not so far back as the birth of her own father, four
      cabins had composed Gopher Prairie. The log stockade which Mrs. Champ
      Perry was to find when she trekked in was built afterward by the soldiers
      as a defense against the Sioux. The four cabins were inhabited by Maine
      Yankees who had come up the Mississippi to St. Paul and driven north over
      virgin prairie into virgin woods. They ground their own corn; the
      men-folks shot ducks and pigeons and prairie chickens; the new breakings
      yielded the turnip-like rutabagas, which they ate raw and boiled and baked
      and raw again. For treat they had wild plums and crab-apples and tiny wild
      strawberries.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grasshoppers came darkening the sky, and in an hour ate the farmwife's
      garden and the farmer's coat. Precious horses painfully brought from
      Illinois, were drowned in bogs or stampeded by the fear of blizzards. Snow
      blew through the chinks of new-made cabins, and Eastern children, with
      flowery muslin dresses, shivered all winter and in summer were red and
      black with mosquito bites. Indians were everywhere; they camped in
      dooryards, stalked into kitchens to demand doughnuts, came with rifles
      across their backs into schoolhouses and begged to see the pictures in the
      geographies. Packs of timber-wolves treed the children; and the settlers
      found dens of rattle-snakes, killed fifty, a hundred, in a day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet it was a buoyant life. Carol read enviously in the admirable Minnesota
      chronicles called &ldquo;Old Rail Fence Corners&rdquo; the reminiscence of Mrs. Mahlon
      Black, who settled in Stillwater in 1848:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was nothing to parade over in those days. We took it as it came and
      had happy lives. . . . We would all gather together and in about two
      minutes would be having a good time&mdash;playing cards or dancing. . . .
      We used to waltz and dance contra dances. None of these new jigs and not
      wear any clothes to speak of. We covered our hides in those days; no tight
      skirts like now. You could take three or four steps inside our skirts and
      then not reach the edge. One of the boys would fiddle a while and then
      some one would spell him and he could get a dance. Sometimes they would
      dance and fiddle too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She reflected that if she could not have ballrooms of gray and rose and
      crystal, she wanted to be swinging across a puncheon-floor with a dancing
      fiddler. This smug in-between town, which had exchanged &ldquo;Money Musk&rdquo; for
      phonographs grinding out ragtime, it was neither the heroic old nor the
      sophisticated new. Couldn't she somehow, some yet unimagined how, turn it
      back to simplicity?
    </p>
    <p>
      She herself knew two of the pioneers: the Perrys. Champ Perry was the
      buyer at the grain-elevator. He weighed wagons of wheat on a rough
      platform-scale, in the cracks of which the kernels sprouted every spring.
      Between times he napped in the dusty peace of his office.
    </p>
    <p>
      She called on the Perrys at their rooms above Howland &amp; Gould's
      grocery.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they were already old they had lost the money, which they had
      invested in an elevator. They had given up their beloved yellow brick
      house and moved into these rooms over a store, which were the Gopher
      Prairie equivalent of a flat. A broad stairway led from the street to the
      upper hall, along which were the doors of a lawyer's office, a dentist's,
      a photographer's &ldquo;studio,&rdquo; the lodge-rooms of the Affiliated Order of
      Spartans and, at the back, the Perrys' apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      They received her (their first caller in a month) with aged fluttering
      tenderness. Mrs. Perry confided, &ldquo;My, it's a shame we got to entertain you
      in such a cramped place. And there ain't any water except that ole iron
      sink outside in the hall, but still, as I say to Champ, beggars can't be
      choosers. 'Sides, the brick house was too big for me to sweep, and it was
      way out, and it's nice to be living down here among folks. Yes, we're glad
      to be here. But&mdash;&mdash;Some day, maybe we can have a house of our
      own again. We're saving up&mdash;&mdash;Oh, dear, if we could have our own
      home! But these rooms are real nice, ain't they!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As old people will, the world over, they had moved as much as possible of
      their familiar furniture into this small space. Carol had none of the
      superiority she felt toward Mrs. Lyman Cass's plutocratic parlor. She was
      at home here. She noted with tenderness all the makeshifts: the darned
      chair-arms, the patent rocker covered with sleazy cretonne, the pasted
      strips of paper mending the birch-bark napkin-rings labeled &ldquo;Papa&rdquo; and
      &ldquo;Mama.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hinted of her new enthusiasm. To find one of the &ldquo;young folks&rdquo; who
      took them seriously, heartened the Perrys, and she easily drew from them
      the principles by which Gopher Prairie should be born again&mdash;should
      again become amusing to live in.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was their philosophy complete . . . in the era of aeroplanes and
      syndicalism:
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baptist Church (and, somewhat less, the Methodist, Congregational, and
      Presbyterian Churches) is the perfect, the divinely ordained standard in
      music, oratory, philanthropy, and ethics. &ldquo;We don't need all this
      new-fangled science, or this terrible Higher Criticism that's ruining our
      young men in colleges. What we need is to get back to the true Word of
      God, and a good sound belief in hell, like we used to have it preached to
      us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Republican Party, the Grand Old Party of Blaine and McKinley, is the
      agent of the Lord and of the Baptist Church in temporal affairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      All socialists ought to be hanged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harold Bell Wright is a lovely writer, and he teaches such good morals in
      his novels, and folks say he's made prett' near a million dollars out of
      'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      People who make more than ten thousand a year or less than eight hundred
      are wicked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Europeans are still wickeder.
    </p>
    <p>
      It doesn't hurt any to drink a glass of beer on a warm day, but anybody
      who touches wine is headed straight for hell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Virgins are not so virginal as they used to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nobody needs drug-store ice cream; pie is good enough for anybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      The farmers want too much for their wheat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The owners of the elevator-company expect too much for the salaries they
      pay.
    </p>
    <p>
      There would be no more trouble or discontent in the world if everybody
      worked as hard as Pa did when he cleared our first farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's hero-worship dwindled to polite nodding, and the nodding dwindled
      to a desire to escape, and she went home with a headache.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day she saw Miles Bjornstam on the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just back from Montana. Great summer. Pumped my lungs chuck-full of Rocky
      Mountain air. Now for another whirl at sassing the bosses of Gopher
      Prairie.&rdquo; She smiled at him, and the Perrys faded, the pioneers faded,
      till they were but daguerreotypes in a black walnut cupboard.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      SHE tried, more from loyalty than from desire, to call upon the Perrys on
      a November evening when Kennicott was away. They were not at home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like a child who has no one to play with she loitered through the dark
      hall. She saw a light under an office door. She knocked. To the person who
      opened she murmured, &ldquo;Do you happen to know where the Perrys are?&rdquo; She
      realized that it was Guy Pollock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. Kennicott, but I don't know. Won't you come in
      and wait for them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W-why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; she observed, as she reflected that in Gopher
      Prairie it is not decent to call on a man; as she decided that no, really,
      she wouldn't go in; and as she went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know your office was up here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, office, town-house, and chateau in Picardy. But you can't see the
      chateau and town-house (next to the Duke of Sutherland's). They're beyond
      that inner door. They are a cot and a wash-stand and my other suit and the
      blue crepe tie you said you liked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember my saying that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. I always shall. Please try this chair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She glanced about the rusty office&mdash;gaunt stove, shelves of tan
      law-books, desk-chair filled with newspapers so long sat upon that they
      were in holes and smudged to grayness. There were only two things which
      suggested Guy Pollock. On the green felt of the table-desk, between legal
      blanks and a clotted inkwell, was a cloissone vase. On a swing shelf was a
      row of books unfamiliar to Gopher Prairie: Mosher editions of the poets,
      black and red German novels, a Charles Lamb in crushed levant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guy did not sit down. He quartered the office, a grayhound on the scent; a
      grayhound with glasses tilted forward on his thin nose, and a silky
      indecisive brown mustache. He had a golf jacket of jersey, worn through at
      the creases in the sleeves. She noted that he did not apologize for it, as
      Kennicott would have done.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made conversation: &ldquo;I didn't know you were a bosom friend of the
      Perrys. Champ is the salt of the earth but somehow I can't imagine him
      joining you in symbolic dancing, or making improvements on the Diesel
      engine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. He's a dear soul, bless him, but he belongs in the National Museum,
      along with General Grant's sword, and I'm&mdash;&mdash;Oh, I suppose I'm
      seeking for a gospel that will evangelize Gopher Prairie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? Evangelize it to what?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To anything that's definite. Seriousness or frivolousness or both. I
      wouldn't care whether it was a laboratory or a carnival. But it's merely
      safe. Tell me, Mr. Pollock, what is the matter with Gopher Prairie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is anything the matter with it? Isn't there perhaps something the matter
      with you and me? (May I join you in the honor of having something the
      matter?)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;(Yes, thanks.) No, I think it's the town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because they enjoy skating more than biology?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm not only more interested in biology than the Jolly Seventeen, but
      also in skating! I'll skate with them, or slide, or throw snowballs, just
      as gladly as talk with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Oh no!&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Yes!) But they want to stay home and embroider.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. I'm not defending the town. It's merely&mdash;&mdash;I'm a
      confirmed doubter of myself. (Probably I'm conceited about my lack of
      conceit!) Anyway, Gopher Prairie isn't particularly bad. It's like all
      villages in all countries. Most places that have lost the smell of earth
      but not yet acquired the smell of patchouli&mdash;or of factory-smoke&mdash;are
      just as suspicious and righteous. I wonder if the small town isn't, with
      some lovely exceptions, a social appendix? Some day these dull
      market-towns may be as obsolete as monasteries. I can imagine the farmer
      and his local store-manager going by monorail, at the end of the day, into
      a city more charming than any William Morris Utopia&mdash;music, a
      university, clubs for loafers like me. (Lord, how I'd like to have a real
      club!)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She asked impulsively, &ldquo;You, why do you stay here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have the Village Virus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It sounds dangerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is. More dangerous than the cancer that will certainly get me at fifty
      unless I stop this smoking. The Village Virus is the germ which&mdash;it's
      extraordinarily like the hook-worm&mdash;it infects ambitious people who
      stay too long in the provinces. You'll find it epidemic among lawyers and
      doctors and ministers and college-bred merchants&mdash;all these people
      who have had a glimpse of the world that thinks and laughs, but have
      returned to their swamp. I'm a perfect example. But I sha'n't pester you
      with my dolors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't. And do sit down, so I can see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He dropped into the shrieking desk-chair. He looked squarely at her; she
      was conscious of the pupils of his eyes; of the fact that he was a man,
      and lonely. They were embarrassed. They elaborately glanced away, and were
      relieved as he went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The diagnosis of my Village Virus is simple enough. I was born in an Ohio
      town about the same size as Gopher Prairie, and much less friendly. It'd
      had more generations in which to form an oligarchy of respectability.
      Here, a stranger is taken in if he is correct, if he likes hunting and
      motoring and God and our Senator. There, we didn't take in even our own
      till we had contemptuously got used to them. It was a red-brick Ohio town,
      and the trees made it damp, and it smelled of rotten apples. The country
      wasn't like our lakes and prairie. There were small stuffy corn-fields and
      brick-yards and greasy oil-wells.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went to a denominational college and learned that since dictating the
      Bible, and hiring a perfect race of ministers to explain it, God has never
      done much but creep around and try to catch us disobeying it. From college
      I went to New York, to the Columbia Law School. And for four years I
      lived. Oh, I won't rhapsodize about New York. It was dirty and noisy and
      breathless and ghastly expensive. But compared with the moldy academy in
      which I had been smothered&mdash;&mdash;! I went to symphonies twice a
      week. I saw Irving and Terry and Duse and Bernhardt, from the top gallery.
      I walked in Gramercy Park. And I read, oh, everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Through a cousin I learned that Julius Flickerbaugh was sick and needed a
      partner. I came here. Julius got well. He didn't like my way of loafing
      five hours and then doing my work (really not so badly) in one. We parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I first came here I swore I'd 'keep up my interests.' Very lofty! I
      read Browning, and went to Minneapolis for the theaters. I thought I was
      'keeping up.' But I guess the Village Virus had me already. I was reading
      four copies of cheap fiction-magazines to one poem. I'd put off the
      Minneapolis trips till I simply had to go there on a lot of legal matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few years ago I was talking to a patent lawyer from Chicago, and I
      realized that&mdash;&mdash;I'd always felt so superior to people like
      Julius Flickerbaugh, but I saw that I was as provincial and
      behind-the-times as Julius. (Worse! Julius plows through the Literary
      Digest and the Outlook faithfully, while I'm turning over pages of a book
      by Charles Flandrau that I already know by heart.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I decided to leave here. Stern resolution. Grasp the world. Then I found
      that the Village Virus had me, absolute: I didn't want to face new streets
      and younger men&mdash;real competition. It was too easy to go on making
      out conveyances and arguing ditching cases. So&mdash;&mdash;That's all of
      the biography of a living dead man, except the diverting last chapter, the
      lies about my having been 'a tower of strength and legal wisdom' which
      some day a preacher will spin over my lean dry body.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked down at his table-desk, fingering the starry enameled vase.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not comment. She pictured herself running across the room to pat
      his hair. She saw that his lips were firm, under his soft faded mustache.
      She sat still and maundered, &ldquo;I know. The Village Virus. Perhaps it will
      get me. Some day I'm going&mdash;&mdash;Oh, no matter. At least, I am
      making you talk! Usually you have to be polite to my garrulousness, but
      now I'm sitting at your feet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be rather nice to have you literally sitting at my feet, by a
      fire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you have a fireplace for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally! Please don't snub me now! Let the old man rave. How old are
      you, Carol?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-six, Guy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-six! I was just leaving New York, at twenty-six. I heard Patti
      sing, at twenty-six. And now I'm forty-seven. I feel like a child, yet I'm
      old enough to be your father. So it's decently paternal to imagine you
      curled at my feet. . . . Of course I hope it isn't, but we'll reflect the
      morals of Gopher Prairie by officially announcing that it is! . . . These
      standards that you and I live up to! There's one thing that's the matter
      with Gopher Prairie, at least with the ruling-class (there is a
      ruling-class, despite all our professions of democracy). And the penalty
      we tribal rulers pay is that our subjects watch us every minute. We can't
      get wholesomely drunk and relax. We have to be so correct about sex
      morals, and inconspicuous clothes, and doing our commercial trickery only
      in the traditional ways, that none of us can live up to it, and we become
      horribly hypocritical. Unavoidably. The widow-robbing deacon of fiction
      can't help being hypocritical. The widows themselves demand it! They
      admire his unctuousness. And look at me. Suppose I did dare to make love
      to&mdash;some exquisite married woman. I wouldn't admit it to myself. I
      giggle with the most revolting salaciousness over La Vie Parisienne, when
      I get hold of one in Chicago, yet I shouldn't even try to hold your hand.
      I'm broken. It's the historical Anglo-Saxon way of making life miserable.
      . . . Oh, my dear, I haven't talked to anybody about myself and all our
      selves for years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guy! Can't we do something with the town? Really?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, we can't!&rdquo; He disposed of it like a judge ruling out an improper
      objection; returned to matters less uncomfortably energetic: &ldquo;Curious.
      Most troubles are unnecessary. We have Nature beaten; we can make her grow
      wheat; we can keep warm when she sends blizzards. So we raise the devil
      just for pleasure&mdash;wars, politics, race-hatreds, labor-disputes. Here
      in Gopher Prairie we've cleared the fields, and become soft, so we make
      ourselves unhappy artificially, at great expense and exertion: Methodists
      disliking Episcopalians, the man with the Hudson laughing at the man with
      the flivver. The worst is the commercial hatred&mdash;the grocer feeling
      that any man who doesn't deal with him is robbing him. What hurts me is
      that it applies to lawyers and doctors (and decidedly to their wives!) as
      much as to grocers. The doctors&mdash;you know about that&mdash;how your
      husband and Westlake and Gould dislike one another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I won't admit it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grinned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, maybe once or twice, when Will has positively known of a case where
      Doctor&mdash;where one of the others has continued to call on patients
      longer than necessary, he has laughed about it, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He still grinned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, REALLY! And when you say the wives of the doctors share these
      jealousies&mdash;&mdash;Mrs. McGanum and I haven't any particular crush on
      each other; she's so stolid. But her mother, Mrs. Westlake&mdash;nobody
      could be sweeter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I'm sure she's very bland. But I wouldn't tell her my heart's
      secrets if I were you, my dear. I insist that there's only one
      professional-man's wife in this town who doesn't plot, and that is you,
      you blessed, credulous outsider!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I won't be cajoled! I won't believe that medicine, the priesthood of
      healing, can be turned into a penny-picking business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here: Hasn't Kennicott ever hinted to you that you'd better be nice
      to some old woman because she tells her friends which doctor to call in?
      But I oughtn't to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remembered certain remarks which Kennicott had offered regarding the
      Widow Bogart. She flinched, looked at Guy beseechingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sprang up, strode to her with a nervous step, smoothed her hand. She
      wondered if she ought to be offended by his caress. Then she wondered if
      he liked her hat, the new Oriental turban of rose and silver brocade.
    </p>
    <p>
      He dropped her hand. His elbow brushed her shoulder. He flitted over to
      the desk-chair, his thin back stooped. He picked up the cloisonne vase.
      Across it he peered at her with such loneliness that she was startled. But
      his eyes faded into impersonality as he talked of the jealousies of Gopher
      Prairie. He stopped himself with a sharp, &ldquo;Good Lord, Carol, you're not a
      jury. You are within your legal rights in refusing to be subjected to this
      summing-up. I'm a tedious old fool analyzing the obvious, while you're the
      spirit of rebellion. Tell me your side. What is Gopher Prairie to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bore!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I help?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Perhaps by listening. I haven't done that tonight. But
      normally&mdash;&mdash;Can't I be the confidant of the old French plays,
      the tiring-maid with the mirror and the loyal ears?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, what is there to confide? The people are savorless and proud of it.
      And even if I liked you tremendously, I couldn't talk to you without
      twenty old hexes watching, whispering.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will come talk to me, once in a while?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not sure that I shall. I'm trying to develop my own large capacity
      for dullness and contentment. I've failed at every positive thing I've
      tried. I'd better 'settle down,' as they call it, and be satisfied to be&mdash;nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be cynical. It hurts me, in you. It's like blood on the wing of a
      humming-bird.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not a humming-bird. I'm a hawk; a tiny leashed hawk, pecked to death
      by these large, white, flabby, wormy hens. But I am grateful to you for
      confirming me in the faith. And I'm going home!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please stay and have some coffee with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd like to. But they've succeeded in terrorizing me. I'm afraid of what
      people might say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not afraid of that. I'm only afraid of what you might say!&rdquo; He
      stalked to her; took her unresponsive hand. &ldquo;Carol! You have been happy
      here tonight? (Yes. I'm begging!)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She squeezed his hand quickly, then snatched hers away. She had but little
      of the curiosity of the flirt, and none of the intrigante's joy in
      furtiveness. If she was the naive girl, Guy Pollock was the clumsy boy. He
      raced about the office; he rammed his fists into his pockets. He
      stammered, &ldquo;I&mdash;I&mdash;I&mdash;&mdash;Oh, the devil! Why do I awaken
      from smooth dustiness to this jagged rawness? I'll make I'm going to trot
      down the hall and bring in the Dillons, and we'll all have coffee or
      something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Dillons?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Really quite a decent young pair&mdash;Harvey Dillon and his wife.
      He's a dentist, just come to town. They live in a room behind his office,
      same as I do here. They don't know much of anybody&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've heard of them. And I've never thought to call. I'm horribly ashamed.
      Do bring them&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stopped, for no very clear reason, but his expression said, her
      faltering admitted, that they wished they had never mentioned the Dillons.
      With spurious enthusiasm he said, &ldquo;Splendid! I will.&rdquo; From the door he
      glanced at her, curled in the peeled leather chair. He slipped out, came
      back with Dr. and Mrs. Dillon.
    </p>
    <p>
      The four of them drank rather bad coffee which Pollock made on a kerosene
      burner. They laughed, and spoke of Minneapolis, and were tremendously
      tactful; and Carol started for home, through the November wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV
    </h2>
    <h3>
      SHE was marching home.
    </h3>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I couldn't fall in love with him. I like him, very much. But he's too
      much of a recluse. Could I kiss him? No! No! Guy Pollock at twenty-six I
      could have kissed him then, maybe, even if I were married to some one
      else, and probably I'd have been glib in persuading myself that 'it wasn't
      really wrong.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The amazing thing is that I'm not more amazed at myself. I, the virtuous
      young matron. Am I to be trusted? If the Prince Charming came&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Gopher Prairie housewife, married a year, and yearning for a 'Prince
      Charming' like a bachfisch of sixteen! They say that marriage is a magic
      change. But I'm not changed. But&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I wouldn't want to fall in love, even if the Prince did come. I
      wouldn't want to hurt Will. I am fond of Will. I am! He doesn't stir me,
      not any longer. But I depend on him. He is home and children.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder when we will begin to have children? I do want them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder whether I remembered to tell Bea to have hominy tomorrow,
      instead of oatmeal? She will have gone to bed by now. Perhaps I'll be up
      early enough&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever so fond of Will. I wouldn't hurt him, even if I had to lose the mad
      love. If the Prince came I'd look once at him, and run. Darn fast! Oh,
      Carol, you are not heroic nor fine. You are the immutable vulgar young
      female.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I'm not the faithless wife who enjoys confiding that she's
      'misunderstood.' Oh, I'm not, I'm not!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least I didn't whisper to Guy about Will's faults and his blindness to
      my remarkable soul. I didn't! Matter of fact, Will probably understands me
      perfectly! If only&mdash;if he would just back me up in rousing the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many, how incredibly many wives there must be who tingle over the
      first Guy Pollock who smiles at them. No! I will not be one of that herd
      of yearners! The coy virgin brides. Yet probably if the Prince were young
      and dared to face life&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not half as well oriented as that Mrs. Dillon. So obviously adoring
      her dentist! And seeing Guy only as an eccentric fogy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They weren't silk, Mrs. Dillon's stockings. They were lisle. Her legs are
      nice and slim. But no nicer than mine. I hate cotton tops on silk
      stockings. . . . Are my ankles getting fat? I will NOT have fat ankles!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I am fond of Will. His work&mdash;one farmer he pulls through
      diphtheria is worth all my yammering for a castle in Spain. A castle with
      baths.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This hat is so tight. I must stretch it. Guy liked it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's the house. I'm awfully chilly. Time to get out the fur coat. I
      wonder if I'll ever have a beaver coat? Nutria is NOT the same thing!
      Beaver-glossy. Like to run my fingers over it. Guy's mustache like beaver.
      How utterly absurd!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am, I AM fond of Will, and&mdash;&mdash;Can't I ever find another word
      than 'fond'?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's home. He'll think I was out late.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why can't he ever remember to pull down the shades? Cy Bogart and all the
      beastly boys peeping in. But the poor dear, he's absent-minded about
      minute&mdash;minush&mdash;whatever the word is. He has so much worry and
      work, while I do nothing but jabber to Bea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I MUSTN'T forget the hominy&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was flying into the hall. Kennicott looked up from the Journal of the
      American Medical Society.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello! What time did you get back?&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About nine. You been gadding. Here it is past eleven!&rdquo; Good-natured yet
      not quite approving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did it feel neglected?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you didn't remember to close the lower draft in the furnace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'm so sorry. But I don't often forget things like that, do I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She dropped into his lap and (after he had jerked back his head to save
      his eye-glasses, and removed the glasses, and settled her in a position
      less cramping to his legs, and casually cleared his throat) he kissed her
      amiably, and remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope, I must say you're fairly good about things like that. I wasn't
      kicking. I just meant I wouldn't want the fire to go out on us. Leave that
      draft open and the fire might burn up and go out on us. And the nights are
      beginning to get pretty cold again. Pretty cold on my drive. I put the
      side-curtains up, it was so chilly. But the generator is working all right
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It is chilly. But I feel fine after my walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go walking?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went up to see the Perrys.&rdquo; By a definite act of will she added the
      truth: &ldquo;They weren't in. And I saw Guy Pollock. Dropped into his office.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you haven't been sitting and chinning with him till eleven o'clock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course there were some other people there and&mdash;&mdash;Will! What
      do you think of Dr. Westlake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Westlake? Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I noticed him on the street today.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he limping? If the poor fish would have his teeth X-rayed, I'll bet
      nine and a half cents he'd find an abscess there. 'Rheumatism' he calls
      it. Rheumatism, hell! He's behind the times. Wonder he doesn't bleed
      himself! Wellllllll&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; A profound and serious yawn. &ldquo;I hate to
      break up the party, but it's getting late, and a doctor never knows when
      he'll get routed out before morning.&rdquo; (She remembered that he had given
      this explanation, in these words, not less than thirty times in the year.)
      &ldquo;I guess we better be trotting up to bed. I've wound the clock and looked
      at the furnace. Did you lock the front door when you came in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They trailed up-stairs, after he had turned out the lights and twice
      tested the front door to make sure it was fast. While they talked they
      were preparing for bed. Carol still sought to maintain privacy by
      undressing behind the screen of the closet door. Kennicott was not so
      reticent. Tonight, as every night, she was irritated by having to push the
      old plush chair out of the way before she could open the closet door.
      Every time she opened the door she shoved the chair. Ten times an hour.
      But Kennicott liked to have the chair in the room, and there was no place
      for it except in front of the closet.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pushed it, felt angry, hid her anger. Kennicott was yawning, more
      portentously. The room smelled stale. She shrugged and became chatty:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were speaking of Dr. Westlake. Tell me&mdash;you've never summed him
      up: Is he really a good doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, he's a wise old coot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;There! You see there is no medical rivalry. Not in my house!&rdquo; she said
      triumphantly to Guy Pollock.)
    </p>
    <p>
      She hung her silk petticoat on a closet hook, and went on, &ldquo;Dr. Westlake
      is so gentle and scholarly&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know as I'd say he was such a whale of a scholar. I've
      always had a suspicion he did a good deal of four-flushing about that. He
      likes to have people think he keeps up his French and Greek and Lord knows
      what all; and he's always got an old Dago book lying around the
      sitting-room, but I've got a hunch he reads detective stories 'bout like
      the rest of us. And I don't know where he'd ever learn so dog-gone many
      languages anyway! He kind of lets people assume he went to Harvard or
      Berlin or Oxford or somewhere, but I looked him up in the medical
      register, and he graduated from a hick college in Pennsylvania, 'way back
      in 1861!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is the important thing: Is he an honest doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you mean 'honest'? Depends on what you mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you were sick. Would you call him in? Would you let me call him
      in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not if I were well enough to cuss and bite, I wouldn't! No, SIR! I
      wouldn't have the old fake in the house. Makes me tired, his everlasting
      palavering and soft-soaping. He's all right for an ordinary bellyache or
      holding some fool woman's hand, but I wouldn't call him in for an
      honest-to-God illness, not much I wouldn't, NO-sir! You know I don't do
      much back-biting, but same time&mdash;&mdash;I'll tell you, Carrrie: I've
      never got over being sore at Westlake for the way he treated Mrs.
      Jonderquist. Nothing the matter with her, what she really needed was a
      rest, but Westlake kept calling on her and calling on her for weeks,
      almost every day, and he sent her a good big fat bill, too, you can bet! I
      never did forgive him for that. Nice decent hard-working people like the
      Jonderquists!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In her batiste nightgown she was standing at the bureau engaged in the
      invariable rites of wishing that she had a real dressing-table with a
      triple mirror, of bending toward the streaky glass and raising her chin to
      inspect a pin-head mole on her throat, and finally of brushing her hair.
      In rhythm to the strokes she went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Will, there isn't any of what you might call financial rivalry
      between you and the partners&mdash;Westlake and McGanum&mdash;is there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He flipped into bed with a solemn back-somersault and a ludicrous kick of
      his heels as he tucked his legs under the blankets. He snorted, &ldquo;Lord no!
      I never begrudge any man a nickel he can get away from me&mdash;fairly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is Westlake fair? Isn't he sly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sly is the word. He's a fox, that boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She saw Guy Pollock's grin in the mirror. She flushed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott, with his arms behind his head, was yawning:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump. He's smooth, too smooth. But I bet I make prett' near as much as
      Westlake and McGanum both together, though I've never wanted to grab more
      than my just share. If anybody wants to go to the partners instead of to
      me, that's his business. Though I must say it makes me tired when Westlake
      gets hold of the Dawsons. Here Luke Dawson had been coming to me for every
      toeache and headache and a lot of little things that just wasted my time,
      and then when his grandchild was here last summer and had
      summer-complaint, I suppose, or something like that, probably&mdash;you
      know, the time you and I drove up to Lac-qui-Meurt&mdash;why, Westlake got
      hold of Ma Dawson, and scared her to death, and made her think the kid had
      appendicitis, and, by golly, if he and McGanum didn't operate, and holler
      their heads off about the terrible adhesions they found, and what a
      regular Charley and Will Mayo they were for classy surgery. They let on
      that if they'd waited two hours more the kid would have developed
      peritonitis, and God knows what all; and then they collected a nice fat
      hundred and fifty dollars. And probably they'd have charged three hundred,
      if they hadn't been afraid of me! I'm no hog, but I certainly do hate to
      give old Luke ten dollars' worth of advice for a dollar and a half, and
      then see a hundred and fifty go glimmering. And if I can't do a better
      'pendectomy than either Westlake or McGanum, I'll eat my hat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she crept into bed she was dazzled by Guy's blazing grin. She
      experimented:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Westlake is cleverer than his son-in-law, don't you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Westlake may be old-fashioned and all that, but he's got a certain
      amount of intuition, while McGanum goes into everything bull-headed, and
      butts his way through like a damn yahoo, and tries to argue his patients
      into having whatever he diagnoses them as having! About the best thing Mac
      can do is to stick to baby-snatching. He's just about on a par with this
      bone-pounding chiropractor female, Mrs. Mattie Gooch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Westlake and Mrs. McGanum, though&mdash;they're nice. They've been
      awfully cordial to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, no reason why they shouldn't be, is there? Oh, they're nice enough&mdash;though
      you can bet your bottom dollar they're both plugging for their husbands
      all the time, trying to get the business. And I don't know as I call it so
      damn cordial in Mrs. McGanum when I holler at her on the street and she
      nods back like she had a sore neck. Still, she's all right. It's Ma
      Westlake that makes the mischief, pussyfooting around all the time. But I
      wouldn't trust any Westlake out of the whole lot, and while Mrs. McGanum
      SEEMS square enough, you don't never want to forget that she's Westlake's
      daughter. You bet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What about Dr. Gould? Don't you think he's worse than either Westlake or
      McGanum? He's so cheap&mdash;drinking, and playing pool, and always
      smoking cigars in such a cocky way&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all right now! Terry Gould is a good deal of a tin-horn sport, but
      he knows a lot about medicine, and don't you forget it for one second!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stared down Guy's grin, and asked more cheerfully, &ldquo;Is he honest,
      too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ooooooooooo! Gosh I'm sleepy!&rdquo; He burrowed beneath the bedclothes in a
      luxurious stretch, and came up like a diver, shaking his head, as he
      complained, &ldquo;How's that? Who? Terry Gould honest? Don't start me laughing&mdash;I'm
      too nice and sleepy! I didn't say he was honest. I said he had savvy
      enough to find the index in 'Gray's Anatomy,' which is more than McGanum
      can do! But I didn't say anything about his being honest. He isn't. Terry
      is crooked as a dog's hind leg. He's done me more than one dirty trick. He
      told Mrs. Glorbach, seventeen miles out, that I wasn't up-to-date in
      obstetrics. Fat lot of good it did him! She came right in and told me! And
      Terry's lazy. He'd let a pneumonia patient choke rather than interrupt a
      poker game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no. I can't believe&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well now, I'm telling you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he play much poker? Dr. Dillon told me that Dr. Gould wanted him to
      play&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dillon told you what? Where'd you meet Dillon? He's just come to town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He and his wife were at Mr. Pollock's tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, uh, what'd you think of them? Didn't Dillon strike you as pretty
      light-waisted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why no. He seemed intelligent. I'm sure he's much more wide-awake than
      our dentist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well now, the old man is a good dentist. He knows his business. And
      Dillon&mdash;&mdash;I wouldn't cuddle up to the Dillons too close, if I
      were you. All right for Pollock, and that's none of our business, but we&mdash;&mdash;I
      think I'd just give the Dillons the glad hand and pass 'em up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why? He isn't a rival.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's&mdash;all&mdash;right!&rdquo; Kennicott was aggressively awake now.
      &ldquo;He'll work right in with Westlake and McGanum. Matter of fact, I suspect
      they were largely responsible for his locating here. They'll be sending
      him patients, and he'll send all that he can get hold of to them. I don't
      trust anybody that's too much hand-in-glove with Westlake. You give Dillon
      a shot at some fellow that's just bought a farm here and drifts into town
      to get his teeth looked at, and after Dillon gets through with him, you'll
      see him edging around to Westlake and McGanum, every time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol reached for her blouse, which hung on a chair by the bed. She draped
      it about her shoulders, and sat up studying Kennicott, her chin in her
      hands. In the gray light from the small electric bulb down the hall she
      could see that he was frowning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will, this is&mdash;I must get this straight. Some one said to me the
      other day that in towns like this, even more than in cities, all the
      doctors hate each other, because of the money&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who said that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn't matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bet a hat it was your Vida Sherwin. She's a brainy woman, but she'd
      be a damn sight brainier if she kept her mouth shut and didn't let so much
      of her brains ooze out that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will! O Will! That's horrible! Aside from the vulgarity&mdash;&mdash;Some
      ways, Vida is my best friend. Even if she HAD said it. Which, as a matter
      of fact, she didn't.&rdquo; He reared up his thick shoulders, in absurd pink and
      green flannelette pajamas. He sat straight, and irritatingly snapped his
      fingers, and growled:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if she didn't say it, let's forget her. Doesn't make any difference
      who said it, anyway. The point is that you believe it. God! To think you
      don't understand me any better than that! Money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;This is the first real quarrel we've ever had,&rdquo; she was agonizing.)
    </p>
    <p>
      He thrust out his long arm and snatched his wrinkly vest from a chair. He
      took out a cigar, a match. He tossed the vest on the floor. He lighted the
      cigar and puffed savagely. He broke up the match and snapped the fragments
      at the foot-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      She suddenly saw the foot-board of the bed as the foot-stone of the grave
      of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room was drab-colored and ill-ventilated&mdash;Kennicott did not
      &ldquo;believe in opening the windows so darn wide that you heat all outdoors.&rdquo;
       The stale air seemed never to change. In the light from the hall they were
      two lumps of bedclothes with shoulders and tousled heads attached.
    </p>
    <p>
      She begged, &ldquo;I didn't mean to wake you up, dear. And please don't smoke.
      You've been smoking so much. Please go back to sleep. I'm sorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Being sorry 's all right, but I'm going to tell you one or two things.
      This falling for anybody's say-so about medical jealousy and competition
      is simply part and parcel of your usual willingness to think the worst you
      possibly can of us poor dubs in Gopher Prairie. Trouble with women like
      you is, you always want to ARGUE. Can't take things the way they are. Got
      to argue. Well, I'm not going to argue about this in any way, shape,
      manner, or form. Trouble with you is, you don't make any effort to
      appreciate us. You're so damned superior, and think the city is such a
      hell of a lot finer place, and you want us to do what YOU want, all the
      time&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's not true! It's I who make the effort. It's they&mdash;it's you&mdash;who
      stand back and criticize. I have to come over to the town's opinion; I
      have to devote myself to their interests. They can't even SEE my
      interests, to say nothing of adopting them. I get ever so excited about
      their old Lake Minniemashie and the cottages, but they simply guffaw (in
      that lovely friendly way you advertise so much) if I speak of wanting to
      see Taormina also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, Tormina, whatever that is&mdash;some nice expensive millionaire
      colony, I suppose. Sure; that's the idea; champagne taste and beer income;
      and make sure that we never will have more than a beer income, too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you by any chance implying that I am not economical?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I hadn't intended to, but since you bring it up yourself, I don't
      mind saying the grocery bills are about twice what they ought to be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, they probably are. I'm not economical. I can't be. Thanks to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where d' you get that 'thanks to you'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please don't be quite so colloquial&mdash;or shall I say VULGAR?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be as damn colloquial as I want to. How do you get that 'thanks to
      you'? Here about a year ago you jump me for not remembering to give you
      money. Well, I'm reasonable. I didn't blame you, and I SAID I was to
      blame. But have I ever forgotten it since&mdash;practically?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. You haven't&mdash;practically! But that isn't it. I ought to have an
      allowance. I will, too! I must have an agreement for a regular stated
      amount, every month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine idea! Of course a doctor gets a regular stated amount! Sure! A
      thousand one month&mdash;and lucky if he makes a hundred the next.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well then, a percentage. Or something else. No matter how much you
      vary, you can make a rough average for&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what's the idea? What are you trying to get at? Mean to say I'm
      unreasonable? Think I'm so unreliable and tightwad that you've got to tie
      me down with a contract? By God, that hurts! I thought I'd been pretty
      generous and decent, and I took a lot of pleasure&mdash;thinks I, 'she'll
      be tickled when I hand her over this twenty'&mdash;or fifty, or whatever
      it was; and now seems you been wanting to make it a kind of alimony. Me,
      like a poor fool, thinking I was liberal all the while, and you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please stop pitying yourself! You're having a beautiful time feeling
      injured. I admit all you say. Certainly. You've given me money both freely
      and amiably. Quite as if I were your mistress!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carrie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean it! What was a magnificent spectacle of generosity to you was
      humiliation to me. You GAVE me money&mdash;gave it to your mistress, if
      she was complaisant, and then you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carrie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;(Don't interrupt me!)&mdash;then you felt you'd discharged all
      obligation. Well, hereafter I'll refuse your money, as a gift. Either I'm
      your partner, in charge of the household department of our business, with
      a regular budget for it, or else I'm nothing. If I'm to be a mistress, I
      shall choose my lovers. Oh, I hate it&mdash;I hate it&mdash;this smirking
      and hoping for money&mdash;and then not even spending it on jewels as a
      mistress has a right to, but spending it on double-boilers and socks for
      you! Yes indeed! You're generous! You give me a dollar, right out&mdash;the
      only proviso is that I must spend it on a tie for you! And you give it
      when and as you wish. How can I be anything but uneconomical?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh well, of course, looking at it that way&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't shop around, can't buy in large quantities, have to stick to
      stores where I have a charge account, good deal of the time, can't plan
      because I don't know how much money I can depend on. That's what I pay for
      your charming sentimentalities about giving so generously. You make me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait! Wait! You know you're exaggerating. You never thought about that
      mistress stuff till just this minute! Matter of fact, you never have
      'smirked and hoped for money.' But all the same, you may be right. You
      ought to run the household as a business. I'll figure out a definite plan
      tomorrow, and hereafter you'll be on a regular amount or percentage, with
      your own checking account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that IS decent of you!&rdquo; She turned toward him, trying to be
      affectionate. But his eyes were pink and unlovely in the flare of the
      match with which he lighted his dead and malodorous cigar. His head
      drooped, and a ridge of flesh scattered with pale small bristles bulged
      out under his chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat in abeyance till he croaked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. 'Tisn't especially decent. It's just fair. And God knows I want to be
      fair. But I expect others to be fair, too. And you're so high and mighty
      about people. Take Sam Clark; best soul that ever lived, honest and loyal
      and a damn good fellow&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Yes, and a good shot at ducks, don't forget that!&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Well, and he is a good shot, too!) Sam drops around in the evening to
      sit and visit, and by golly just because he takes a dry smoke and rolls
      his cigar around in his mouth, and maybe spits a few times, you look at
      him as if he was a hog. Oh, you didn't know I was onto you, and I
      certainly hope Sam hasn't noticed it, but I never miss it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have felt that way. Spitting&mdash;ugh! But I'm sorry you caught my
      thoughts. I tried to be nice; I tried to hide them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I catch a whole lot more than you think I do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, perhaps you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And d' you know why Sam doesn't light his cigar when he's here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's so darn afraid you'll be offended if he smokes. You scare him. Every
      time he speaks of the weather you jump him because he ain't talking about
      poetry or Gertie&mdash;Goethe?&mdash;or some other highbrow junk. You've
      got him so leery he scarcely dares to come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I AM sorry. (Though I'm sure it's you who are exaggerating now.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well now, I don't know as I am! And I can tell you one thing: if you keep
      on you'll manage to drive away every friend I've got.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be horrible of me. You KNOW I don't mean to Will, what is it
      about me that frightens Sam&mdash;if I do frighten him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you do, all right! 'Stead of putting his legs up on another chair,
      and unbuttoning his vest, and telling a good story or maybe kidding me
      about something, he sits on the edge of his chair and tries to make
      conversation about politics, and he doesn't even cuss, and Sam's never
      real comfortable unless he can cuss a little!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In other words, he isn't comfortable unless he can behave like a peasant
      in a mud hut!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now that'll be about enough of that! You want to know how you scare him?
      First you deliberately fire some question at him that you know darn well
      he can't answer&mdash;any fool could see you were experimenting with him&mdash;and
      then you shock him by talking of mistresses or something, like you were
      doing just now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course the pure Samuel never speaks of such erring ladies in his
      private conversations!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not when there's ladies around! You can bet your life on that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So the impurity lies in failing to pretend that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now we won't go into all that&mdash;eugenics or whatever damn fad you
      choose to call it. As I say, first you shock him, and then you become so
      darn flighty that nobody can follow you. Either you want to dance, or you
      bang the piano, or else you get moody as the devil and don't want to talk
      or anything else. If you must be temperamental, why can't you be that way
      by yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear man, there's nothing I'd like better than to be by myself
      occasionally! To have a room of my own! I suppose you expect me to sit
      here and dream delicately and satisfy my 'temperamentality' while you
      wander in from the bathroom with lather all over your face, and shout,
      'Seen my brown pants?'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh!&rdquo; He did not sound impressed. He made no answer. He turned out of
      bed, his feet making one solid thud on the floor. He marched from the
      room, a grotesque figure in baggy union-pajamas. She heard him drawing a
      drink of water at the bathroom tap. She was furious at the
      contemptuousness of his exit. She snuggled down in bed, and looked away
      from him as he returned. He ignored her. As he flumped into bed he yawned,
      and casually stated:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you'll have plenty of privacy when we build a new house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I'll build it all right, don't you fret! But of course I don't expect
      any credit for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now it was she who grunted &ldquo;Huh!&rdquo; and ignored him, and felt independent
      and masterful as she shot up out of bed, turned her back on him, fished a
      lone and petrified chocolate out of her glove-box in the top right-hand
      drawer of the bureau, gnawed at it, found that it had cocoanut filling,
      said &ldquo;Damn!&rdquo; wished that she had not said it, so that she might be
      superior to his colloquialism, and hurled the chocolate into the
      wastebasket, where it made an evil and mocking clatter among the debris of
      torn linen collars and toothpaste box. Then, in great dignity and
      self-dramatization, she returned to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time he had been talking on, embroidering his assertion that he
      &ldquo;didn't expect any credit.&rdquo; She was reflecting that he was a rustic, that
      she hated him, that she had been insane to marry him, that she had married
      him only because she was tired of work, that she must get her long gloves
      cleaned, that she would never do anything more for him, and that she
      mustn't forget his hominy for breakfast. She was roused to attention by
      his storming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a fool to think about a new house. By the time I get it built you'll
      probably have succeeded in your plan to get me completely in Dutch with
      every friend and every patient I've got.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat up with a bounce. She said coldly, &ldquo;Thank you very much for
      revealing your real opinion of me. If that's the way you feel, if I'm such
      a hindrance to you, I can't stay under this roof another minute. And I am
      perfectly well able to earn my own living. I will go at once, and you may
      get a divorce at your pleasure! What you want is a nice sweet cow of a
      woman who will enjoy having your dear friends talk about the weather and
      spit on the floor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut! Don't be a fool!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will very soon find out whether I'm a fool or not! I mean it! Do you
      think I'd stay here one second after I found out that I was injuring you?
      At least I have enough sense of justice not to do that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please stop flying off at tangents, Carrie. This&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tangents? TANGENTS! Let me tell you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;isn't a theater-play; it's a serious effort to have us get
      together on fundamentals. We've both been cranky, and said a lot of things
      we didn't mean. I wish we were a couple o' bloomin' poets and just talked
      about roses and moonshine, but we're human. All right. Let's cut out
      jabbing at each other. Let's admit we both do fool things. See here: You
      KNOW you feel superior to folks. You're not as bad as I say, but you're
      not as good as you say&mdash;not by a long shot! What's the reason you're
      so superior? Why can't you take folks as they are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her preparations for stalking out of the Doll's House were not yet
      visible. She mused:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think perhaps it's my childhood.&rdquo; She halted. When she went on her
      voice had an artificial sound, her words the bookish quality of emotional
      meditation. &ldquo;My father was the tenderest man in the world, but he did feel
      superior to ordinary people. Well, he was! And the Minnesota Valley&mdash;&mdash;I
      used to sit there on the cliffs above Mankato for hours at a time, my chin
      in my hand, looking way down the valley, wanting to write poems. The shiny
      tilted roofs below me, and the river, and beyond it the level fields in
      the mist, and the rim of palisades across&mdash;&mdash;It held my thoughts
      in. I LIVED, in the valley. But the prairie&mdash;all my thoughts go
      flying off into the big space. Do you think it might be that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Um, well, maybe, but&mdash;&mdash;Carrie, you always talk so much about
      getting all you can out of life, and not letting the years slip by, and
      here you deliberately go and deprive yourself of a lot of real good home
      pleasure by not enjoying people unless they wear frock coats and trot out&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;Morning clothes. Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean t' interrupt you.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;to a lot of tea-parties. Take Jack Elder. You think Jack
      hasn't got any ideas about anything but manufacturing and the tariff on
      lumber. But do you know that Jack is nutty about music? He'll put a
      grand-opera record on the phonograph and sit and listen to it and close
      his eyes&mdash;&mdash;Or you take Lym Cass. Ever realize what a
      well-informed man he is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But IS he? Gopher Prairie calls anybody 'well-informed' who's been
      through the State Capitol and heard about Gladstone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I'm telling you! Lym reads a lot&mdash;solid stuff&mdash;history. Or
      take Mart Mahoney, the garageman. He's got a lot of Perry prints of famous
      pictures in his office. Or old Bingham Playfair, that died here 'bout a
      year ago&mdash;lived seven miles out. He was a captain in the Civil War,
      and knew General Sherman, and they say he was a miner in Nevada right
      alongside of Mark Twain. You'll find these characters in all these small
      towns, and a pile of savvy in every single one of them, if you just dig
      for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. And I do love them. Especially people like Champ Perry. But I
      can't be so very enthusiastic over the smug cits like Jack Elder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I'm a smug cit, too, whatever that is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you're a scientist. Oh, I will try and get the music out of Mr.
      Elder. Only, why can't he let it COME out, instead of being ashamed of it,
      and always talking about hunting dogs? But I will try. Is it all right
      now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. But there's one other thing. You might give me some attention,
      too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's unjust! You have everything I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I haven't. You think you respect me&mdash;you always hand out some
      spiel about my being so 'useful.' But you never think of me as having
      ambitions, just as much as you have&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not. I think of you as being perfectly satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'm not, not by a long shot! I don't want to be a plug general
      practitioner all my life, like Westlake, and die in harness because I
      can't get out of it, and have 'em say, 'He was a good fellow, but he
      couldn't save a cent.' Not that I care a whoop what they say, after I've
      kicked in and can't hear 'em, but I want to put enough money away so you
      and I can be independent some day, and not have to work unless I feel like
      it, and I want to have a good house&mdash;by golly, I'll have as good a
      house as anybody in THIS town!&mdash;and if we want to travel and see your
      Tormina or whatever it is, why we can do it, with enough money in our
      jeans so we won't have to take anything off anybody, or fret about our old
      age. You never worry about what might happen if we got sick and didn't
      have a good fat wad salted away, do you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't suppose I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, I have to do it for you. And if you think for one moment I
      want to be stuck in this burg all my life, and not have a chance to travel
      and see the different points of interest and all that, then you simply
      don't get me. I want to have a squint at the world, much's you do. Only,
      I'm practical about it. First place, I'm going to make the money&mdash;I'm
      investing in good safe farmlands. Do you understand why now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you try and see if you can't think of me as something more than just
      a dollar-chasing roughneck?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear, I haven't been just! I AM difficile. And I won't call on the
      Dillons! And if Dr. Dillon is working for Westlake and McGanum, I hate
      him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THAT December she was in love with her husband.
    </h3>
    <p>
      She romanticized herself not as a great reformer but as the wife of a
      country physician. The realities of the doctor's household were colored by
      her pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Late at night, a step on the wooden porch, heard through her confusion of
      sleep; the storm-door opened; fumbling over the inner door-panels; the
      buzz of the electric bell. Kennicott muttering &ldquo;Gol darn it,&rdquo; but
      patiently creeping out of bed, remembering to draw the covers up to keep
      her warm, feeling for slippers and bathrobe, clumping down-stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      From below, half-heard in her drowsiness, a colloquy in the pidgin-German
      of the farmers who have forgotten the Old Country language without
      learning the new:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello, Barney, wass willst du?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morgen, doctor. Die Frau ist ja awful sick. All night she been having an
      awful pain in de belly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long she been this way? Wie lang, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno, maybe two days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn't you come for me yesterday, instead of waking me up out of a
      sound sleep? Here it is two o'clock! So spat&mdash;warum, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nun aber, I know it, but she got soch a lot vorse last evening. I t'ought
      maybe all de time it go avay, but it got a lot vorse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any fever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell ja, I t'ink she got fever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which side is the pain on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Das Schmertz&mdash;die Weh&mdash;which side is it on? Here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So. Right here it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any rigidity there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it rigid&mdash;stiff&mdash;I mean, does the belly feel hard to the
      fingers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno. She ain't said yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What she been eating?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell, I t'ink about vot ve alwis eat, maybe corn beef and cabbage and
      sausage, und so weiter. Doc, sie weint immer, all the time she holler like
      hell. I vish you come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, all right, but you call me earlier, next time. Look here, Barney,
      you better install a 'phone&mdash;telephone haben. Some of you Dutchmen
      will be dying one of these days before you can fetch the doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door closing. Barney's wagon&mdash;the wheels silent in the snow, but
      the wagon-body rattling. Kennicott clicking the receiver-hook to rouse the
      night telephone-operator, giving a number, waiting, cursing mildly,
      waiting again, and at last growling, &ldquo;Hello, Gus, this is the doctor. Say,
      uh, send me up a team. Guess snow's too thick for a machine. Going eight
      miles south. All right. Huh? The hell I will! Don't you go back to sleep.
      Huh? Well, that's all right now, you didn't wait so very darn long. All
      right, Gus; shoot her along. By!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His step on the stairs; his quiet moving about the frigid room while he
      dressed; his abstracted and meaningless cough. She was supposed to be
      asleep; she was too exquisitely drowsy to break the charm by speaking. On
      a slip of paper laid on the bureau&mdash;she could hear the pencil
      grinding against the marble slab&mdash;he wrote his destination. He went
      out, hungry, chilly, unprotesting; and she, before she fell asleep again,
      loved him for his sturdiness, and saw the drama of his riding by night to
      the frightened household on the distant farm; pictured children standing
      at a window, waiting for him. He suddenly had in her eyes the heroism of a
      wireless operator on a ship in a collision; of an explorer, fever-clawed,
      deserted by his bearers, but going on&mdash;jungle&mdash;going&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      At six, when the light faltered in as through ground glass and bleakly
      identified the chairs as gray rectangles, she heard his step on the porch;
      heard him at the furnace: the rattle of shaking the grate, the slow
      grinding removal of ashes, the shovel thrust into the coal-bin, the abrupt
      clatter of the coal as it flew into the fire-box, the fussy regulation of
      drafts&mdash;the daily sounds of a Gopher Prairie life, now first
      appealing to her as something brave and enduring, many-colored and free.
      She visioned the fire-box: flames turned to lemon and metallic gold as the
      coal-dust sifted over them; thin twisty flutters of purple, ghost flames
      which gave no light, slipping up between the dark banked coals.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was luxurious in bed, and the house would be warm for her when she
      rose, she reflected. What a worthless cat she was! What were her
      aspirations beside his capability?
    </p>
    <p>
      She awoke again as he dropped into bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seems just a few minutes ago that you started out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been away four hours. I've operated a woman for appendicitis, in a
      Dutch kitchen. Came awful close to losing her, too, but I pulled her
      through all right. Close squeak. Barney says he shot ten rabbits last
      Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was instantly asleep&mdash;one hour of rest before he had to be up and
      ready for the farmers who came in early. She marveled that in what was to
      her but a night-blurred moment, he should have been in a distant place,
      have taken charge of a strange house, have slashed a woman, saved a life.
    </p>
    <p>
      What wonder he detested the lazy Westlake and McGanum! How could the easy
      Guy Pollock understand this skill and endurance?
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Kennicott was grumbling, &ldquo;Seven-fifteen! Aren't you ever going to get
      up for breakfast?&rdquo; and he was not a hero-scientist but a rather irritable
      and commonplace man who needed a shave. They had coffee, griddle-cakes,
      and sausages, and talked about Mrs. McGanum's atrocious alligator-hide
      belt. Night witchery and morning disillusion were alike forgotten in the
      march of realities and days.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Familiar to the doctor's wife was the man with an injured leg, driven in
      from the country on a Sunday afternoon and brought to the house. He sat in
      a rocker in the back of a lumber-wagon, his face pale from the anguish of
      the jolting. His leg was thrust out before him, resting on a starch-box
      and covered with a leather-bound horse-blanket. His drab courageous wife
      drove the wagon, and she helped Kennicott support him as he hobbled up the
      steps, into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fellow cut his leg with an ax&mdash;pretty bad gash&mdash;Halvor Nelson,
      nine miles out,&rdquo; Kennicott observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol fluttered at the back of the room, childishly excited when she was
      sent to fetch towels and a basin of water. Kennicott lifted the farmer
      into a chair and chuckled, &ldquo;There we are, Halvor! We'll have you out
      fixing fences and drinking aquavit in a month.&rdquo; The farmwife sat on the
      couch, expressionless, bulky in a man's dogskin coat and unplumbed layers
      of jackets. The flowery silk handkerchief which she had worn over her head
      now hung about her seamed neck. Her white wool gloves lay in her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott drew from the injured leg the thick red &ldquo;German sock,&rdquo; the
      innumerous other socks of gray and white wool, then the spiral bandage.
      The leg was of an unwholesome dead white, with the black hairs feeble and
      thin and flattened, and the scar a puckered line of crimson. Surely, Carol
      shuddered, this was not human flesh, the rosy shining tissue of the
      amorous poets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott examined the scar, smiled at Halvor and his wife, chanted,
      &ldquo;Fine, b' gosh! Couldn't be better!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Nelsons looked deprecating. The farmer nodded a cue to his wife and
      she mourned:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vell, how much ve going to owe you, doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess it'll be&mdash;&mdash;Let's see: one drive out and two calls. I
      guess it'll be about eleven dollars in all, Lena.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno ve can pay you yoost a little w'ile, doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott lumbered over to her, patted her shoulder, roared, &ldquo;Why, Lord
      love you, sister, I won't worry if I never get it! You pay me next fall,
      when you get your crop. . . . Carrie! Suppose you or Bea could shake up a
      cup of coffee and some cold lamb for the Nelsons? They got a long cold
      drive ahead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been gone since morning; her eyes ached with reading; Vida Sherwin
      could not come to tea. She wandered through the house, empty as the bleary
      street without. The problem of &ldquo;Will the doctor be home in time for
      supper, or shall I sit down without him?&rdquo; was important in the household.
      Six was the rigid, the canonical supper-hour, but at half-past six he had
      not come. Much speculation with Bea: Had the obstetrical case taken longer
      than he had expected? Had he been called somewhere else? Was the snow much
      heavier out in the country, so that he should have taken a buggy, or even
      a cutter, instead of the car? Here in town it had melted a lot, but still&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      A honking, a shout, the motor engine raced before it was shut off.
    </p>
    <p>
      She hurried to the window. The car was a monster at rest after furious
      adventures. The headlights blazed on the clots of ice in the road so that
      the tiniest lumps gave mountainous shadows, and the taillight cast a
      circle of ruby on the snow behind. Kennicott was opening the door, crying,
      &ldquo;Here we are, old girl! Got stuck couple times, but we made it, by golly,
      we made it, and here we be! Come on! Food! Eatin's!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rushed to him, patted his fur coat, the long hairs smooth but chilly
      to her fingers. She joyously summoned Bea, &ldquo;All right! He's here! We'll
      sit right down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, to inform the doctor's wife of his successes no clapping
      audiences nor book-reviews nor honorary degrees. But there was a letter
      written by a German farmer recently moved from Minnesota to Saskatchewan:
    </p>
    <p>
      Dear sor, as you haf bin treading mee for a fue Weaks dis Somer and seen
      wat is rong wit mee so in Regarding to dat i wont to tank you. the Doctor
      heir say wat shot bee rong wit mee and day give mee som Madsin but it
      diten halp mee like wat you dit. Now day glaim dat i Woten Neet aney
      Madsin ad all wat you tink?
    </p>
    <p>
      Well i haven ben tacking aney ting for about one &amp; 1/2 Mont but i dont
      get better so i like to heir Wat you tink about it i feel like dis
      Disconfebil feeling around the Stomac after eating and dat Pain around
      Heard and down the arm and about 3 to 3 1/2 Hour after Eating i feel weeak
      like and dissy and a dull Hadig. Now you gust lett mee know Wat you tink
      about mee, i do Wat you say.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She encountered Guy Pollock at the drug store. He looked at her as though
      he had a right to; he spoke softly. &ldquo;I haven't see you, the last few
      days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I've been out in the country with Will several times. He's so&mdash;&mdash;Do
      you know that people like you and me can never understand people like him?
      We're a pair of hypercritical loafers, you and I, while he quietly goes
      and does things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She nodded and smiled and was very busy about purchasing boric acid. He
      stared after her, and slipped away.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she found that he was gone she was slightly disconcerted.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      She could&mdash;at times&mdash;agree with Kennicott that the
      shaving-and-corsets familiarity of married life was not dreary vulgarity
      but a wholesome frankness; that artificial reticences might merely be
      irritating. She was not much disturbed when for hours he sat about the
      living-room in his honest socks. But she would not listen to his theory
      that &ldquo;all this romance stuff is simply moonshine&mdash;elegant when you're
      courting, but no use busting yourself keeping it up all your life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She thought of surprises, games, to vary the days. She knitted an
      astounding purple scarf, which she hid under his supper plate. (When he
      discovered it he looked embarrassed, and gasped, &ldquo;Is today an anniversary
      or something? Gosh, I'd forgotten it!&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      Once she filled a thermos bottle with hot coffee a corn-flakes box with
      cookies just baked by Bea, and bustled to his office at three in the
      afternoon. She hid her bundles in the hall and peeped in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The office was shabby. Kennicott had inherited it from a medical
      predecessor, and changed it only by adding a white enameled
      operating-table, a sterilizer, a Roentgen-ray apparatus, and a small
      portable typewriter. It was a suite of two rooms: a waiting-room with
      straight chairs, shaky pine table, and those coverless and unknown
      magazines which are found only in the offices of dentists and doctors. The
      room beyond, looking on Main Street, was business-office, consulting-room,
      operating-room, and, in an alcove, bacteriological and chemical
      laboratory. The wooden floors of both rooms were bare; the furniture was
      brown and scaly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Waiting for the doctor were two women, as still as though they were
      paralyzed, and a man in a railroad brakeman's uniform, holding his
      bandaged right hand with his tanned left. They stared at Carol. She sat
      modestly in a stiff chair, feeling frivolous and out of place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott appeared at the inner door, ushering out a bleached man with a
      trickle of wan beard, and consoling him, &ldquo;All right, Dad. Be careful about
      the sugar, and mind the diet I gave you. Gut the prescription filled, and
      come in and see me next week. Say, uh, better, uh, better not drink too
      much beer. All right, Dad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice was artificially hearty. He looked absently at Carol. He was a
      medical machine now, not a domestic machine. &ldquo;What is it, Carrie?&rdquo; he
      droned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No hurry. Just wanted to say hello.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Self-pity because he did not divine that this was a surprise party
      rendered her sad and interesting to herself, and she had the pleasure of
      the martyrs in saying bravely to him, &ldquo;It's nothing special. If you're
      busy long I'll trot home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While she waited she ceased to pity and began to mock herself. For the
      first time she observed the waiting-room. Oh yes, the doctor's family had
      to have obi panels and a wide couch and an electric percolator, but any
      hole was good enough for sick tired common people who were nothing but the
      one means and excuse for the doctor's existing! No. She couldn't blame
      Kennicott. He was satisfied by the shabby chairs. He put up with them as
      his patients did. It was her neglected province&mdash;she who had been
      going about talking of rebuilding the whole town!
    </p>
    <p>
      When the patients were gone she brought in her bundles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's those?&rdquo; wondered Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn your back! Look out of the window!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed&mdash;not very much bored. When she cried &ldquo;Now!&rdquo; a feast of
      cookies and small hard candies and hot coffee was spread on the roll-top
      desk in the inner room.
    </p>
    <p>
      His broad face lightened. &ldquo;That's a new one on me! Never was more
      surprised in my life! And, by golly, I believe I am hungry. Say, this is
      fine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the first exhilaration of the surprise had declined she demanded,
      &ldquo;Will! I'm going to refurnish your waiting-room!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter with it? It's all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not! It's hideous. We can afford to give your patients a better
      place. And it would be good business.&rdquo; She felt tremendously politic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rats! I don't worry about the business. You look here now: As I told you&mdash;&mdash;Just
      because I like to tuck a few dollars away, I'll be switched if I'll stand
      for your thinking I'm nothing but a dollar-chasing&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop it! Quick! I'm not hurting your feelings! I'm not criticizing! I'm
      the adoring least one of thy harem. I just mean&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two days later, with pictures, wicker chairs, a rug, she had made the
      waiting-room habitable; and Kennicott admitted, &ldquo;Does look a lot better.
      Never thought much about it. Guess I need being bullied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was convinced that she was gloriously content in her career as
      doctor's-wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to free herself from the speculation and disillusionment which
      had been twitching at her; sought to dismiss all the opinionation of an
      insurgent era. She wanted to shine upon the veal-faced bristly-bearded
      Lyman Cass as much as upon Miles Bjornstam or Guy Pollock. She gave a
      reception for the Thanatopsis Club. But her real acquiring of merit was in
      calling upon that Mrs. Bogart whose gossipy good opinion was so valuable
      to a doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though the Bogart house was next door she had entered it but three times.
      Now she put on her new moleskin cap, which made her face small and
      innocent, she rubbed off the traces of a lip-stick&mdash;and fled across
      the alley before her admirable resolution should sneak away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The age of houses, like the age of men, has small relation to their years.
      The dull-green cottage of the good Widow Bogart was twenty years old, but
      it had the antiquity of Cheops, and the smell of mummy-dust. Its neatness
      rebuked the street. The two stones by the path were painted yellow; the
      outhouse was so overmodestly masked with vines and lattice that it was not
      concealed at all; the last iron dog remaining in Gopher Prairie stood
      among whitewashed conch-shells upon the lawn. The hallway was dismayingly
      scrubbed; the kitchen was an exercise in mathematics, with problems worked
      out in equidistant chairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The parlor was kept for visitors. Carol suggested, &ldquo;Let's sit in the
      kitchen. Please don't trouble to light the parlor stove.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No trouble at all! My gracious, and you coming so seldom and all, and the
      kitchen is a perfect sight, I try to keep it clean, but Cy will track mud
      all over it, I've spoken to him about it a hundred times if I've spoken
      once, no, you sit right there, dearie, and I'll make a fire, no trouble at
      all, practically no trouble at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart groaned, rubbed her joints, and repeatedly dusted her hands
      while she made the fire, and when Carol tried to help she lamented, &ldquo;Oh,
      it doesn't matter; guess I ain't good for much but toil and workin'
      anyway; seems as though that's what a lot of folks think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The parlor was distinguished by an expanse of rag carpet from which, as
      they entered, Mrs. Bogart hastily picked one sad dead fly. In the center
      of the carpet was a rug depicting a red Newfoundland dog, reclining in a
      green and yellow daisy field and labeled &ldquo;Our Friend.&rdquo; The parlor organ,
      tall and thin, was adorned with a mirror partly circular, partly square,
      and partly diamond-shaped, and with brackets holding a pot of geraniums, a
      mouth-organ, and a copy of &ldquo;The Oldtime Hymnal.&rdquo; On the center table was a
      Sears-Roebuck mail-order catalogue, a silver frame with photographs of the
      Baptist Church and of an elderly clergyman, and an aluminum tray
      containing a rattlesnake's rattle and a broken spectacle-lens.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart spoke of the eloquence of the Reverend Mr. Zitterel, the
      coldness of cold days, the price of poplar wood, Dave Dyer's new hair-cut,
      and Cy Bogart's essential piety. &ldquo;As I said to his Sunday School teacher,
      Cy may be a little wild, but that's because he's got so much better brains
      than a lot of these boys, and this farmer that claims he caught Cy
      stealing 'beggies, is a liar, and I ought to have the law on him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart went thoroughly into the rumor that the girl waiter at Billy's
      Lunch was not all she might be&mdash;or, rather, was quite all she might
      be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lands, what can you expect when everybody knows what her mother was?
      And if these traveling salesmen would let her alone she would be all
      right, though I certainly don't believe she ought to be allowed to think
      she can pull the wool over our eyes. The sooner she's sent to the school
      for incorrigible girls down at Sauk Centre, the better for all and&mdash;&mdash;Won't
      you just have a cup of coffee, Carol dearie, I'm sure you won't mind old
      Aunty Bogart calling you by your first name when you think how long I've
      known Will, and I was such a friend of his dear lovely mother when she
      lived here and&mdash;was that fur cap expensive? But&mdash;&mdash;Don't
      you think it's awful, the way folks talk in this town?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart hitched her chair nearer. Her large face, with its disturbing
      collection of moles and lone black hairs, wrinkled cunningly. She showed
      her decayed teeth in a reproving smile, and in the confidential voice of
      one who scents stale bedroom scandal she breathed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I just don't see how folks can talk and act like they do. You don't know
      the things that go on under cover. This town&mdash;why it's only the
      religious training I've given Cy that's kept him so innocent of&mdash;things.
      Just the other day&mdash;&mdash;I never pay no attention to stories, but I
      heard it mighty good and straight that Harry Haydock is carrying on with a
      girl that clerks in a store down in Minneapolis, and poor Juanita not
      knowing anything about it&mdash;though maybe it's the judgment of God,
      because before she married Harry she acted up with more than one boy&mdash;&mdash;Well,
      I don't like to say it, and maybe I ain't up-to-date, like Cy says, but I
      always believed a lady shouldn't even give names to all sorts of dreadful
      things, but just the same I know there was at least one case where Juanita
      and a boy&mdash;well, they were just dreadful. And&mdash;and&mdash;&mdash;Then
      there's that Ole Jenson the grocer, that thinks he's so plaguey smart, and
      I know he made up to a farmer's wife and&mdash;&mdash;And this awful man
      Bjornstam that does chores, and Nat Hicks and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was, it seemed, no person in town who was not living a life of shame
      except Mrs. Bogart, and naturally she resented it.
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew. She had always happened to be there. Once, she whispered, she
      was going by when an indiscreet window-shade had been left up a couple of
      inches. Once she had noticed a man and woman holding hands, and right at a
      Methodist sociable!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another thing&mdash;&mdash;Heaven knows I never want to start trouble,
      but I can't help what I see from my back steps, and I notice your hired
      girl Bea carrying on with the grocery boys and all&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Bogart! I'd trust Bea as I would myself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dearie, you don't understand me! I'm sure she's a good girl. I mean
      she's green, and I hope that none of these horrid young men that there are
      around town will get her into trouble! It's their parents' fault, letting
      them run wild and hear evil things. If I had my way there wouldn't be none
      of them, not boys nor girls neither, allowed to know anything about&mdash;about
      things till they was married. It's terrible the bald way that some folks
      talk. It just shows and gives away what awful thoughts they got inside
      them, and there's nothing can cure them except coming right to God and
      kneeling down like I do at prayer-meeting every Wednesday evening, and
      saying, 'O God, I would be a miserable sinner except for thy grace.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd make every last one of these brats go to Sunday School and learn to
      think about nice things 'stead of about cigarettes and goings-on&mdash;and
      these dances they have at the lodges are the worst thing that ever
      happened to this town, lot of young men squeezing girls and finding out&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      it's dreadful. I've told the mayor he ought to put a stop to them and&mdash;&mdash;There
      was one boy in this town, I don't want to be suspicious or uncharitable
      but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was half an hour before Carol escaped.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stopped on her own porch and thought viciously:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that woman is on the side of the angels, then I have no choice; I must
      be on the side of the devil. But&mdash;isn't she like me? She too wants to
      'reform the town'! She too criticizes everybody! She too thinks the men
      are vulgar and limited! AM I LIKE HER? This is ghastly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That evening she did not merely consent to play cribbage with Kennicott;
      she urged him to play; and she worked up a hectic interest in land-deals
      and Sam Clark.
    </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      In courtship days Kennicott had shown her a photograph of Nels Erdstrom's
      baby and log cabin, but she had never seen the Erdstroms. They had become
      merely &ldquo;patients of the doctor.&rdquo; Kennicott telephoned her on a
      mid-December afternoon, &ldquo;Want to throw your coat on and drive out to
      Erdstrom's with me? Fairly warm. Nels got the jaundice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes!&rdquo; She hastened to put on woolen stockings, high boots, sweater,
      muffler, cap, mittens.
    </p>
    <p>
      The snow was too thick and the ruts frozen too hard for the motor. They
      drove out in a clumsy high carriage. Tucked over them was a blue woolen
      cover, prickly to her wrists, and outside of it a buffalo robe, humble and
      moth-eaten now, used ever since the bison herds had streaked the prairie a
      few miles to the west.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scattered houses between which they passed in town were small and
      desolate in contrast to the expanse of huge snowy yards and wide street.
      They crossed the railroad tracks, and instantly were in the farm country.
      The big piebald horses snorted clouds of steam, and started to trot. The
      carriage squeaked in rhythm. Kennicott drove with clucks of &ldquo;There boy,
      take it easy!&rdquo; He was thinking. He paid no attention to Carol. Yet it was
      he who commented, &ldquo;Pretty nice, over there,&rdquo; as they approached an
      oak-grove where shifty winter sunlight quivered in the hollow between two
      snow-drifts.
    </p>
    <p>
      They drove from the natural prairie to a cleared district which twenty
      years ago had been forest. The country seemed to stretch unchanging to the
      North Pole: low hill, brush-scraggly bottom, reedy creek, muskrat mound,
      fields with frozen brown clods thrust up through the snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her ears and nose were pinched; her breath frosted her collar; her fingers
      ached.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Getting colder,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yup.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was all their conversation for three miles. Yet she was happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      They reached Nels Erdstrom's at four, and with a throb she recognized the
      courageous venture which had lured her to Gopher Prairie: the cleared
      fields, furrows among stumps, a log cabin chinked with mud and roofed with
      dry hay. But Nels had prospered. He used the log cabin as a barn; and a
      new house reared up, a proud, unwise, Gopher Prairie house, the more naked
      and ungraceful in its glossy white paint and pink trimmings. Every tree
      had been cut down. The house was so unsheltered, so battered by the wind,
      so bleakly thrust out into the harsh clearing, that Carol shivered. But
      they were welcomed warmly enough in the kitchen, with its crisp new
      plaster, its black and nickel range, its cream separator in a corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Erdstrom begged her to sit in the parlor, where there was a
      phonograph and an oak and leather davenport, the prairie farmer's proofs
      of social progress, but she dropped down by the kitchen stove and
      insisted, &ldquo;Please don't mind me.&rdquo; When Mrs. Erdstrom had followed the
      doctor out of the room Carol glanced in a friendly way at the grained pine
      cupboard, the framed Lutheran Konfirmations Attest, the traces of fried
      eggs and sausages on the dining table against the wall, and a jewel among
      calendars, presenting not only a lithographic young woman with cherry
      lips, and a Swedish advertisement of Axel Egge's grocery, but also a
      thermometer and a match-holder.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw that a boy of four or five was staring at her from the hall, a boy
      in gingham shirt and faded corduroy trousers, but large-eyed,
      firm-mouthed, wide-browed. He vanished, then peeped in again, biting his
      knuckles, turning his shoulder toward her in shyness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Didn't she remember&mdash;what was it?&mdash;Kennicott sitting beside her
      at Fort Snelling, urging, &ldquo;See how scared that baby is. Needs some woman
      like you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Magic had fluttered about her then&mdash;magic of sunset and cool air and
      the curiosity of lovers. She held out her hands as much to that sanctity
      as to the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      He edged into the room, doubtfully sucking his thumb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What's your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hee, hee, hee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're quite right. I agree with you. Silly people like me always ask
      children their names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hee, hee, hee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come here and I'll tell you the story of&mdash;well, I don't know what it
      will be about, but it will have a slim heroine and a Prince Charming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood stoically while she spun nonsense. His giggling ceased. She was
      winning him. Then the telephone bell&mdash;two long rings, one short.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Erdstrom galloped into the room, shrieked into the transmitter,
      &ldquo;Vell? Yes, yes, dis is Erdstrom's place! Heh? Oh, you vant de doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott appeared, growled into the telephone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do you want? Oh, hello Dave; what do you want? Which
      Morgenroth's? Adolph's? All right. Amputation? Yuh, I see. Say, Dave, get
      Gus to harness up and take my surgical kit down there&mdash;and have him
      take some chloroform. I'll go straight down from here. May not get home
      tonight. You can get me at Adolph's. Huh? No, Carrie can give the
      anesthetic, I guess. G'-by. Huh? No; tell me about that tomorrow&mdash;too
      damn many people always listening in on this farmers' line.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned to Carol. &ldquo;Adolph Morgenroth, farmer ten miles southwest of
      town, got his arm crushed-fixing his cow-shed and a post caved in on him&mdash;smashed
      him up pretty bad&mdash;may have to amputate, Dave Dyer says. Afraid we'll
      have to go right from here. Darn sorry to drag you clear down there with
      me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please do. Don't mind me a bit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think you could give the anesthetic? Usually have my driver do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you'll tell me how.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. Say, did you hear me putting one over on these goats that are
      always rubbering in on party-wires? I hope they heard me! Well. . . . Now,
      Bessie, don't you worry about Nels. He's getting along all right. Tomorrow
      you or one of the neighbors drive in and get this prescription filled at
      Dyer's. Give him a teaspoonful every four hours. Good-by. Hel-lo! Here's
      the little fellow! My Lord, Bessie, it ain't possible this is the fellow
      that used to be so sickly? Why, say, he's a great big strapping Svenska
      now&mdash;going to be bigger 'n his daddy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott's bluffness made the child squirm with a delight which Carol
      could not evoke. It was a humble wife who followed the busy doctor out to
      the carriage, and her ambition was not to play Rachmaninoff better, nor to
      build town halls, but to chuckle at babies.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sunset was merely a flush of rose on a dome of silver, with oak twigs
      and thin poplar branches against it, but a silo on the horizon changed
      from a red tank to a tower of violet misted over with gray. The purple
      road vanished, and without lights, in the darkness of a world destroyed,
      they swayed on&mdash;toward nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a bumpy cold way to the Morgenroth farm, and she was asleep when
      they arrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here was no glaring new house with a proud phonograph, but a low
      whitewashed kitchen smelling of cream and cabbage. Adolph Morgenroth was
      lying on a couch in the rarely used dining-room. His heavy work-scarred
      wife was shaking her hands in anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol felt that Kennicott would do something magnificent and startling.
      But he was casual. He greeted the man, &ldquo;Well, well, Adolph, have to fix
      you up, eh?&rdquo; Quietly, to the wife, &ldquo;Hat die drug store my schwartze bag
      hier geschickt? So&mdash;schon. Wie viel Uhr ist 's? Sieben? Nun, lassen
      uns ein wenig supper zuerst haben. Got any of that good beer left&mdash;giebt
      's noch Bier?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had supped in four minutes. His coat off, his sleeves rolled up, he was
      scrubbing his hands in a tin basin in the sink, using the bar of yellow
      kitchen soap.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had not dared to look into the farther room while she labored over
      the supper of beer, rye bread, moist cornbeef and cabbage, set on the
      kitchen table. The man in there was groaning. In her one glance she had
      seen that his blue flannel shirt was open at a corded tobacco-brown neck,
      the hollows of which were sprinkled with thin black and gray hairs. He was
      covered with a sheet, like a corpse, and outside the sheet was his right
      arm, wrapped in towels stained with blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Kennicott strode into the other room gaily, and she followed him. With
      surprising delicacy in his large fingers he unwrapped the towels and
      revealed an arm which, below the elbow, was a mass of blood and raw flesh.
      The man bellowed. The room grew thick about her; she was very seasick; she
      fled to a chair in the kitchen. Through the haze of nausea she heard
      Kennicott grumbling, &ldquo;Afraid it will have to come off, Adolph. What did
      you do? Fall on a reaper blade? We'll fix it right up. Carrie! CAROL!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She couldn't&mdash;she couldn't get up. Then she was up, her knees like
      water, her stomach revolving a thousand times a second, her eyes filmed,
      her ears full of roaring. She couldn't reach the dining-room. She was
      going to faint. Then she was in the dining-room, leaning against the wall,
      trying to smile, flushing hot and cold along her chest and sides, while
      Kennicott mumbled, &ldquo;Say, help Mrs. Morgenroth and me carry him in on the
      kitchen table. No, first go out and shove those two tables together, and
      put a blanket on them and a clean sheet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was salvation to push the heavy tables, to scrub them, to be exact in
      placing the sheet. Her head cleared; she was able to look calmly in at her
      husband and the farmwife while they undressed the wailing man, got him
      into a clean nightgown, and washed his arm. Kennicott came to lay out his
      instruments. She realized that, with no hospital facilities, yet with no
      worry about it, her husband&mdash;HER HUSBAND&mdash;was going to perform a
      surgical operation, that miraculous boldness of which one read in stories
      about famous surgeons.
    </p>
    <p>
      She helped them to move Adolph into the kitchen. The man was in such a
      funk that he would not use his legs. He was heavy, and smelled of sweat
      and the stable. But she put her arm about his waist, her sleek head by his
      chest; she tugged at him; she clicked her tongue in imitation of
      Kennicott's cheerful noises.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Adolph was on the table Kennicott laid a hemispheric steel and cotton
      frame on his face; suggested to Carol, &ldquo;Now you sit here at his head and
      keep the ether dripping&mdash;about this fast, see? I'll watch his
      breathing. Look who's here! Real anesthetist! Ochsner hasn't got a better
      one! Class, eh? . . . Now, now, Adolph, take it easy. This won't hurt you
      a bit. Put you all nice and asleep and it won't hurt a bit. Schweig' mal!
      Bald schlaft man grat wie ein Kind. So! So! Bald geht's besser!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she let the ether drip, nervously trying to keep the rhythm that
      Kennicott had indicated, Carol stared at her husband with the abandon of
      hero-worship.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head. &ldquo;Bad light&mdash;bad light. Here, Mrs. Morgenroth, you
      stand right here and hold this lamp. Hier, und dieses&mdash;dieses lamp
      halten&mdash;so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By that streaky glimmer he worked, swiftly, at ease. The room was still.
      Carol tried to look at him, yet not look at the seeping blood, the crimson
      slash, the vicious scalpel. The ether fumes were sweet, choking. Her head
      seemed to be floating away from her body. Her arm was feeble.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not the blood but the grating of the surgical saw on the living
      bone that broke her, and she knew that she had been fighting off nausea,
      that she was beaten. She was lost in dizziness. She heard Kennicott's
      voice&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sick? Trot outdoors couple minutes. Adolph will stay under now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was fumbling at a door-knob which whirled in insulting circles; she
      was on the stoop, gasping, forcing air into her chest, her head clearing.
      As she returned she caught the scene as a whole: the cavernous kitchen,
      two milk-cans a leaden patch by the wall, hams dangling from a beam, bats
      of light at the stove door, and in the center, illuminated by a small
      glass lamp held by a frightened stout woman, Dr. Kennicott bending over a
      body which was humped under a sheet&mdash;the surgeon, his bare arms
      daubed with blood, his hands, in pale-yellow rubber gloves, loosening the
      tourniquet, his face without emotion save when he threw up his head and
      clucked at the farmwife, &ldquo;Hold that light steady just a second more&mdash;noch
      blos esn wenig.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He speaks a vulgar, common, incorrect German of life and death and birth
      and the soil. I read the French and German of sentimental lovers and
      Christmas garlands. And I thought that it was I who had the culture!&rdquo; she
      worshiped as she returned to her place.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a time he snapped, &ldquo;That's enough. Don't give him any more ether.&rdquo;
       He was concentrated on tying an artery. His gruffness seemed heroic to
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he shaped the flap of flesh she murmured, &ldquo;Oh, you ARE wonderful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was surprised. &ldquo;Why, this is a cinch. Now if it had been like last week&mdash;&mdash;Get
      me some more water. Now last week I had a case with an ooze in the
      peritoneal cavity, and by golly if it wasn't a stomach ulcer that I hadn't
      suspected and&mdash;&mdash;There. Say, I certainly am sleepy. Let's turn
      in here. Too late to drive home. And tastes to me like a storm coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IX
    </p>
    <p>
      They slept on a feather bed with their fur coats over them; in the morning
      they broke ice in the pitcher&mdash;the vast flowered and gilt pitcher.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott's storm had not come. When they set out it was hazy and growing
      warmer. After a mile she saw that he was studying a dark cloud in the
      north. He urged the horses to the run. But she forgot his unusual haste in
      wonder at the tragic landscape. The pale snow, the prickles of old
      stubble, and the clumps of ragged brush faded into a gray obscurity. Under
      the hillocks were cold shadows. The willows about a farmhouse were
      agitated by the rising wind, and the patches of bare wood where the bark
      had peeled away were white as the flesh of a leper. The snowy slews were
      of a harsh flatness. The whole land was cruel, and a climbing cloud of
      slate-edged blackness dominated the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess we're about in for a blizzard,&rdquo; speculated Kennicott &ldquo;We can make
      Ben McGonegal's, anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blizzard? Really? Why&mdash;&mdash;But still we used to think they were
      fun when I was a girl. Daddy had to stay home from court, and we'd stand
      at the window and watch the snow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much fun on the prairie. Get lost. Freeze to death. Take no chances.&rdquo;
       He chirruped at the horses. They were flying now, the carriage rocking on
      the hard ruts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole air suddenly crystallized into large damp flakes. The horses and
      the buffalo robe were covered with snow; her face was wet; the thin butt
      of the whip held a white ridge. The air became colder. The snowflakes were
      harder; they shot in level lines, clawing at her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not see a hundred feet ahead.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was stern. He bent forward, the reins firm in his coonskin
      gauntlets. She was certain that he would get through. He always got
      through things.
    </p>
    <p>
      Save for his presence, the world and all normal living disappeared. They
      were lost in the boiling snow. He leaned close to bawl, &ldquo;Letting the
      horses have their heads. They'll get us home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a terrifying bump they were off the road, slanting with two wheels in
      the ditch, but instantly they were jerked back as the horses fled on. She
      gasped. She tried to, and did not, feel brave as she pulled the woolen
      robe up about her chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were passing something like a dark wall on the right. &ldquo;I know that
      barn!&rdquo; he yelped. He pulled at the reins. Peeping from the covers she saw
      his teeth pinch his lower lip, saw him scowl as he slackened and sawed and
      jerked sharply again at the racing horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farmhouse there. Put robe around you and come on,&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was like diving into icy water to climb out of the carriage, but on the
      ground she smiled at him, her face little and childish and pink above the
      buffalo robe over her shoulders. In a swirl of flakes which scratched at
      their eyes like a maniac darkness, he unbuckled the harness. He turned and
      plodded back, a ponderous furry figure, holding the horses' bridles,
      Carol's hand dragging at his sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      They came to the cloudy bulk of a barn whose outer wall was directly upon
      the road. Feeling along it, he found a gate, led them into a yard, into
      the barn. The interior was warm. It stunned them with its languid quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      He carefully drove the horses into stalls.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her toes were coals of pain. &ldquo;Let's run for the house,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can't. Not yet. Might never find it. Might get lost ten feet away from
      it. Sit over in this stall, near the horses. We'll rush for the house when
      the blizzard lifts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm so stiff! I can't walk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He carried her into the stall, stripped off her overshoes and boots,
      stopping to blow on his purple fingers as he fumbled at her laces. He
      rubbed her feet, and covered her with the buffalo robe and horse-blankets
      from the pile on the feed-box. She was drowsy, hemmed in by the storm. She
      sighed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're so strong and yet so skilful and not afraid of blood or storm or&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Used to it. Only thing that's bothered me was the chance the ether fumes
      might explode, last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Dave, the darn fool, sent me ether, instead of chloroform like I
      told him, and you know ether fumes are mighty inflammable, especially with
      that lamp right by the table. But I had to operate, of course&mdash;wound
      chuck-full of barnyard filth that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew all the time that&mdash;&mdash;Both you and I might have been
      blown up? You knew it while you were operating?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. Didn't you? Why, what's the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      KENNICOTT was heavily pleased by her Christmas presents, and he gave her a
      diamond bar-pin. But she could not persuade herself that he was much
      interested in the rites of the morning, in the tree she had decorated, the
      three stockings she had hung, the ribbons and gilt seals and hidden
      messages. He said only:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nice way to fix things, all right. What do you say we go down to Jack
      Elder's and have a game of five hundred this afternoon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remembered her father's Christmas fantasies: the sacred old rag doll
      at the top of the tree, the score of cheap presents, the punch and carols,
      the roast chestnuts by the fire, and the gravity with which the judge
      opened the children's scrawly notes and took cognizance of demands for
      sled-rides, for opinions upon the existence of Santa Claus. She remembered
      him reading out a long indictment of himself for being a sentimentalist,
      against the peace and dignity of the State of Minnesota. She remembered
      his thin legs twinkling before their sled&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She muttered unsteadily, &ldquo;Must run up and put on my shoes&mdash;slippers
      so cold.&rdquo; In the not very romantic solitude of the locked bathroom she sat
      on the slippery edge of the tub and wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had five hobbies: medicine, land-investment, Carol, motoring,
      and hunting. It is not certain in what order he preferred them. Solid
      though his enthusiasms were in the matter of medicine&mdash;his admiration
      of this city surgeon, his condemnation of that for tricky ways of
      persuading country practitioners to bring in surgical patients, his
      indignation about fee-splitting, his pride in a new X-ray apparatus&mdash;none
      of these beatified him as did motoring.
    </p>
    <p>
      He nursed his two-year-old Buick even in winter, when it was stored in the
      stable-garage behind the house. He filled the grease-cups, varnished a
      fender, removed from beneath the back seat the debris of gloves, copper
      washers, crumpled maps, dust, and greasy rags. Winter noons he wandered
      out and stared owlishly at the car. He became excited over a fabulous
      &ldquo;trip we might take next summer.&rdquo; He galloped to the station, brought home
      railway maps, and traced motor-routes from Gopher Prairie to Winnipeg or
      Des Moines or Grand Marais, thinking aloud and expecting her to be
      effusive about such academic questions as &ldquo;Now I wonder if we could stop
      at Baraboo and break the jump from La Crosse to Chicago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To him motoring was a faith not to be questioned, a high-church cult, with
      electric sparks for candles, and piston-rings possessing the sanctity of
      altar-vessels. His liturgy was composed of intoned and metrical
      road-comments: &ldquo;They say there's a pretty good hike from Duluth to
      International Falls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hunting was equally a devotion, full of metaphysical concepts veiled from
      Carol. All winter he read sporting-catalogues, and thought about
      remarkable past shots: &ldquo;'Member that time when I got two ducks on a long
      chance, just at sunset?&rdquo; At least once a month he drew his favorite
      repeating shotgun, his &ldquo;pump gun,&rdquo; from its wrapper of greased canton
      flannel; he oiled the trigger, and spent silent ecstatic moments aiming at
      the ceiling. Sunday mornings Carol heard him trudging up to the attic and
      there, an hour later, she found him turning over boots, wooden
      duck-decoys, lunch-boxes, or reflectively squinting at old shells, rubbing
      their brass caps with his sleeve and shaking his head as he thought about
      their uselessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He kept the loading-tools he had used as a boy: a capper for shot-gun
      shells, a mold for lead bullets. When once, in a housewifely frenzy for
      getting rid of things, she raged, &ldquo;Why don't you give these away?&rdquo; he
      solemnly defended them, &ldquo;Well, you can't tell; they might come in handy
      some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She flushed. She wondered if he was thinking of the child they would have
      when, as he put it, they were &ldquo;sure they could afford one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mysteriously aching, nebulously sad, she slipped away, half-convinced but
      only half-convinced that it was horrible and unnatural, this postponement
      of release of mother-affection, this sacrifice to her opinionation and to
      his cautious desire for prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it would be worse if he were like Sam Clark&mdash;insisted on having
      children,&rdquo; she considered; then, &ldquo;If Will were the Prince, wouldn't I
      DEMAND his child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott's land-deals were both financial advancement and favorite game.
      Driving through the country, he noticed which farms had good crops; he
      heard the news about the restless farmer who was &ldquo;thinking about selling
      out here and pulling his freight for Alberta.&rdquo; He asked the veterinarian
      about the value of different breeds of stock; he inquired of Lyman Cass
      whether or not Einar Gyseldson really had had a yield of forty bushels of
      wheat to the acre. He was always consulting Julius Flickerbaugh, who
      handled more real estate than law, and more law than justice. He studied
      township maps, and read notices of auctions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus he was able to buy a quarter-section of land for one hundred and
      fifty dollars an acre, and to sell it in a year or two, after installing a
      cement floor in the barn and running water in the house, for one hundred
      and eighty or even two hundred.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke of these details to Sam Clark . . . rather often.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all his games, cars and guns and land, he expected Carol to take an
      interest. But he did not give her the facts which might have created
      interest. He talked only of the obvious and tedious aspects; never of his
      aspirations in finance, nor of the mechanical principles of motors.
    </p>
    <p>
      This month of romance she was eager to understand his hobbies. She
      shivered in the garage while he spent half an hour in deciding whether to
      put alcohol or patent non-freezing liquid into the radiator, or to drain
      out the water entirely. &ldquo;Or no, then I wouldn't want to take her out if it
      turned warm&mdash;still, of course, I could fill the radiator again&mdash;wouldn't
      take so awful long&mdash;just take a few pails of water&mdash;still, if it
      turned cold on me again before I drained it&mdash;&mdash;Course there's
      some people that put in kerosene, but they say it rots the
      hose-connections and&mdash;&mdash;Where did I put that lug-wrench?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was at this point that she gave up being a motorist and retired to the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      In their new intimacy he was more communicative about his practise; he
      informed her, with the invariable warning not to tell, that Mrs.
      Sunderquist had another baby coming, that the &ldquo;hired girl at Howland's was
      in trouble.&rdquo; But when she asked technical questions he did not know how to
      answer; when she inquired, &ldquo;Exactly what is the method of taking out the
      tonsils?&rdquo; he yawned, &ldquo;Tonsilectomy? Why you just&mdash;&mdash;If there's
      pus, you operate. Just take 'em out. Seen the newspaper? What the devil
      did Bea do with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not try again.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      They had gone to the &ldquo;movies.&rdquo; The movies were almost as vital to
      Kennicott and the other solid citizens of Gopher Prairie as
      land-speculation and guns and automobiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The feature film portrayed a brave young Yankee who conquered a South
      American republic. He turned the natives from their barbarous habits of
      singing and laughing to the vigorous sanity, the Pep and Punch and Go, of
      the North; he taught them to work in factories, to wear Klassy Kollege
      Klothes, and to shout, &ldquo;Oh, you baby doll, watch me gather in the mazuma.&rdquo;
       He changed nature itself. A mountain which had borne nothing but lilies
      and cedars and loafing clouds was by his Hustle so inspirited that it
      broke out in long wooden sheds, and piles of iron ore to be converted into
      steamers to carry iron ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron
      ore.
    </p>
    <p>
      The intellectual tension induced by the master film was relieved by a
      livelier, more lyric and less philosophical drama: Mack Schnarken and the
      Bathing Suit Babes in a comedy of manners entitled &ldquo;Right on the Coco.&rdquo;
       Mr. Schnarken was at various high moments a cook, a life-guard, a
      burlesque actor, and a sculptor. There was a hotel hallway up which
      policemen charged, only to be stunned by plaster busts hurled upon them
      from the innumerous doors. If the plot lacked lucidity, the dual motif of
      legs and pie was clear and sure. Bathing and modeling were equally sound
      occasions for legs; the wedding-scene was but an approach to the
      thunderous climax when Mr. Schnarken slipped a piece of custard pie into
      the clergyman's rear pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      The audience in the Rosebud Movie Palace squealed and wiped their eyes;
      they scrambled under the seats for overshoes, mittens, and mufflers, while
      the screen announced that next week Mr. Schnarken might be seen in a new,
      riproaring, extra-special superfeature of the Clean Comedy Corporation
      entitled, &ldquo;Under Mollie's Bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad,&rdquo; said Carol to Kennicott as they stooped before the northwest
      gale which was torturing the barren street, &ldquo;that this is a moral country.
      We don't allow any of these beastly frank novels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump. Vice Society and Postal Department won't stand for them. The
      American people don't like filth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. It's fine. I'm glad we have such dainty romances as 'Right on the
      Coco' instead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say what in heck do you think you're trying to do? Kid me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent. She awaited his anger. She meditated upon his gutter
      patois, the Boeotian dialect characteristic of Gopher Prairie. He laughed
      puzzlingly. When they came into the glow of the house he laughed again. He
      condescended:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've got to hand it to you. You're consistent, all right. I'd of thought
      that after getting this look-in at a lot of good decent farmers, you'd get
      over this high-art stuff, but you hang right on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; To herself: &ldquo;He takes advantage of my trying to be
      good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell you, Carrie: There's just three classes of people: folks that
      haven't got any ideas at all; and cranks that kick about everything; and
      Regular Guys, the fellows with sticktuitiveness, that boost and get the
      world's work done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I'm probably a crank.&rdquo; She smiled negligently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I won't admit it. You do like to talk, but at a show-down you'd
      prefer Sam Clark to any damn long-haired artist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh well!&rdquo; mockingly. &ldquo;My, we're just going to change everything, aren't
      we! Going to tell fellows that have been making movies for ten years how
      to direct 'em; and tell architects how to build towns; and make the
      magazines publish nothing but a lot of highbrow stories about old maids,
      and about wives that don't know what they want. Oh, we're a terror! . . .
      Come on now, Carrie; come out of it; wake up! You've got a fine nerve,
      kicking about a movie because it shows a few legs! Why, you're always
      touting these Greek dancers, or whatever they are, that don't even wear a
      shimmy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, dear, the trouble with that film&mdash;it wasn't that it got in so
      many legs, but that it giggled coyly and promised to show more of them,
      and then didn't keep the promise. It was Peeping Tom's idea of humor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't get you. Look here now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She lay awake, while he rumbled with sleep
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must go on. My 'crank ideas;' he calls them. I thought that adoring
      him, watching him operate, would be enough. It isn't. Not after the first
      thrill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want to hurt him. But I must go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't enough, to stand by while he fills an automobile radiator and
      chucks me bits of information.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I stood by and admired him long enough, I would be content. I would
      become a 'nice little woman.' The Village Virus. Already&mdash;&mdash;I'm
      not reading anything. I haven't touched the piano for a week. I'm letting
      the days drown in worship of 'a good deal, ten plunks more per acre.' I
      won't! I won't succumb!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How? I've failed at everything: the Thanatopsis, parties, pioneers, city
      hall, Guy and Vida. But&mdash;&mdash;It doesn't MATTER! I'm not trying to
      'reform the town' now. I'm not trying to organize Browning Clubs, and sit
      in clean white kids yearning up at lecturers with ribbony eyeglasses. I am
      trying to save my soul.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will Kennicott, asleep there, trusting me, thinking he holds me. And I'm
      leaving him. All of me left him when he laughed at me. It wasn't enough
      for him that I admired him; I must change myself and grow like him. He
      takes advantage. No more. It's finished. I will go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Her violin lay on top of the upright piano. She picked it up. Since she
      had last touched it the dried strings had snapped, and upon it lay a gold
      and crimson cigar-band.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She longed to see Guy Pollock, for the confirming of the brethren in the
      faith. But Kennicott's dominance was heavy upon her. She could not
      determine whether she was checked by fear or him, or by inertia&mdash;by
      dislike of the emotional labor of the &ldquo;scenes&rdquo; which would be involved in
      asserting independence. She was like the revolutionist at fifty: not
      afraid of death, but bored by the probability of bad steaks and bad
      breaths and sitting up all night on windy barricades.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second evening after the movies she impulsively summoned Vida Sherwin
      and Guy to the house for pop-corn and cider. In the living-room Vida and
      Kennicott debated &ldquo;the value of manual training in grades below the
      eighth,&rdquo; while Carol sat beside Guy at the dining table, buttering
      pop-corn. She was quickened by the speculation in his eyes. She murmured:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guy, do you want to help me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear! How?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I want you to help me find out what has made the darkness of the
      women. Gray darkness and shadowy trees. We're all in it, ten million
      women, young married women with good prosperous husbands, and business
      women in linen collars, and grandmothers that gad out to teas, and wives
      of under-paid miners, and farmwives who really like to make butter and go
      to church. What is it we want&mdash;and need? Will Kennicott there would
      say that we need lots of children and hard work. But it isn't that.
      There's the same discontent in women with eight children and one more
      coming&mdash;always one more coming! And you find it in stenographers and
      wives who scrub, just as much as in girl college-graduates who wonder how
      they can escape their kind parents. What do we want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Essentially, I think, you are like myself, Carol; you want to go back to
      an age of tranquillity and charming manners. You want to enthrone good
      taste again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just good taste? Fastidious people? Oh&mdash;no! I believe all of us want
      the same things&mdash;we're all together, the industrial workers and the
      women and the farmers and the negro race and the Asiatic colonies, and
      even a few of the Respectables. It's all the same revolt, in all the
      classes that have waited and taken advice. I think perhaps we want a more
      conscious life. We're tired of drudging and sleeping and dying. We're
      tired of seeing just a few people able to be individualists. We're tired
      of always deferring hope till the next generation. We're tired of hearing
      the politicians and priests and cautious reformers (and the husbands!)
      coax us, 'Be calm! Be patient! Wait! We have the plans for a Utopia
      already made; just give us a bit more time and we'll produce it; trust us;
      we're wiser than you.' For ten thousand years they've said that. We want
      our Utopia NOW&mdash;and we're going to try our hands at it. All we want
      is&mdash;everything for all of us! For every housewife and every
      longshoreman and every Hindu nationalist and every teacher. We want
      everything. We shatn't get it. So we shatn't ever be content&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wondered why he was wincing. He broke in:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, my dear, I certainly hope you don't class yourself with a lot
      of trouble-making labor-leaders! Democracy is all right theoretically, and
      I'll admit there are industrial injustices, but I'd rather have them than
      see the world reduced to a dead level of mediocrity. I refuse to believe
      that you have anything in common with a lot of laboring men rowing for
      bigger wages so that they can buy wretched flivvers and hideous
      player-pianos and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this second, in Buenos Ayres, a newspaper editor broke his routine of
      being bored by exchanges to assert, &ldquo;Any injustice is better than seeing
      the world reduced to a gray level of scientific dullness.&rdquo; At this second
      a clerk standing at the bar of a New York saloon stopped milling his
      secret fear of his nagging office-manager long enough to growl at the
      chauffeur beside him, &ldquo;Aw, you socialists make me sick! I'm an
      individualist. I ain't going to be nagged by no bureaus and take orders
      off labor-leaders. And mean to say a hobo's as good as you and me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this second Carol realized that for all Guy's love of dead elegances
      his timidity was as depressing to her as the bulkiness of Sam Clark. She
      realized that he was not a mystery, as she had excitedly believed; not a
      romantic messenger from the World Outside on whom she could count for
      escape. He belonged to Gopher Prairie, absolutely. She was snatched back
      from a dream of far countries, and found herself on Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was completing his protest, &ldquo;You don't want to be mixed up in all this
      orgy of meaningless discontent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She soothed him. &ldquo;No, I don't. I'm not heroic. I'm scared by all the
      fighting that's going on in the world. I want nobility and adventure, but
      perhaps I want still more to curl on the hearth with some one I love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not finish it. He picked up a handful of pop-corn, let it run
      through his fingers, looked at her wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the loneliness of one who has put away a possible love Carol saw that
      he was a stranger. She saw that he had never been anything but a frame on
      which she had hung shining garments. If she had let him diffidently make
      love to her, it was not because she cared, but because she did not care,
      because it did not matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      She smiled at him with the exasperating tactfulness of a woman checking a
      flirtation; a smile like an airy pat on the arm. She sighed, &ldquo;You're a
      dear to let me tell you my imaginary troubles.&rdquo; She bounced up, and
      trilled, &ldquo;Shall we take the pop-corn in to them now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Guy looked after her desolately.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she teased Vida and Kennicott she was repeating, &ldquo;I must go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles Bjornstam, the pariah &ldquo;Red Swede,&rdquo; had brought his circular saw and
      portable gasoline engine to the house, to cut the cords of poplar for the
      kitchen range. Kennicott had given the order; Carol knew nothing of it
      till she heard the ringing of the saw, and glanced out to see Bjornstam,
      in black leather jacket and enormous ragged purple mittens, pressing
      sticks against the whirling blade, and flinging the stove-lengths to one
      side. The red irritable motor kept up a red irritable
      &ldquo;tip-tip-tip-tip-tip-tip.&rdquo; The whine of the saw rose till it simulated the
      shriek of a fire-alarm whistle at night, but always at the end it gave a
      lively metallic clang, and in the stillness she heard the flump of the cut
      stick falling on the pile.
    </p>
    <p>
      She threw a motor robe over her, ran out. Bjornstam welcomed her, &ldquo;Well,
      well, well! Here's old Miles, fresh as ever. Well say, that's all right;
      he ain't even begun to be cheeky yet; next summer he's going to take you
      out on his horse-trading trip, clear into Idaho.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and I may go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How's tricks? Crazy about the town yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but I probably shall be, some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't let 'em get you. Kick 'em in the face!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shouted at her while he worked. The pile of stove-wood grew
      astonishingly. The pale bark of the poplar sticks was mottled with lichens
      of sage-green and dusty gray; the newly sawed ends were fresh-colored,
      with the agreeable roughness of a woolen muffler. To the sterile winter
      air the wood gave a scent of March sap.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott telephoned that he was going into the country. Bjornstam had not
      finished his work at noon, and she invited him to have dinner with Bea in
      the kitchen. She wished that she were independent enough to dine with
      these her guests. She considered their friendliness, she sneered at
      &ldquo;social distinctions,&rdquo; she raged at her own taboos&mdash;and she continued
      to regard them as retainers and herself as a lady. She sat in the
      dining-room and listened through the door to Bjornstam's booming and Bea's
      giggles. She was the more absurd to herself in that, after the rite of
      dining alone, she could go out to the kitchen, lean against the sink, and
      talk to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were attracted to each other; a Swedish Othello and Desdemona, more
      useful and amiable than their prototypes. Bjornstam told his scapes:
      selling horses in a Montana mining-camp, breaking a log-jam, being
      impertinent to a &ldquo;two-fisted&rdquo; millionaire lumberman. Bea gurgled &ldquo;Oh my!&rdquo;
       and kept his coffee cup filled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took a long time to finish the wood. He had frequently to go into the
      kitchen to get warm. Carol heard him confiding to Bea, &ldquo;You're a darn nice
      Swede girl. I guess if I had a woman like you I wouldn't be such a
      sorehead. Gosh, your kitchen is clean; makes an old bach feel sloppy. Say,
      that's nice hair you got. Huh? Me fresh? Saaaay, girl, if I ever do get
      fresh, you'll know it. Why, I could pick you up with one finger, and hold
      you in the air long enough to read Robert J. Ingersoll clean through.
      Ingersoll? Oh, he's a religious writer. Sure. You'd like him fine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he drove off he waved to Bea; and Carol, lonely at the window above,
      was envious of their pastoral.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I&mdash;&mdash;But I will go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      THEY were driving down the lake to the cottages that moonlit January
      night, twenty of them in the bob-sled. They sang &ldquo;Toy Land&rdquo; and &ldquo;Seeing
      Nelly Home&rdquo;; they leaped from the low back of the sled to race over the
      slippery snow ruts; and when they were tired they climbed on the runners
      for a lift. The moon-tipped flakes kicked up by the horses settled over
      the revelers and dripped down their necks, but they laughed, yelped, beat
      their leather mittens against their chests. The harness rattled, the
      sleigh-bells were frantic, Jack Elder's setter sprang beside the horses,
      barking.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a time Carol raced with them. The cold air gave fictive power. She
      felt that she could run on all night, leap twenty feet at a stride. But
      the excess of energy tired her, and she was glad to snuggle under the
      comforters which covered the hay in the sled-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of the babel she found enchanted quietude.
    </p>
    <p>
      Along the road the shadows from oak-branches were inked on the snow like
      bars of music. Then the sled came out on the surface of Lake Minniemashie.
      Across the thick ice was a veritable road, a short-cut for farmers. On the
      glaring expanse of the lake-levels of hard crust, flashes of green ice
      blown clear, chains of drifts ribbed like the sea-beach&mdash;the
      moonlight was overwhelming. It stormed on the snow, it turned the woods
      ashore into crystals of fire. The night was tropical and voluptuous. In
      that drugged magic there was no difference between heavy heat and
      insinuating cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was dream-strayed. The turbulent voices, even Guy Pollock being
      connotative beside her, were nothing. She repeated:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Deep on the convent-roof the snows
     Are sparkling to the moon.
</pre>
    <p>
      The words and the light blurred into one vast indefinite happiness, and
      she believed that some great thing was coming to her. She withdrew from
      the clamor into a worship of incomprehensible gods. The night expanded,
      she was conscious of the universe, and all mysteries stooped down to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was jarred out of her ecstasy as the bob-sled bumped up the steep road
      to the bluff where stood the cottages.
    </p>
    <p>
      They dismounted at Jack Elder's shack. The interior walls of unpainted
      boards, which had been grateful in August, were forbidding in the chill.
      In fur coats and mufflers tied over caps they were a strange company,
      bears and walruses talking. Jack Elder lighted the shavings waiting in the
      belly of a cast-iron stove which was like an enlarged bean-pot. They piled
      their wraps high on a rocker, and cheered the rocker as it solemnly tipped
      over backward.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Elder and Mrs. Sam Clark made coffee in an enormous blackened tin
      pot; Vida Sherwin and Mrs. McGanum unpacked doughnuts and gingerbread;
      Mrs. Dave Dyer warmed up &ldquo;hot dogs&rdquo;&mdash;frankfurters in rolls; Dr. Terry
      Gould, after announcing, &ldquo;Ladies and gents, prepare to be shocked; shock
      line forms on the right,&rdquo; produced a bottle of bourbon whisky.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others danced, muttering &ldquo;Ouch!&rdquo; as their frosted feet struck the pine
      planks. Carol had lost her dream. Harry Haydock lifted her by the waist
      and swung her. She laughed. The gravity of the people who stood apart and
      talked made her the more impatient for frolic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott, Sam Clark, Jackson Elder, young Dr. McGanum, and James Madison
      Howland, teetering on their toes near the stove, conversed with the sedate
      pomposity of the commercialist. In details the men were unlike, yet they
      said the same things in the same hearty monotonous voices. You had to look
      at them to see which was speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we made pretty good time coming up,&rdquo; from one&mdash;any one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, we hit it up after we struck the good going on the lake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seems kind of slow though, after driving an auto.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, it does, at that. Say, how'd you make out with that Sphinx tire you
      got?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seems to hold out fine. Still, I don't know's I like it any better than
      the Roadeater Cord.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, nothing better than a Roadeater. Especially the cord. The cord's
      lots better than the fabric.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, you said something&mdash;&mdash;Roadeater's a good tire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, how'd you come out with Pete Garsheim on his payments?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's paying up pretty good. That's a nice piece of land he's got.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, that's a dandy farm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, Pete's got a good place there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They glided from these serious topics into the jocose insults which are
      the wit of Main Street. Sam Clark was particularly apt at them. &ldquo;What's
      this wild-eyed sale of summer caps you think you're trying to pull off?&rdquo;
       he clamored at Harry Haydock. &ldquo;Did you steal 'em, or are you just
      overcharging us, as usual? . . . Oh say, speaking about caps, d'I ever
      tell you the good one I've got on Will? The doc thinks he's a pretty good
      driver, fact, he thinks he's almost got human intelligence, but one time
      he had his machine out in the rain, and the poor fish, he hadn't put on
      chains, and thinks I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol had heard the story rather often. She fled back to the dancers, and
      at Dave Dyer's masterstroke of dropping an icicle down Mrs. McGanum's back
      she applauded hysterically.
    </p>
    <p>
      They sat on the floor, devouring the food. The men giggled amiably as they
      passed the whisky bottle, and laughed, &ldquo;There's a real sport!&rdquo; when
      Juanita Haydock took a sip. Carol tried to follow; she believed that she
      desired to be drunk and riotous; but the whisky choked her and as she saw
      Kennicott frown she handed the bottle on repentantly. Somewhat too late
      she remembered that she had given up domesticity and repentance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's play charades!&rdquo; said Raymie Wutherspoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, do let us,&rdquo; said Ella Stowbody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the caper,&rdquo; sanctioned Harry Haydock.
    </p>
    <p>
      They interpreted the word &ldquo;making&rdquo; as May and King. The crown was a red
      flannel mitten cocked on Sam Clark's broad pink bald head. They forgot
      they were respectable. They made-believe. Carol was stimulated to cry:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's form a dramatic club and give a play! Shall we? It's been so much
      fun tonight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They looked affable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure,&rdquo; observed Sam Clark loyally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do let us! I think it would be lovely to present 'Romeo and Juliet'!&rdquo;
       yearned Ella Stowbody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be a whale of a lot of fun,&rdquo; Dr. Terry Gould granted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if we did,&rdquo; Carol cautioned, &ldquo;it would be awfully silly to have
      amateur theatricals. We ought to paint our own scenery and everything, and
      really do something fine. There'd be a lot of hard work. Would you&mdash;would
      we all be punctual at rehearsals, do you suppose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bet!&rdquo; &ldquo;Sure.&rdquo; &ldquo;That's the idea.&rdquo; &ldquo;Fellow ought to be prompt at
      rehearsals,&rdquo; they all agreed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let's meet next week and form the Gopher Prairie Dramatic
      Association!&rdquo; Carol sang.
    </p>
    <p>
      She drove home loving these friends who raced through moonlit snow, had
      Bohemian parties, and were about to create beauty in the theater.
      Everything was solved. She would be an authentic part of the town, yet
      escape the coma of the Village Virus. . . . She would be free of Kennicott
      again, without hurting him, without his knowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had triumphed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moon was small and high now, and unheeding.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Though they had all been certain that they longed for the privilege of
      attending committee meetings and rehearsals, the dramatic association as
      definitely formed consisted only of Kennicott, Carol, Guy Pollock, Vida
      Sherwin, Ella Stowbody, the Harry Haydocks, the Dave Dyers, Raymie
      Wutherspoon, Dr. Terry Gould, and four new candidates: flirtatious Rita
      Simons, Dr. and Mrs. Harvey Dillon and Myrtle Cass, an uncomely but
      intense girl of nineteen. Of these fifteen only seven came to the first
      meeting. The rest telephoned their unparalleled regrets and engagements
      and illnesses, and announced that they would be present at all other
      meetings through eternity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was made president and director.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had added the Dillons. Despite Kennicott's apprehension the dentist
      and his wife had not been taken up by the Westlakes but had remained as
      definitely outside really smart society as Willis Woodford, who was
      teller, bookkeeper, and janitor in Stowbody's bank. Carol had noted Mrs.
      Dillon dragging past the house during a bridge of the Jolly Seventeen,
      looking in with pathetic lips at the splendor of the accepted. She
      impulsively invited the Dillons to the dramatic association meeting, and
      when Kennicott was brusque to them she was unusually cordial, and felt
      virtuous.
    </p>
    <p>
      That self-approval balanced her disappointment at the smallness of the
      meeting, and her embarrassment during Raymie Wutherspoon's repetitions of
      &ldquo;The stage needs uplifting,&rdquo; and &ldquo;I believe that there are great lessons
      in some plays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ella Stowbody, who was a professional, having studied elocution in
      Milwaukee, disapproved of Carol's enthusiasm for recent plays. Miss
      Stowbody expressed the fundamental principle of the American drama: the
      only way to be artistic is to present Shakespeare. As no one listened to
      her she sat back and looked like Lady Macbeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      The Little Theaters, which were to give piquancy to American drama three
      or four years later, were only in embryo. But of this fast coming revolt
      Carol had premonitions. She knew from some lost magazine article that in
      Dublin were innovators called The Irish Players. She knew confusedly that
      a man named Gordon Craig had painted scenery&mdash;or had he written
      plays? She felt that in the turbulence of the drama she was discovering a
      history more important than the commonplace chronicles which dealt with
      senators and their pompous puerilities. She had a sensation of
      familiarity; a dream of sitting in a Brussels cafe and going afterward to
      a tiny gay theater under a cathedral wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The advertisement in the Minneapolis paper leaped from the page to her
      eyes:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The Cosmos School of Music, Oratory, and
     Dramatic Art announces a program of four
     one-act plays by Schnitzler, Shaw, Yeats,
     and Lord Dunsany.
</pre>
    <p>
      She had to be there! She begged Kennicott to &ldquo;run down to the Cities&rdquo; with
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't know. Be fun to take in a show, but why the deuce do you
      want to see those darn foreign plays, given by a lot of amateurs? Why
      don't you wait for a regular play, later on? There's going to be some
      corkers coming: 'Lottie of Two-Gun Rancho,' and 'Cops and Crooks'&mdash;real
      Broadway stuff, with the New York casts. What's this junk you want to see?
      Hm. 'How He Lied to Her Husband.' That doesn't listen so bad. Sounds racy.
      And, uh, well, I could go to the motor show, I suppose. I'd like to see
      this new Hup roadster. Well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She never knew which attraction made him decide.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had four days of delightful worry&mdash;over the hole in her one good
      silk petticoat, the loss of a string of beads from her chiffon and brown
      velvet frock, the catsup stain on her best georgette crepe blouse. She
      wailed, &ldquo;I haven't a single solitary thing that's fit to be seen in,&rdquo; and
      enjoyed herself very much indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott went about casually letting people know that he was &ldquo;going to
      run down to the Cities and see some shows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the train plodded through the gray prairie, on a windless day with the
      smoke from the engine clinging to the fields in giant cotton-rolls, in a
      low and writhing wall which shut off the snowy fields, she did not look
      out of the window. She closed her eyes and hummed, and did not know that
      she was humming.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was the young poet attacking fame and Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the Minneapolis station the crowd of lumberjacks, farmers, and Swedish
      families with innumerous children and grandparents and paper parcels,
      their foggy crowding and their clamor confused her. She felt rustic in
      this once familiar city, after a year and a half of Gopher Prairie. She
      was certain that Kennicott was taking the wrong trolley-car. By dusk, the
      liquor warehouses, Hebraic clothing-shops, and lodging-houses on lower
      Hennepin Avenue were smoky, hideous, ill-tempered. She was battered by the
      noise and shuttling of the rush-hour traffic. When a clerk in an overcoat
      too closely fitted at the waist stared at her, she moved nearer to
      Kennicott's arm. The clerk was flippant and urban. He was a superior
      person, used to this tumult. Was he laughing at her?
    </p>
    <p>
      For a moment she wanted the secure quiet of Gopher Prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the hotel-lobby she was self-conscious. She was not used to hotels; she
      remembered with jealousy how often Juanita Haydock talked of the famous
      hotels in Chicago. She could not face the traveling salesmen, baronial in
      large leather chairs. She wanted people to believe that her husband and
      she were accustomed to luxury and chill elegance; she was faintly angry at
      him for the vulgar way in which, after signing the register &ldquo;Dr. W. P.
      Kennicott &amp; wife,&rdquo; he bellowed at the clerk, &ldquo;Got a nice room with
      bath for us, old man?&rdquo; She gazed about haughtily, but as she discovered
      that no one was interested in her she felt foolish, and ashamed of her
      irritation.
    </p>
    <p>
      She asserted, &ldquo;This silly lobby is too florid,&rdquo; and simultaneously she
      admired it: the onyx columns with gilt capitals, the crown-embroidered
      velvet curtains at the restaurant door, the silk-roped alcove where pretty
      girls perpetually waited for mysterious men, the two-pound boxes of candy
      and the variety of magazines at the news-stand. The hidden orchestra was
      lively. She saw a man who looked like a European diplomat, in a loose
      top-coat and a Homburg hat. A woman with a broadtail coat, a heavy lace
      veil, pearl earrings, and a close black hat entered the restaurant.
      &ldquo;Heavens! That's the first really smart woman I've seen in a year!&rdquo; Carol
      exulted. She felt metropolitan.
    </p>
    <p>
      But as she followed Kennicott to the elevator the coat-check girl, a
      confident young woman, with cheeks powdered like lime, and a blouse low
      and thin and furiously crimson, inspected her, and under that supercilious
      glance Carol was shy again. She unconsciously waited for the bellboy to
      precede her into the elevator. When he snorted &ldquo;Go ahead!&rdquo; she was
      mortified. He thought she was a hayseed, she worried.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment she was in their room, with the bellboy safely out of the way,
      she looked critically at Kennicott. For the first time in months she
      really saw him.
    </p>
    <p>
      His clothes were too heavy and provincial. His decent gray suit, made by
      Nat Hicks of Gopher Prairie, might have been of sheet iron; it had no
      distinction of cut, no easy grace like the diplomat's Burberry. His black
      shoes were blunt and not well polished. His scarf was a stupid brown. He
      needed a shave.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she forgot her doubt as she realized the ingenuities of the room. She
      ran about, turning on the taps of the bathtub, which gushed instead of
      dribbling like the taps at home, snatching the new wash-rag out of its
      envelope of oiled paper, trying the rose-shaded light between the twin
      beds, pulling out the drawers of the kidney-shaped walnut desk to examine
      the engraved stationery, planning to write on it to every one she knew,
      admiring the claret-colored velvet armchair and the blue rug, testing the
      ice-water tap, and squealing happily when the water really did come out
      cold. She flung her arms about Kennicott, kissed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like it, old lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's adorable. It's so amusing. I love you for bringing me. You really
      are a dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked blankly indulgent, and yawned, and condescended, &ldquo;That's a
      pretty slick arrangement on the radiator, so you can adjust it at any
      temperature you want. Must take a big furnace to run this place. Gosh, I
      hope Bea remembers to turn off the drafts tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Under the glass cover of the dressing-table was a menu with the most
      enchanting dishes: breast of guinea hen De Vitresse, pommes de terre a la
      Russe, meringue Chantilly, gateaux Bruxelles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, let's&mdash;&mdash;I'm going to have a hot bath, and put on my new
      hat with the wool flowers, and let's go down and eat for hours, and we'll
      have a cocktail!&rdquo; she chanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Kennicott labored over ordering it was annoying to see him permit
      the waiter to be impertinent, but as the cocktail elevated her to a bridge
      among colored stars, as the oysters came in&mdash;not canned oysters in
      the Gopher Prairie fashion, but on the half-shell&mdash;she cried, &ldquo;If you
      only knew how wonderful it is not to have had to plan this dinner, and
      order it at the butcher's and fuss and think about it, and then watch Bea
      cook it! I feel so free. And to have new kinds of food, and different
      patterns of dishes and linen, and not worry about whether the pudding is
      being spoiled! Oh, this is a great moment for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      They had all the experiences of provincials in a metropolis. After
      breakfast Carol bustled to a hair-dresser's, bought gloves and a blouse,
      and importantly met Kennicott in front of an optician's, in accordance
      with plans laid down, revised, and verified. They admired the diamonds and
      furs and frosty silverware and mahogany chairs and polished morocco
      sewing-boxes in shop-windows, and were abashed by the throngs in the
      department-stores, and were bullied by a clerk into buying too many shirts
      for Kennicott, and gaped at the &ldquo;clever novelty perfumes&mdash;just in
      from New York.&rdquo; Carol got three books on the theater, and spent an
      exultant hour in warning herself that she could not afford this rajah-silk
      frock, in thinking how envious it would make Juanita Haydock, in closing
      her eyes, and buying it. Kennicott went from shop to shop, earnestly
      hunting down a felt-covered device to keep the windshield of his car clear
      of rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      They dined extravagantly at their hotel at night, and next morning sneaked
      round the corner to economize at a Childs' Restaurant. They were tired by
      three in the afternoon, and dozed at the motion-pictures and said they
      wished they were back in Gopher Prairie&mdash;and by eleven in the evening
      they were again so lively that they went to a Chinese restaurant that was
      frequented by clerks and their sweethearts on pay-days. They sat at a teak
      and marble table eating Eggs Fooyung, and listened to a brassy automatic
      piano, and were altogether cosmopolitan.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the street they met people from home&mdash;the McGanums. They laughed,
      shook hands repeatedly, and exclaimed, &ldquo;Well, this is quite a
      coincidence!&rdquo; They asked when the McGanums had come down, and begged for
      news of the town they had left two days before. Whatever the McGanums were
      at home, here they stood out as so superior to all the undistinguishable
      strangers absurdly hurrying past that the Kennicotts held them as long as
      they could. The McGanums said good-by as though they were going to Tibet
      instead of to the station to catch No. 7 north.
    </p>
    <p>
      They explored Minneapolis. Kennicott was conversational and technical
      regarding gluten and cockle-cylinders and No. I Hard, when they were shown
      through the gray stone hulks and new cement elevators of the largest
      flour-mills in the world. They looked across Loring Park and the Parade to
      the towers of St. Mark's and the Procathedral, and the red roofs of houses
      climbing Kenwood Hill. They drove about the chain of garden-circled lakes,
      and viewed the houses of the millers and lumbermen and real estate peers&mdash;the
      potentates of the expanding city. They surveyed the small eccentric
      bungalows with pergolas, the houses of pebbledash and tapestry brick with
      sleeping-porches above sun-parlors, and one vast incredible chateau
      fronting the Lake of the Isles. They tramped through a shining-new section
      of apartment-houses; not the tall bleak apartments of Eastern cities but
      low structures of cheerful yellow brick, in which each flat had its
      glass-enclosed porch with swinging couch and scarlet cushions and Russian
      brass bowls. Between a waste of tracks and a raw gouged hill they found
      poverty in staggering shanties.
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw miles of the city which they had never known in their days of
      absorption in college. They were distinguished explorers, and they
      remarked, in great mutual esteem, &ldquo;I bet Harry Haydock's never seen the
      City like this! Why, he'd never have sense enough to study the machinery
      in the mills, or go through all these outlying districts. Wonder folks in
      Gopher Prairie wouldn't use their legs and explore, the way we do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had two meals with Carol's sister, and were bored, and felt that
      intimacy which beatifies married people when they suddenly admit that they
      equally dislike a relative of either of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      So it was with affection but also with weariness that they approached the
      evening on which Carol was to see the plays at the dramatic school.
      Kennicott suggested not going. &ldquo;So darn tired from all this walking; don't
      know but what we better turn in early and get rested up.&rdquo; It was only from
      duty that Carol dragged him and herself out of the warm hotel, into a
      stinking trolley, up the brownstone steps of the converted residence which
      lugubriously housed the dramatic school.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      They were in a long whitewashed hall with a clumsy draw-curtain across the
      front. The folding chairs were filled with people who looked washed and
      ironed: parents of the pupils, girl students, dutiful teachers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strikes me it's going to be punk. If the first play isn't good, let's
      beat it,&rdquo; said Kennicott hopefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; she yawned. With hazy eyes she tried to read the lists of
      characters, which were hidden among lifeless advertisements of pianos,
      music-dealers, restaurants, candy.
    </p>
    <p>
      She regarded the Schnitzler play with no vast interest. The actors moved
      and spoke stiffly. Just as its cynicism was beginning to rouse her
      village-dulled frivolity, it was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't think a whale of a lot of that. How about taking a sneak?&rdquo;
       petitioned Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, let's try the next one, 'How He Lied to Her Husband.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Shaw conceit amused her, and perplexed Kennicott:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strikes me it's darn fresh. Thought it would be racy. Don't know as I
      think much of a play where a husband actually claims he wants a fellow to
      make love to his wife. No husband ever did that! Shall we shake a leg?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to see this Yeats thing, 'Land of Heart's Desire.' I used to love
      it in college.&rdquo; She was awake now, and urgent. &ldquo;I know you didn't care so
      much for Yeats when I read him aloud to you, but you just see if you don't
      adore him on the stage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Most of the cast were as unwieldy as oak chairs marching, and the setting
      was an arty arrangement of batik scarfs and heavy tables, but Maire Bruin
      was slim as Carol, and larger-eyed, and her voice was a morning bell. In
      her, Carol lived, and on her lifting voice was transported from this
      sleepy small-town husband and all the rows of polite parents to the stilly
      loft of a thatched cottage where in a green dimness, beside a window
      caressed by linden branches, she bent over a chronicle of twilight women
      and the ancient gods.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;gosh&mdash;nice kid played that girl&mdash;good-looker,&rdquo; said
      Kennicott. &ldquo;Want to stay for the last piece? Heh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shivered. She did not answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curtain was again drawn aside. On the stage they saw nothing but long
      green curtains and a leather chair. Two young men in brown robes like
      furniture-covers were gesturing vacuously and droning cryptic sentences
      full of repetitions.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Carol's first hearing of Dunsany. She sympathized with the restless
      Kennicott as he felt in his pocket for a cigar and unhappily put it back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Without understanding when or how, without a tangible change in the
      stilted intoning of the stage-puppets, she was conscious of another time
      and place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Stately and aloof among vainglorious tiring-maids, a queen in robes that
      murmured on the marble floor, she trod the gallery of a crumbling palace.
      In the courtyard, elephants trumpeted, and swart men with beards dyed
      crimson stood with blood-stained hands folded upon their hilts, guarding
      the caravan from El Sharnak, the camels with Tyrian stuffs of topaz and
      cinnabar. Beyond the turrets of the outer wall the jungle glared and
      shrieked, and the sun was furious above drenched orchids. A youth came
      striding through the steel-bossed doors, the sword-bitten doors that were
      higher than ten tall men. He was in flexible mail, and under the rim of
      his planished morion were amorous curls. His hand was out to her; before
      she touched it she could feel its warmth&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gosh all hemlock! What the dickens is all this stuff about, Carrie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was no Syrian queen. She was Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. She fell with a jolt
      into a whitewashed hall and sat looking at two scared girls and a young
      man in wrinkled tights.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott fondly rambled as they left the hall:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the deuce did that last spiel mean? Couldn't make head or tail of
      it. If that's highbrow drama, give me a cow-puncher movie, every time!
      Thank God, that's over, and we can get to bed. Wonder if we wouldn't make
      time by walking over to Nicollet to take a car? One thing I will say for
      that dump: they had it warm enough. Must have a big hot-air furnace, I
      guess. Wonder how much coal it takes to run 'em through the winter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the car he affectionately patted her knee, and he was for a second the
      striding youth in armor; then he was Doc Kennicott of Gopher Prairie, and
      she was recaptured by Main Street. Never, not all her life, would she
      behold jungles and the tombs of kings. There were strange things in the
      world, they really existed; but she would never see them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She would recreate them in plays!
    </p>
    <p>
      She would make the dramatic association understand her aspiration. They
      would, surely they would&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked doubtfully at the impenetrable reality of yawning trolley
      conductor and sleepy passengers and placards advertising soap and
      underwear.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      SHE hurried to the first meeting of the play-reading committee. Her jungle
      romance had faded, but she retained a religious fervor, a surge of
      half-formed thought about the creation of beauty by suggestion.
    </p>
    <p>
      A Dunsany play would be too difficult for the Gopher Prairie association.
      She would let them compromise on Shaw&mdash;on &ldquo;Androcles and the Lion,&rdquo;
       which had just been published.
    </p>
    <p>
      The committee was composed of Carol, Vida Sherwin, Guy Pollock, Raymie
      Wutherspoon, and Juanita Haydock. They were exalted by the picture of
      themselves as being simultaneously business-like and artistic. They were
      entertained by Vida in the parlor of Mrs. Elisha Gurrey's boarding-house,
      with its steel engraving of Grant at Appomattox, its basket of
      stereoscopic views, and its mysterious stains on the gritty carpet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was an advocate of culture-buying and efficiency-systems. She hinted
      that they ought to have (as at the committee-meetings of the Thanatopsis)
      a &ldquo;regular order of business,&rdquo; and &ldquo;the reading of the minutes,&rdquo; but as
      there were no minutes to read, and as no one knew exactly what was the
      regular order of the business of being literary, they had to give up
      efficiency.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol, as chairman, said politely, &ldquo;Have you any ideas about what play
      we'd better give first?&rdquo; She waited for them to look abashed and vacant,
      so that she might suggest &ldquo;Androcles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Guy Pollock answered with disconcerting readiness, &ldquo;I'll tell you: since
      we're going to try to do something artistic, and not simply fool around, I
      believe we ought to give something classic. How about 'The School for
      Scandal'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;Don't you think that has been done a good deal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, perhaps it has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was ready to say, &ldquo;How about Bernard Shaw?&rdquo; when he treacherously
      went on, &ldquo;How would it be then to give a Greek drama&mdash;say 'Oedipus
      Tyrannus'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I don't believe&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vida Sherwin intruded, &ldquo;I'm sure that would be too hard for us. Now I've
      brought something that I think would be awfully jolly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held out, and Carol incredulously took, a thin gray pamphlet entitled
      &ldquo;McGinerty's Mother-in-law.&rdquo; It was the sort of farce which is advertised
      in &ldquo;school entertainment&rdquo; catalogues as:
    </p>
    <p>
      Riproaring knock-out, 5 m. 3 f., time 2 hrs., interior set, popular with
      churches and all high-class occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol glanced from the scabrous object to Vida, and realized that she was
      not joking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is&mdash;this is&mdash;why, it's just a&mdash;&mdash;Why, Vida,
      I thought you appreciated&mdash;well&mdash;appreciated art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vida snorted, &ldquo;Oh. Art. Oh yes. I do like art. It's very nice. But after
      all, what does it matter what kind of play we give as long as we get the
      association started? The thing that matters is something that none of you
      have spoken of, that is: what are we going to do with the money, if we
      make any? I think it would be awfully nice if we presented the high school
      with a full set of Stoddard's travel-lectures!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol moaned, &ldquo;Oh, but Vida dear, do forgive me but this farce&mdash;&mdash;Now
      what I'd like us to give is something distinguished. Say Shaw's
      'Androcles.' Have any of you read it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Good play,&rdquo; said Guy Pollock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Raymie Wutherspoon astoundingly spoke up:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So have I. I read through all the plays in the public library, so's to be
      ready for this meeting. And&mdash;&mdash;But I don't believe you grasp the
      irreligious ideas in this 'Androcles,' Mrs. Kennicott. I guess the
      feminine mind is too innocent to understand all these immoral writers. I'm
      sure I don't want to criticize Bernard Shaw; I understand he is very
      popular with the highbrows in Minneapolis; but just the same&mdash;&mdash;As
      far as I can make out, he's downright improper! The things he SAYS&mdash;&mdash;Well,
      it would be a very risky thing for our young folks to see. It seems to me
      that a play that doesn't leave a nice taste in the mouth and that hasn't
      any message is nothing but&mdash;nothing but&mdash;&mdash;Well, whatever
      it may be, it isn't art. So&mdash;&mdash;Now I've found a play that is
      clean, and there's some awfully funny scenes in it, too. I laughed out
      loud, reading it. It's called 'His Mother's Heart,' and it's about a young
      man in college who gets in with a lot of free-thinkers and boozers and
      everything, but in the end his mother's influence&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juanita Haydock broke in with a derisive, &ldquo;Oh rats, Raymie! Can the
      mother's influence! I say let's give something with some class to it. I
      bet we could get the rights to 'The Girl from Kankakee,' and that's a real
      show. It ran for eleven months in New York!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be lots of fun, if it wouldn't cost too much,&rdquo; reflected Vida.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's was the only vote cast against &ldquo;The Girl from Kankakee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She disliked &ldquo;The Girl from Kankakee&rdquo; even more than she had expected. It
      narrated the success of a farm-lassie in clearing her brother of a charge
      of forgery. She became secretary to a New York millionaire and social
      counselor to his wife; and after a well-conceived speech on the discomfort
      of having money, she married his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was also a humorous office-boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol discerned that both Juanita Haydock and Ella Stowbody wanted the
      lead. She let Juanita have it. Juanita kissed her and in the exuberant
      manner of a new star presented to the executive committee her theory,
      &ldquo;What we want in a play is humor and pep. There's where American
      playwrights put it all over these darn old European glooms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As selected by Carol and confirmed by the committee, the persons of the
      play were:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     John Grimm, a millionaire .  .   .  .  Guy Pollock
     His wife.   .  .   .  .   .  .   .  .  Miss Vida Sherwin
     His son .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .  .  Dr. Harvey Dillon
     His business rival.   .  .   .  .  . . Raymond T.  Wutherspoon
     Friend of Mrs. Grimm .  .   .  .   . . Miss Ella Stowbody
     The girl from Kankakee .   .  .   .  . Mrs. Harold C.  Haydock
     Her brother.  .   .  .   .  .   .  .   Dr. Terence Gould
     Her mother .  .   .  .   .  .   .  .   Mrs. David Dyer
     Stenographer .   .  .   .  .   .  .  . Miss Rita Simons
     Office-boy .  .   .  .   .  .   .  .   Miss Myrtle Cass
     Maid in the Grimms' home  .  .  .  .   Mrs. W.  P.  Kennicott
     Direction of Mrs. Kennicott
</pre>
    <p>
      Among the minor lamentations was Maud Dyer's &ldquo;Well of course I suppose I
      look old enough to be Juanita's mother, even if Juanita is eight months
      older than I am, but I don't know as I care to have everybody noticing it
      and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol pleaded, &ldquo;Oh, my DEAR! You two look exactly the same age. I chose
      you because you have such a darling complexion, and you know with powder
      and a white wig, anybody looks twice her age, and I want the mother to be
      sweet, no matter who else is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ella Stowbody, the professional, perceiving that it was because of a
      conspiracy of jealousy that she had been given a small part, alternated
      between lofty amusement and Christian patience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol hinted that the play would be improved by cutting, but as every
      actor except Vida and Guy and herself wailed at the loss of a single line,
      she was defeated. She told herself that, after all, a great deal could be
      done with direction and settings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sam Clark had boastfully written about the dramatic association to his
      schoolmate, Percy Bresnahan, president of the Velvet Motor Company of
      Boston. Bresnahan sent a check for a hundred dollars; Sam added
      twenty-five and brought the fund to Carol, fondly crying, &ldquo;There! That'll
      give you a start for putting the thing across swell!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rented the second floor of the city hall for two months. All through
      the spring the association thrilled to its own talent in that dismal room.
      They cleared out the bunting, ballot-boxes, handbills, legless chairs.
      They attacked the stage. It was a simple-minded stage. It was raised above
      the floor, and it did have a movable curtain, painted with the
      advertisement of a druggist dead these ten years, but otherwise it might
      not have been recognized as a stage. There were two dressing-rooms, one
      for men, one for women, on either side. The dressing-room doors were also
      the stage-entrances, opening from the house, and many a citizen of Gopher
      Prairie had for his first glimpse of romance the bare shoulders of the
      leading woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were three sets of scenery: a woodland, a Poor Interior, and a Rich
      Interior, the last also useful for railway stations, offices, and as a
      background for the Swedish Quartette from Chicago. There were three
      gradations of lighting: full on, half on, and entirely off.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the only theater in Gopher Prairie. It was known as the &ldquo;op'ra
      house.&rdquo; Once, strolling companies had used it for performances of &ldquo;The Two
      Orphans,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Nellie the Beautiful Cloak Model,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Othello&rdquo; with
      specialties between acts, but now the motion-pictures had ousted the gipsy
      drama.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol intended to be furiously modern in constructing the office-set, the
      drawing-room for Mr. Grimm, and the Humble Home near Kankakee. It was the
      first time that any one in Gopher Prairie had been so revolutionary as to
      use enclosed scenes with continuous side-walls. The rooms in the op'ra
      house sets had separate wing-pieces for sides, which simplified
      dramaturgy, as the villain could always get out of the hero's way by
      walking out through the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The inhabitants of the Humble Home were supposed to be amiable and
      intelligent. Carol planned for them a simple set with warm color. She
      could see the beginning of the play: all dark save the high settles and
      the solid wooden table between them, which were to be illuminated by a ray
      from offstage. The high light was a polished copper pot filled with
      primroses. Less clearly she sketched the Grimm drawing-room as a series of
      cool high white arches.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to how she was to produce these effects she had no notion.
    </p>
    <p>
      She discovered that, despite the enthusiastic young writers, the drama was
      not half so native and close to the soil as motor cars and telephones. She
      discovered that simple arts require sophisticated training. She discovered
      that to produce one perfect stage-picture would be as difficult as to turn
      all of Gopher Prairie into a Georgian garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      She read all she could find regarding staging, she bought paint and light
      wood; she borrowed furniture and drapes unscrupulously; she made Kennicott
      turn carpenter. She collided with the problem of lighting. Against the
      protest of Kennicott and Vida she mortgaged the association by sending to
      Minneapolis for a baby spotlight, a strip light, a dimming device, and
      blue and amber bulbs; and with the gloating rapture of a born painter
      first turned loose among colors, she spent absorbed evenings in grouping,
      dimming-painting with lights.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only Kennicott, Guy, and Vida helped her. They speculated as to how flats
      could be lashed together to form a wall; they hung crocus-yellow curtains
      at the windows; they blacked the sheet-iron stove; they put on aprons and
      swept. The rest of the association dropped into the theater every evening,
      and were literary and superior. They had borrowed Carol's manuals of
      play-production and had become extremely stagey in vocabulary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons, and Raymie Wutherspoon sat on a sawhorse,
      watching Carol try to get the right position for a picture on the wall in
      the first scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want to hand myself anything but I believe I'll give a swell
      performance in this first act,&rdquo; confided Juanita. &ldquo;I wish Carol wasn't so
      bossy though. She doesn't understand clothes. I want to wear, oh, a dandy
      dress I have&mdash;all scarlet&mdash;and I said to her, 'When I enter
      wouldn't it knock their eyes out if I just stood there at the door in this
      straight scarlet thing?' But she wouldn't let me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Young Rita agreed, &ldquo;She's so much taken up with her old details and
      carpentering and everything that she can't see the picture as a whole. Now
      I thought it would be lovely if we had an office-scene like the one in
      'Little, But Oh My!' Because I SAW that, in Duluth. But she simply
      wouldn't listen at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juanita sighed, &ldquo;I wanted to give one speech like Ethel Barrymore would,
      if she was in a play like this. (Harry and I heard her one time in
      Minneapolis&mdash;we had dandy seats, in the orchestra&mdash;I just know I
      could imitate her.) Carol didn't pay any attention to my suggestion. I
      don't want to criticize but I guess Ethel knows more about acting than
      Carol does!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, do you think Carol has the right dope about using a strip light
      behind the fireplace in the second act? I told her I thought we ought to
      use a bunch,&rdquo; offered Raymie. &ldquo;And I suggested it would be lovely if we
      used a cyclorama outside the window in the first act, and what do you
      think she said? 'Yes, and it would be lovely to have Eleanora Duse play
      the lead,' she said, 'and aside from the fact that it's evening in the
      first act, you're a great technician,' she said. I must say I think she
      was pretty sarcastic. I've been reading up, and I know I could build a
      cyclorama, if she didn't want to run everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and another thing, I think the entrance in the first act ought to be
      L. U. E., not L. 3 E.,&rdquo; from Juanita.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why does she just use plain white tormenters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's a tormenter?&rdquo; blurted Rita Simons.
    </p>
    <p>
      The savants stared at her ignorance.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not resent their criticisms, she didn't very much resent their
      sudden knowledge, so long as they let her make pictures. It was at
      rehearsals that the quarrrels broke. No one understood that rehearsals
      were as real engagements as bridge-games or sociables at the Episcopal
      Church. They gaily came in half an hour late, or they vociferously came in
      ten minutes early, and they were so hurt that they whispered about
      resigning when Carol protested. They telephoned, &ldquo;I don't think I'd better
      come out; afraid the dampness might start my toothache,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Guess can't
      make it tonight; Dave wants me to sit in on a poker game.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When, after a month of labor, as many as nine-elevenths of the cast were
      often present at a rehearsal; when most of them had learned their parts
      and some of them spoke like human beings, Carol had a new shock in the
      realization that Guy Pollock and herself were very bad actors, and that
      Raymie Wutherspoon was a surprisingly good one. For all her visions she
      could not control her voice, and she was bored by the fiftieth repetition
      of her few lines as maid. Guy pulled his soft mustache, looked
      self-conscious, and turned Mr. Grimm into a limp dummy. But Raymie, as the
      villain, had no repressions. The tilt of his head was full of character;
      his drawl was admirably vicious.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an evening when Carol hoped she was going to make a play; a
      rehearsal during which Guy stopped looking abashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      From that evening the play declined.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were weary. &ldquo;We know our parts well enough now; what's the use of
      getting sick of them?&rdquo; they complained. They began to skylark; to play
      with the sacred lights; to giggle when Carol was trying to make the
      sentimental Myrtle Cass into a humorous office-boy; to act everything but
      &ldquo;The Girl from Kankakee.&rdquo; After loafing through his proper part Dr. Terry
      Gould had great applause for his burlesque of &ldquo;Hamlet.&rdquo; Even Raymie lost
      his simple faith, and tried to show that he could do a vaudeville shuffle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol turned on the company. &ldquo;See here, I want this nonsense to stop.
      We've simply got to get down to work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juanita Haydock led the mutiny: &ldquo;Look here, Carol, don't be so bossy.
      After all, we're doing this play principally for the fun of it, and if we
      have fun out of a lot of monkey-shines, why then&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye-es,&rdquo; feebly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said one time that folks in G. P. didn't get enough fun out of life.
      And now we are having a circus, you want us to stop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol answered slowly: &ldquo;I wonder if I can explain what I mean? It's the
      difference between looking at the comic page and looking at Manet. I want
      fun out of this, of course. Only&mdash;&mdash;I don't think it would be
      less fun, but more, to produce as perfect a play as we can.&rdquo; She was
      curiously exalted; her voice was strained; she stared not at the company
      but at the grotesques scrawled on the backs of wing-pieces by forgotten
      stage-hands. &ldquo;I wonder if you can understand the 'fun' of making a
      beautiful thing, the pride and satisfaction of it, and the holiness!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The company glanced doubtfully at one another. In Gopher Prairie it is not
      good form to be holy except at a church, between ten-thirty and twelve on
      Sunday.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if we want to do it, we've got to work; we must have
      self-discipline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were at once amused and embarrassed. They did not want to affront
      this mad woman. They backed off and tried to rehearse. Carol did not hear
      Juanita, in front, protesting to Maud Dyer, &ldquo;If she calls it fun and
      holiness to sweat over her darned old play&mdash;well, I don't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol attended the only professional play which came to Gopher Prairie
      that spring. It was a &ldquo;tent show, presenting snappy new dramas under
      canvas.&rdquo; The hard-working actors doubled in brass, and took tickets; and
      between acts sang about the moon in June, and sold Dr. Wintergreen's
      Surefire Tonic for Ills of the Heart, Lungs, Kidneys, and Bowels. They
      presented &ldquo;Sunbonnet Nell: A Dramatic Comedy of the Ozarks,&rdquo; with J.
      Witherbee Boothby wringing the soul by his resonant &ldquo;Yuh ain't done right
      by mah little gal, Mr. City Man, but yer a-goin' to find that back in
      these-yere hills there's honest folks and good shots!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The audience, on planks beneath the patched tent, admired Mr. Boothby's
      beard and long rifle; stamped their feet in the dust at the spectacle of
      his heroism; shouted when the comedian aped the City Lady's use of a
      lorgnon by looking through a doughnut stuck on a fork; wept visibly over
      Mr. Boothby's Little Gal Nell, who was also Mr. Boothby's legal wife
      Pearl, and when the curtain went down, listened respectfully to Mr.
      Boothby's lecture on Dr. Wintergreen's Tonic as a cure for tape-worms,
      which he illustrated by horrible pallid objects curled in bottles of
      yellowing alcohol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol shook her head. &ldquo;Juanita is right. I'm a fool. Holiness of the
      drama! Bernard Shaw! The only trouble with 'The Girl from Kankakee' is
      that it's too subtle for Gopher Prairie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sought faith in spacious banal phrases, taken from books: &ldquo;the
      instinctive nobility of simple souls,&rdquo; &ldquo;need only the opportunity, to
      appreciate fine things,&rdquo; and &ldquo;sturdy exponents of democracy.&rdquo; But these
      optimisms did not sound so loud as the laughter of the audience at the
      funny-man's line, &ldquo;Yes, by heckelum, I'm a smart fella.&rdquo; She wanted to
      give up the play, the dramatic association, the town. As she came out of
      the tent and walked with Kennicott down the dusty spring street, she
      peered at this straggling wooden village and felt that she could not
      possibly stay here through all of tomorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Miles Bjornstam who gave her strength&mdash;he and the fact that
      every seat for &ldquo;The Girl from Kankakee&rdquo; had been sold.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bjornstam was &ldquo;keeping company&rdquo; with Bea. Every night he was sitting on
      the back steps. Once when Carol appeared he grumbled, &ldquo;Hope you're going
      to give this burg one good show. If you don't, reckon nobody ever will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the great night; it was the night of the play. The two
      dressing-rooms were swirling with actors, panting, twitchy pale. Del
      Snafflin the barber, who was as much a professional as Ella, having once
      gone on in a mob scene at a stock-company performance in Minneapolis, was
      making them up, and showing his scorn for amateurs with, &ldquo;Stand still! For
      the love o' Mike, how do you expect me to get your eyelids dark if you
      keep a-wigglin'?&rdquo; The actors were beseeching, &ldquo;Hey, Del, put some red in
      my nostrils&mdash;you put some in Rita's&mdash;gee, you didn't hardly do
      anything to my face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were enormously theatric. They examined Del's makeup box, they
      sniffed the scent of grease-paint, every minute they ran out to peep
      through the hole in the curtain, they came back to inspect their wigs and
      costumes, they read on the whitewashed walls of the dressing-rooms the
      pencil inscriptions: &ldquo;The Flora Flanders Comedy Company,&rdquo; and &ldquo;This is a
      bum theater,&rdquo; and felt that they were companions of these vanished
      troupers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol, smart in maid's uniform, coaxed the temporary stage-hands to finish
      setting the first act, wailed at Kennicott, the electrician, &ldquo;Now for
      heaven's sake remember the change in cue for the ambers in Act Two,&rdquo;
       slipped out to ask Dave Dyer, the ticket-taker, if he could get some more
      chairs, warned the frightened Myrtle Cass to be sure to upset the
      waste-basket when John Grimm called, &ldquo;Here you, Reddy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Del Snafflin's orchestra of piano, violin, and cornet began to tune up and
      every one behind the magic line of the proscenic arch was frightened into
      paralysis. Carol wavered to the hole in the curtain. There were so many
      people out there, staring so hard&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      In the second row she saw Miles Bjornstam, not with Bea but alone. He
      really wanted to see the play! It was a good omen. Who could tell? Perhaps
      this evening would convert Gopher Prairie to conscious beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      She darted into the women's dressing-room, roused Maud Dyer from her
      fainting panic, pushed her to the wings, and ordered the curtain up.
    </p>
    <p>
      It rose doubtfully, it staggered and trembled, but it did get up without
      catching&mdash;this time. Then she realized that Kennicott had forgotten
      to turn off the houselights. Some one out front was giggling.
    </p>
    <p>
      She galloped round to the left wing, herself pulled the switch, looked so
      ferociously at Kennicott that he quaked, and fled back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dyer was creeping out on the half-darkened stage. The play was begun.
    </p>
    <p>
      And with that instant Carol realized that it was a bad play abominably
      acted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Encouraging them with lying smiles, she watched her work go to pieces. The
      settings seemed flimsy, the lighting commonplace. She watched Guy Pollock
      stammer and twist his mustache when he should have been a bullying
      magnate; Vida Sherwin, as Grimm's timid wife, chatter at the audience as
      though they were her class in high-school English; Juanita, in the leading
      role, defy Mr. Grimm as though she were repeating a list of things she had
      to buy at the grocery this morning; Ella Stowbody remark &ldquo;I'd like a cup
      of tea&rdquo; as though she were reciting &ldquo;Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight&rdquo;; and
      Dr. Gould, making love to Rita Simons, squeak, &ldquo;My&mdash;my&mdash;you&mdash;are&mdash;a&mdash;won'erful&mdash;girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Myrtle Cass, as the office-boy, was so much pleased by the applause of her
      relatives, then so much agitated by the remarks of Cy Bogart, in the back
      row, in reference to her wearing trousers, that she could hardly be got
      off the stage. Only Raymie was so unsociable as to devote himself entirely
      to acting.
    </p>
    <p>
      That she was right in her opinion of the play Carol was certain when Miles
      Bjornstam went out after the first act, and did not come back.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Between the second and third acts she called the company together, and
      supplicated, &ldquo;I want to know something, before we have a chance to
      separate. Whether we're doing well or badly tonight, it is a beginning.
      But will we take it as merely a beginning? How many of you will pledge
      yourselves to start in with me, right away, tomorrow, and plan for another
      play, to be given in September?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They stared at her; they nodded at Juanita's protest: &ldquo;I think one's
      enough for a while. It's going elegant tonight, but another play&mdash;&mdash;Seems
      to me it'll be time enough to talk about that next fall. Carol! I hope you
      don't mean to hint and suggest we're not doing fine tonight? I'm sure the
      applause shows the audience think it's just dandy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Carol knew how completely she had failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the audience seeped out she heard B. J. Gougerling the banker say to
      Howland the grocer, &ldquo;Well, I think the folks did splendid; just as good as
      professionals. But I don't care much for these plays. What I like is a
      good movie, with auto accidents and hold-ups, and some git to it, and not
      all this talky-talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Carol knew how certain she was to fail again.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wearily did not blame them, company nor audience. Herself she blamed
      for trying to carve intaglios in good wholesome jack-pine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the worst defeat of all. I'm beaten. By Main Street. 'I must go on.'
      But I can't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was not vastly encouraged by the Gopher Prairie Dauntless:
    </p>
    <p>
      . . . would be impossible to distinguish among the actors when all gave
      such fine account of themselves in difficult roles of this well-known New
      York stage play. Guy Pollock as the old millionaire could not have been
      bettered for his fine impersonation of the gruff old millionaire; Mrs.
      Harry Haydock as the young lady from the West who so easily showed the New
      York four-flushers where they got off was a vision of loveliness and with
      fine stage presence. Miss Vida Sherwin the ever popular teacher in our
      high school pleased as Mrs. Grimm, Dr. Gould was well suited in the role
      of young lover&mdash;girls you better look out, remember the doc is a
      bachelor. The local Four Hundred also report that he is a great hand at
      shaking the light fantastic tootsies in the dance. As the stenographer
      Rita Simons was pretty as a picture, and Miss Ella Stowbody's long and
      intensive study of the drama and kindred arts in Eastern schools was seen
      in the fine finish of her part.
    </p>
    <p>
      . . . to no one is greater credit to be given than to Mrs. Will Kennicott
      on whose capable shoulders fell the burden of directing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So kindly,&rdquo; Carol mused, &ldquo;so well meant, so neighborly&mdash;and so
      confoundedly untrue. Is it really my failure, or theirs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sought to be sensible; she elaborately explained to herself that it
      was hysterical to condemn Gopher Prairie because it did not foam over the
      drama. Its justification was in its service as a market-town for farmers.
      How bravely and generously it did its work, forwarding the bread of the
      world, feeding and healing the farmers!
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, on the corner below her husband's office, she heard a farmer holding
      forth:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. Course I was beaten. The shipper and the grocers here wouldn't pay
      us a decent price for our potatoes, even though folks in the cities were
      howling for 'em. So we says, well, we'll get a truck and ship 'em right
      down to Minneapolis. But the commission merchants there were in cahoots
      with the local shipper here; they said they wouldn't pay us a cent more
      than he would, not even if they was nearer to the market. Well, we found
      we could get higher prices in Chicago, but when we tried to get freight
      cars to ship there, the railroads wouldn't let us have 'em&mdash;even
      though they had cars standing empty right here in the yards. There you got
      it&mdash;good market, and these towns keeping us from it. Gus, that's the
      way these towns work all the time. They pay what they want to for our
      wheat, but we pay what they want us to for their clothes. Stowbody and
      Dawson foreclose every mortgage they can, and put in tenant farmers. The
      Dauntless lies to us about the Nonpartisan League, the lawyers sting us,
      the machinery-dealers hate to carry us over bad years, and then their
      daughters put on swell dresses and look at us as if we were a bunch of
      hoboes. Man, I'd like to burn this town!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott observed, &ldquo;There's that old crank Wes Brannigan shooting off his
      mouth again. Gosh, but he loves to hear himself talk! They ought to run
      that fellow out of town!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt old and detached through high-school commencement week, which is
      the fete of youth in Gopher Prairie; through baccalaureate sermon, senior
      Parade, junior entertainment, commencement address by an Iowa clergyman
      who asserted that he believed in the virtue of virtuousness, and the
      procession of Decoration Day, when the few Civil War veterans followed
      Champ Perry, in his rusty forage-cap, along the spring-powdered road to
      the cemetery. She met Guy; she found that she had nothing to say to him.
      Her head ached in an aimless way. When Kennicott rejoiced, &ldquo;We'll have a
      great time this summer; move down to the lake early and wear old clothes
      and act natural,&rdquo; she smiled, but her smile creaked.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the prairie heat she trudged along unchanging ways, talked about
      nothing to tepid people, and reflected that she might never escape from
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was startled to find that she was using the word &ldquo;escape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, for three years which passed like one curt paragraph, she ceased to
      find anything interesting save the Bjornstams and her baby.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      IN three years of exile from herself Carol had certain experiences
      chronicled as important by the Dauntless, or discussed by the Jolly
      Seventeen, but the event unchronicled, undiscussed, and supremely
      controlling, was her slow admission of longing to find her own people.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea and Miles Bjornstam were married in June, a month after &ldquo;The Girl from
      Kankakee.&rdquo; Miles had turned respectable. He had renounced his criticisms
      of state and society; he had given up roving as horse-trader, and wearing
      red mackinaws in lumber-camps; he had gone to work as engineer in Jackson
      Elder's planing-mill; he was to be seen upon the streets endeavoring to be
      neighborly with suspicious men whom he had taunted for years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was the patroness and manager of the wedding. Juanita Haydock
      mocked, &ldquo;You're a chump to let a good hired girl like Bea go. Besides! How
      do you know it's a good thing, her marrying a sassy bum like this awful
      Red Swede person? Get wise! Chase the man off with a mop, and hold onto
      your Svenska while the holding's good. Huh? Me go to their Scandahoofian
      wedding? Not a chance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other matrons echoed Juanita. Carol was dismayed by the casualness of
      their cruelty, but she persisted. Miles had exclaimed to her, &ldquo;Jack Elder
      says maybe he'll come to the wedding! Gee, it would be nice to have Bea
      meet the Boss as a reg'lar married lady. Some day I'll be so well off that
      Bea can play with Mrs. Elder&mdash;and you! Watch us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was an uneasy knot of only nine guests at the service in the
      unpainted Lutheran Church&mdash;Carol, Kennicott, Guy Pollock, and the
      Champ Perrys, all brought by Carol; Bea's frightened rustic parents, her
      cousin Tina, and Pete, Miles's ex-partner in horse-trading, a surly, hairy
      man who had bought a black suit and come twelve hundred miles from Spokane
      for the event.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles continuously glanced back at the church door. Jackson Elder did not
      appear. The door did not once open after the awkward entrance of the first
      guests. Miles's hand closed on Bea's arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had, with Carol's help, made his shanty over into a cottage with white
      curtains and a canary and a chintz chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol coaxed the powerful matrons to call on Bea. They half scoffed, half
      promised to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea's successor was the oldish, broad, silent Oscarina, who was suspicious
      of her frivolous mistress for a month, so that Juanita Haydock was able to
      crow, &ldquo;There, smarty, I told you you'd run into the Domestic Problem!&rdquo; But
      Oscarina adopted Carol as a daughter, and with her as faithful to the
      kitchen as Bea had been, there was nothing changed in Carol's life.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She was unexpectedly appointed to the town library-board by Ole Jenson,
      the new mayor. The other members were Dr. Westlake, Lyman Cass, Julius
      Flickerbaugh the attorney, Guy Pollock, and Martin Mahoney, former
      livery-stable keeper and now owner of a garage. She was delighted. She
      went to the first meeting rather condescendingly, regarding herself as the
      only one besides Guy who knew anything about books or library methods. She
      was planning to revolutionize the whole system.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her condescension was ruined and her humility wholesomely increased when
      she found the board, in the shabby room on the second floor of the house
      which had been converted into the library, not discussing the weather and
      longing to play checkers, but talking about books. She discovered that
      amiable old Dr. Westlake read everything in verse and &ldquo;light fiction&rdquo;;
      that Lyman Cass, the veal-faced, bristly-bearded owner of the mill, had
      tramped through Gibbon, Hume, Grote, Prescott, and the other thick
      historians; that he could repeat pages from them&mdash;and did. When Dr.
      Westlake whispered to her, &ldquo;Yes, Lym is a very well-informed man, but he's
      modest about it,&rdquo; she felt uninformed and immodest, and scolded at herself
      that she had missed the human potentialities in this vast Gopher Prairie.
      When Dr. Westlake quoted the &ldquo;Paradiso,&rdquo; &ldquo;Don Quixote,&rdquo; &ldquo;Wilhelm Meister,&rdquo;
       and the Koran, she reflected that no one she knew, not even her father,
      had read all four.
    </p>
    <p>
      She came diffidently to the second meeting of the board. She did not plan
      to revolutionize anything. She hoped that the wise elders might be so
      tolerant as to listen to her suggestions about changing the shelving of
      the juveniles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet after four sessions of the library-board she was where she had been
      before the first session. She had found that for all their pride in being
      reading men, Westlake and Cass and even Guy had no conception of making
      the library familiar to the whole town. They used it, they passed
      resolutions about it, and they left it as dead as Moses. Only the Henty
      books and the Elsie books and the latest optimisms by moral female
      novelists and virile clergymen were in general demand, and the board
      themselves were interested only in old, stilted volumes. They had no
      tenderness for the noisiness of youth discovering great literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      If she was egotistic about her tiny learning, they were at least as much
      so regarding theirs. And for all their talk of the need of additional
      library-tax none of them was willing to risk censure by battling for it,
      though they now had so small a fund that, after paying for rent, heat,
      light, and Miss Villets's salary, they had only a hundred dollars a year
      for the purchase of books.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Incident of the Seventeen Cents killed her none too enduring interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had come to the board-meeting singing with a plan. She had made a list
      of thirty European novels of the past ten years, with twenty important
      books on psychology, education, and economics which the library lacked.
      She had made Kennicott promise to give fifteen dollars. If each of the
      board would contribute the same, they could have the books.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lym Cass looked alarmed, scratched himself, and protested, &ldquo;I think it
      would be a bad precedent for the board-members to contribute money&mdash;uh&mdash;not
      that I mind, but it wouldn't be fair&mdash;establish precedent. Gracious!
      They don't pay us a cent for our services! Certainly can't expect us to
      pay for the privilege of serving!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Only Guy looked sympathetic, and he stroked the pine table and said
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the meeting they gave to a bellicose investigation of the fact
      that there was seventeen cents less than there should be in the Fund. Miss
      Villets was summoned; she spent half an hour in explosively defending
      herself; the seventeen cents were gnawed over, penny by penny; and Carol,
      glancing at the carefully inscribed list which had been so lovely and
      exciting an hour before, was silent, and sorry for Miss Villets, and
      sorrier for herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was reasonably regular in attendance till her two years were up and
      Vida Sherwin was appointed to the board in her place, but she did not try
      to be revolutionary. In the plodding course of her life there was nothing
      changed, and nothing new.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott made an excellent land-deal, but as he told her none of the
      details, she was not greatly exalted or agitated. What did agitate her was
      his announcement, half whispered and half blurted, half tender and half
      coldly medical, that they &ldquo;ought to have a baby, now they could afford
      it.&rdquo; They had so long agreed that &ldquo;perhaps it would be just as well not to
      have any children for a while yet,&rdquo; that childlessness had come to be
      natural. Now, she feared and longed and did not know; she hesitatingly
      assented, and wished that she had not assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      As there appeared no change in their drowsy relations, she forgot all
      about it, and life was planless.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Idling on the porch of their summer cottage at the lake, on afternoons
      when Kennicott was in town, when the water was glazed and the whole air
      languid, she pictured a hundred escapes: Fifth Avenue in a snow-storm,
      with limousines, golden shops, a cathedral spire. A reed hut on fantastic
      piles above the mud of a jungle river. A suite in Paris, immense high
      grave rooms, with lambrequins and a balcony. The Enchanted Mesa. An
      ancient stone mill in Maryland, at the turn of the road, between rocky
      brook and abrupt hills. An upland moor of sheep and flitting cool
      sunlight. A clanging dock where steel cranes unloaded steamers from Buenos
      Ayres and Tsing-tao. A Munich concert-hall, and a famous 'cellist playing&mdash;playing
      to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      One scene had a persistent witchery:
    </p>
    <p>
      She stood on a terrace overlooking a boulevard by the warm sea. She was
      certain, though she had no reason for it, that the place was Mentone.
      Along the drive below her swept barouches, with a mechanical tlot-tlot,
      tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, and great cars with polished black hoods and engines
      quiet as the sigh of an old man. In them were women erect, slender,
      enameled, and expressionless as marionettes, their small hands upon
      parasols, their unchanging eyes always forward, ignoring the men beside
      them, tall men with gray hair and distinguished faces. Beyond the drive
      were painted sea and painted sands, and blue and yellow pavilions. Nothing
      moved except the gliding carriages, and the people were small and wooden,
      spots in a picture drenched with gold and hard bright blues. There was no
      sound of sea or winds; no softness of whispers nor of falling petals;
      nothing but yellow and cobalt and staring light, and the never-changing
      tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She startled. She whimpered. It was the rapid ticking of the clock which
      had hypnotized her into hearing the steady hoofs. No aching color of the
      sea and pride of supercilious people, but the reality of a round-bellied
      nickel alarm-clock on a shelf against a fuzzy unplaned pine wall, with a
      stiff gray wash-rag hanging above it and a kerosene-stove standing below.
    </p>
    <p>
      A thousand dreams governed by the fiction she had read, drawn from the
      pictures she had envied, absorbed her drowsy lake afternoons, but always
      in the midst of them Kennicott came out from town, drew on khaki trousers
      which were plastered with dry fish-scales, asked, &ldquo;Enjoying yourself?&rdquo; and
      did not listen to her answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      And nothing was changed, and there was no reason to believe that there
      ever would be change.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Trains!
    </p>
    <p>
      At the lake cottage she missed the passing of the trains. She realized
      that in town she had depended upon them for assurance that there remained
      a world beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      The railroad was more than a means of transportation to Gopher Prairie. It
      was a new god; a monster of steel limbs, oak ribs, flesh of gravel, and a
      stupendous hunger for freight; a deity created by man that he might keep
      himself respectful to Property, as elsewhere he had elevated and served as
      tribal gods the mines, cotton-mills, motor-factories, colleges, army.
    </p>
    <p>
      The East remembered generations when there had been no railroad, and had
      no awe of it; but here the railroads had been before time was. The towns
      had been staked out on barren prairie as convenient points for future
      train-halts; and back in 1860 and 1870 there had been much profit, much
      opportunity to found aristocratic families, in the possession of advance
      knowledge as to where the towns would arise.
    </p>
    <p>
      If a town was in disfavor, the railroad could ignore it, cut it off from
      commerce, slay it. To Gopher Prairie the tracks were eternal verities, and
      boards of railroad directors an omnipotence. The smallest boy or the most
      secluded grandam could tell you whether No. 32 had a hot-box last Tuesday,
      whether No. 7 was going to put on an extra day-coach; and the name of the
      president of the road was familiar to every breakfast table.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even in this new era of motors the citizens went down to the station to
      see the trains go through. It was their romance; their only mystery
      besides mass at the Catholic Church; and from the trains came lords of the
      outer world&mdash;traveling salesmen with piping on their waistcoats, and
      visiting cousins from Milwaukee.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gopher Prairie had once been a &ldquo;division-point.&rdquo; The roundhouse and
      repair-shops were gone, but two conductors still retained residence, and
      they were persons of distinction, men who traveled and talked to
      strangers, who wore uniforms with brass buttons, and knew all about these
      crooked games of con-men. They were a special caste, neither above nor
      below the Haydocks, but apart, artists and adventurers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night telegraph-operator at the railroad station was the most
      melodramatic figure in town: awake at three in the morning, alone in a
      room hectic with clatter of the telegraph key. All night he &ldquo;talked&rdquo; to
      operators twenty, fifty, a hundred miles away. It was always to be
      expected that he would be held up by robbers. He never was, but round him
      was a suggestion of masked faces at the window, revolvers, cords binding
      him to a chair, his struggle to crawl to the key before he fainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      During blizzards everything about the railroad was melodramatic. There
      were days when the town was completely shut off, when they had no mail, no
      express, no fresh meat, no newspapers. At last the rotary snow-plow came
      through, bucking the drifts, sending up a geyser, and the way to the
      Outside was open again. The brakemen, in mufflers and fur caps, running
      along the tops of ice-coated freight-cars; the engineers scratching frost
      from the cab windows and looking out, inscrutable, self-contained, pilots
      of the prairie sea&mdash;they were heroism, they were to Carol the daring
      of the quest in a world of groceries and sermons.
    </p>
    <p>
      To the small boys the railroad was a familiar playground. They climbed the
      iron ladders on the sides of the box-cars; built fires behind piles of old
      ties; waved to favorite brakemen. But to Carol it was magic.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was motoring with Kennicott, the car lumping through darkness, the
      lights showing mud-puddles and ragged weeds by the road. A train coming! A
      rapid chuck-a-chuck, chuck-a-chuck, chuck-a-chuck. It was hurling past&mdash;the
      Pacific Flyer, an arrow of golden flame. Light from the fire-box splashed
      the under side of the trailing smoke. Instantly the vision was gone; Carol
      was back in the long darkness; and Kennicott was giving his version of
      that fire and wonder: &ldquo;No. 19. Must be 'bout ten minutes late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In town, she listened from bed to the express whistling in the cut a mile
      north. Uuuuuuu!&mdash;faint, nervous, distrait, horn of the free night
      riders journeying to the tall towns where were laughter and banners and
      the sound of bells&mdash;Uuuuu! Uuuuu!&mdash;the world going by&mdash;Uuuuuuu!&mdash;fainter,
      more wistful, gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down here there were no trains. The stillness was very great. The prairie
      encircled the lake, lay round her, raw, dusty, thick. Only the train could
      cut it. Some day she would take a train; and that would be a great taking.
    </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned to the Chautauqua as she had turned to the dramatic
      association, to the library-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides the permanent Mother Chautauqua, in New York, there are, all over
      these States, commercial Chautauqua companies which send out to every
      smallest town troupes of lecturers and &ldquo;entertainers&rdquo; to give a week of
      culture under canvas. Living in Minneapolis, Carol had never encountered
      the ambulant Chautauqua, and the announcement of its coming to Gopher
      Prairie gave her hope that others might be doing the vague things which
      she had attempted. She pictured a condensed university course brought to
      the people. Mornings when she came in from the lake with Kennicott she saw
      placards in every shop-window, and strung on a cord across Main Street, a
      line of pennants alternately worded &ldquo;The Boland Chautauqua COMING!&rdquo; and &ldquo;A
      solid week of inspiration and enjoyment!&rdquo; But she was disappointed when
      she saw the program. It did not seem to be a tabloid university; it did
      not seem to be any kind of a university; it seemed to be a combination of
      vaudeville performance Y. M. C. A. lecture, and the graduation exercises
      of an elocution class.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took her doubt to Kennicott. He insisted, &ldquo;Well, maybe it won't be so
      awful darn intellectual, the way you and I might like it, but it's a whole
      lot better than nothing.&rdquo; Vida Sherwin added, &ldquo;They have some splendid
      speakers. If the people don't carry off so much actual information, they
      do get a lot of new ideas, and that's what counts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During the Chautauqua Carol attended three evening meetings, two afternoon
      meetings, and one in the morning. She was impressed by the audience: the
      sallow women in skirts and blouses, eager to be made to think, the men in
      vests and shirt-sleeves, eager to be allowed to laugh, and the wriggling
      children, eager to sneak away. She liked the plain benches, the portable
      stage under its red marquee, the great tent over all, shadowy above
      strings of incandescent bulbs at night and by day casting an amber
      radiance on the patient crowd. The scent of dust and trampled grass and
      sun-baked wood gave her an illusion of Syrian caravans; she forgot the
      speakers while she listened to noises outside the tent: two farmers
      talking hoarsely, a wagon creaking down Main Street, the crow of a
      rooster. She was content. But it was the contentment of the lost hunter
      stopping to rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      For from the Chautauqua itself she got nothing but wind and chaff and
      heavy laughter, the laughter of yokels at old jokes, a mirthless and
      primitive sound like the cries of beasts on a farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the several instructors in the condensed university's seven-day
      course:
    </p>
    <p>
      Nine lecturers, four of them ex-ministers, and one an ex-congressman, all
      of them delivering &ldquo;inspirational addresses.&rdquo; The only facts or opinions
      which Carol derived from them were: Lincoln was a celebrated president of
      the United States, but in his youth extremely poor. James J. Hill was the
      best-known railroad-man of the West, and in his youth extremely poor.
      Honesty and courtesy in business are preferable to boorishness and exposed
      trickery, but this is not to be taken personally, since all persons in
      Gopher Prairie are known to be honest and courteous. London is a large
      city. A distinguished statesman once taught Sunday School.
    </p>
    <p>
      Four &ldquo;entertainers&rdquo; who told Jewish stories, Irish stories, German
      stories, Chinese stories, and Tennessee mountaineer stories, most of which
      Carol had heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      A &ldquo;lady elocutionist&rdquo; who recited Kipling and imitated children.
    </p>
    <p>
      A lecturer with motion-pictures of an Andean exploration; excellent
      pictures and a halting narrative.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three brass-bands, a company of six opera-singers, a Hawaiian sextette,
      and four youths who played saxophones and guitars disguised as
      wash-boards. The most applauded pieces were those, such as the &ldquo;Lucia&rdquo;
       inevitability, which the audience had heard most often.
    </p>
    <p>
      The local superintendent, who remained through the week while the other
      enlighteners went to other Chautauquas for their daily performances. The
      superintendent was a bookish, underfed man who worked hard at rousing
      artificial enthusiasm, at trying to make the audience cheer by dividing
      them into competitive squads and telling them that they were intelligent
      and made splendid communal noises. He gave most of the morning lectures,
      droning with equal unhappy facility about poetry, the Holy Land, and the
      injustice to employers in any system of profit-sharing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The final item was a man who neither lectured, inspired, nor entertained;
      a plain little man with his hands in his pockets. All the other speakers
      had confessed, &ldquo;I cannot keep from telling the citizens of your beautiful
      city that none of the talent on this circuit have found a more charming
      spot or more enterprising and hospitable people.&rdquo; But the little man
      suggested that the architecture of Gopher Prairie was haphazard, and that
      it was sottish to let the lake-front be monopolized by the cinder-heaped
      wall of the railroad embankment. Afterward the audience grumbled, &ldquo;Maybe
      that guy's got the right dope, but what's the use of looking on the dark
      side of things all the time? New ideas are first-rate, but not all this
      criticism. Enough trouble in life without looking for it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus the Chautauqua, as Carol saw it. After it, the town felt proud and
      educated.
    </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      Two weeks later the Great War smote Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a month Gopher Prairie had the delight of shuddering, then, as the war
      settled down to a business of trench-fighting, they forgot.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Carol talked about the Balkans, and the possibility of a German
      revolution, Kennicott yawned, &ldquo;Oh yes, it's a great old scrap, but it's
      none of our business. Folks out here are too busy growing corn to monkey
      with any fool war that those foreigners want to get themselves into.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Miles Bjornstam who said, &ldquo;I can't figure it out. I'm opposed to
      wars, but still, seems like Germany has got to be licked because them
      Junkers stands in the way of progress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was calling on Miles and Bea, early in autumn. They had received her
      with cries, with dusting of chairs, and a running to fetch water for
      coffee. Miles stood and beamed at her. He fell often and joyously into his
      old irreverence about the lords of Gopher Prairie, but always&mdash;with a
      certain difficulty&mdash;he added something decorous and appreciative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lots of people have come to see you, haven't they?&rdquo; Carol hinted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Bea's cousin Tina comes in right along, and the foreman at the mill,
      and&mdash;&mdash;Oh, we have good times. Say, take a look at that Bea!
      Wouldn't you think she was a canary-bird, to listen to her, and to see
      that Scandahoofian tow-head of hers? But say, know what she is? She's a
      mother hen! Way she fusses over me&mdash;way she makes old Miles wear a
      necktie! Hate to spoil her by letting her hear it, but she's one pretty
      darn nice&mdash;nice&mdash;&mdash;Hell! What do we care if none of the
      dirty snobs come and call? We've got each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol worried about their struggle, but she forgot it in the stress of
      sickness and fear. For that autumn she knew that a baby was coming, that
      at last life promised to be interesting in the peril of the great change.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      THE baby was coming. Each morning she was nauseated, chilly, bedraggled,
      and certain that she would never again be attractive; each twilight she
      was afraid. She did not feel exalted, but unkempt and furious. The period
      of daily sickness crawled into an endless time of boredom. It became
      difficult for her to move about, and she raged that she, who had been slim
      and light-footed, should have to lean on a stick, and be heartily
      commented upon by street gossips. She was encircled by greasy eyes. Every
      matron hinted, &ldquo;Now that you're going to be a mother, dearie, you'll get
      over all these ideas of yours and settle down.&rdquo; She felt that willy-nilly
      she was being initiated into the assembly of housekeepers; with the baby
      for hostage, she would never escape; presently she would be drinking
      coffee and rocking and talking about diapers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could stand fighting them. I'm used to that. But this being taken in,
      being taken as a matter of course, I can't stand it&mdash;and I must stand
      it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She alternately detested herself for not appreciating the kindly women,
      and detested them for their advice: lugubrious hints as to how much she
      would suffer in labor, details of baby-hygiene based on long experience
      and total misunderstanding, superstitious cautions about the things she
      must eat and read and look at in prenatal care for the baby's soul, and
      always a pest of simpering baby-talk. Mrs. Champ Perry bustled in to lend
      &ldquo;Ben Hur,&rdquo; as a preventive of future infant immorality. The Widow Bogart
      appeared trailing pinkish exclamations, &ldquo;And how is our lovely 'ittle
      muzzy today! My, ain't it just like they always say: being in a Family Way
      does make the girlie so lovely, just like a Madonna. Tell me&mdash;&rdquo; Her
      whisper was tinged with salaciousness&mdash;&ldquo;does oo feel the dear itsy
      one stirring, the pledge of love? I remember with Cy, of course he was so
      big&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not look lovely, Mrs. Bogart. My complexion is rotten, and my hair
      is coming out, and I look like a potato-bag, and I think my arches are
      falling, and he isn't a pledge of love, and I'm afraid he WILL look like
      us, and I don't believe in mother-devotion, and the whole business is a
      confounded nuisance of a biological process,&rdquo; remarked Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the baby was born, without unusual difficulty: a boy with straight
      back and strong legs. The first day she hated him for the tides of pain
      and hopeless fear he had caused; she resented his raw ugliness. After that
      she loved him with all the devotion and instinct at which she had scoffed.
      She marveled at the perfection of the miniature hands as noisily as did
      Kennicott, she was overwhelmed by the trust with which the baby turned to
      her; passion for him grew with each unpoetic irritating thing she had to
      do for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was named Hugh, for her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hugh developed into a thin healthy child with a large head and straight
      delicate hair of a faint brown. He was thoughtful and casual&mdash;a
      Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two years nothing else existed. She did not, as the cynical matrons
      had prophesied, &ldquo;give up worrying about the world and other folks' babies
      soon as she got one of her own to fight for.&rdquo; The barbarity of that
      willingness to sacrifice other children so that one child might have too
      much was impossible to her. But she would sacrifice herself. She
      understood consecration&mdash;she who answered Kennicott's hints about
      having Hugh christened: &ldquo;I refuse to insult my baby and myself by asking
      an ignorant young man in a frock coat to sanction him, to permit me to
      have him! I refuse to subject him to any devil-chasing rites! If I didn't
      give my baby&mdash;MY BABY&mdash;enough sanctification in those nine hours
      of hell, then he can't get any more out of the Reverend Mr. Zitterel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Baptists hardly ever christen kids. I was kind of thinking more
      about Reverend Warren,&rdquo; said Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hugh was her reason for living, promise of accomplishment in the future,
      shrine of adoration&mdash;and a diverting toy. &ldquo;I thought I'd be a
      dilettante mother, but I'm as dismayingly natural as Mrs. Bogart,&rdquo; she
      boasted.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two&mdash;years Carol was a part of the town; as much one of Our Young
      Mothers as Mrs. McGanum. Her opinionation seemed dead; she had no apparent
      desire for escape; her brooding centered on Hugh. While she wondered at
      the pearl texture of his ear she exulted, &ldquo;I feel like an old woman, with
      a skin like sandpaper, beside him, and I'm glad of it! He is perfect. He
      shall have everything. He sha'n't always stay here in Gopher Prairie. . .
      . I wonder which is really the best, Harvard or Yale or Oxford?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      The people who hemmed her in had been brilliantly reinforced by Mr. and
      Mrs. Whittier N. Smail&mdash;Kennicott's Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie.
    </p>
    <p>
      The true Main Streetite defines a relative as a person to whose house you
      go uninvited, to stay as long as you like. If you hear that Lym Cass on
      his journey East has spent all his time &ldquo;visiting&rdquo; in Oyster Center, it
      does not mean that he prefers that village to the rest of New England, but
      that he has relatives there. It does not mean that he has written to the
      relatives these many years, nor that they have ever given signs of a
      desire to look upon him. But &ldquo;you wouldn't expect a man to go and spend
      good money at a hotel in Boston, when his own third cousins live right in
      the same state, would you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the Smails sold their creamery in North Dakota they visited Mr.
      Smail's sister, Kennicott's mother, at Lac-qui-Meurt, then plodded on to
      Gopher Prairie to stay with their nephew. They appeared unannounced,
      before the baby was born, took their welcome for granted, and immediately
      began to complain of the fact that their room faced north.
    </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie assumed that it was their privilege as
      relatives to laugh at Carol, and their duty as Christians to let her know
      how absurd her &ldquo;notions&rdquo; were. They objected to the food, to Oscarina's
      lack of friendliness, to the wind, the rain, and the immodesty of Carol's
      maternity gowns. They were strong and enduring; for an hour at a time they
      could go on heaving questions about her father's income, about her
      theology, and about the reason why she had not put on her rubbers when she
      had gone across the street. For fussy discussion they had a rich, full
      genius, and their example developed in Kennicott a tendency to the same
      form of affectionate flaying.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Carol was so indiscreet as to murmur that she had a small headache,
      instantly the two Smails and Kennicott were at it. Every five minutes,
      every time she sat down or rose or spoke to Oscarina, they twanged, &ldquo;Is
      your head better now? Where does it hurt? Don't you keep hartshorn in the
      house? Didn't you walk too far today? Have you tried hartshorn? Don't you
      keep some in the house so it will be handy? Does it feel better now? How
      does it feel? Do your eyes hurt, too? What time do you usually get to bed?
      As late as THAT? Well! How does it feel now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In her presence Uncle Whittier snorted at Kennicott, &ldquo;Carol get these
      headaches often? Huh? Be better for her if she didn't go gadding around to
      all these bridge-whist parties, and took some care of herself once in a
      while!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They kept it up, commenting, questioning, commenting, questioning, till
      her determination broke and she bleated, &ldquo;For heaven's SAKE, don't
      dis-CUSS it! My head 's all RIGHT!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She listened to the Smails and Kennicott trying to determine by dialectics
      whether the copy of the Dauntless, which Aunt Bessie wanted to send to her
      sister in Alberta, ought to have two or four cents postage on it. Carol
      would have taken it to the drug store and weighed it, but then she was a
      dreamer, while they were practical people (as they frequently admitted).
      So they sought to evolve the postal rate from their inner consciousnesses,
      which, combined with entire frankness in thinking aloud, was their method
      of settling all problems.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Smails did not &ldquo;believe in all this nonsense&rdquo; about privacy and
      reticence. When Carol left a letter from her sister on the table, she was
      astounded to hear from Uncle Whittier, &ldquo;I see your sister says her husband
      is doing fine. You ought to go see her oftener. I asked Will and he says
      you don't go see her very often. My! You ought to go see her oftener!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Carol was writing a letter to a classmate, or planning the week's
      menus, she could be certain that Aunt Bessie would pop in and titter, &ldquo;Now
      don't let me disturb you, I just wanted to see where you were, don't stop,
      I'm not going to stay only a second. I just wondered if you could possibly
      have thought that I didn't eat the onions this noon because I didn't think
      they were properly cooked, but that wasn't the reason at all, it wasn't
      because I didn't think they were well cooked, I'm sure that everything in
      your house is always very dainty and nice, though I do think that Oscarina
      is careless about some things, she doesn't appreciate the big wages you
      pay her, and she is so cranky, all these Swedes are so cranky, I don't
      really see why you have a Swede, but&mdash;&mdash;But that wasn't it, I
      didn't eat them not because I didn't think they weren't cooked proper, it
      was just&mdash;I find that onions don't agree with me, it's very strange,
      ever since I had an attack of biliousness one time, I have found that
      onions, either fried onions or raw ones, and Whittier does love raw onions
      with vinegar and sugar on them&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was pure affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was discovering that the one thing that can be more disconcerting
      than intelligent hatred is demanding love.
    </p>
    <p>
      She supposed that she was being gracefully dull and standardized in the
      Smails' presence, but they scented the heretic, and with forward-stooping
      delight they sat and tried to drag out her ludicrous concepts for their
      amusement. They were like the Sunday-afternoon mob starting at monkeys in
      the Zoo, poking fingers and making faces and giggling at the resentment of
      the more dignified race.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a loose-lipped, superior, village smile Uncle Whittier hinted,
      &ldquo;What's this I hear about your thinking Gopher Prairie ought to be all
      tore down and rebuilt, Carrie? I don't know where folks get these
      new-fangled ideas. Lots of farmers in Dakota getting 'em these days. About
      co-operation. Think they can run stores better 'n storekeepers! Huh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whit and I didn't need no co-operation as long as we was farming!&rdquo;
       triumphed Aunt Bessie. &ldquo;Carrie, tell your old auntie now: don't you ever
      go to church on Sunday? You do go sometimes? But you ought to go every
      Sunday! When you're as old as I am, you'll learn that no matter how smart
      folks think they are, God knows a whole lot more than they do, and then
      you'll realize and be glad to go and listen to your pastor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the manner of one who has just beheld a two-headed calf they repeated
      that they had &ldquo;never HEARD such funny ideas!&rdquo; They were staggered to learn
      that a real tangible person, living in Minnesota, and married to their own
      flesh-and-blood relation, could apparently believe that divorce may not
      always be immoral; that illegitimate children do not bear any special and
      guaranteed form of curse; that there are ethical authorities outside of
      the Hebrew Bible; that men have drunk wine yet not died in the gutter;
      that the capitalistic system of distribution and the Baptist
      wedding-ceremony were not known in the Garden of Eden; that mushrooms are
      as edible as corn-beef hash; that the word &ldquo;dude&rdquo; is no longer frequently
      used; that there are Ministers of the Gospel who accept evolution; that
      some persons of apparent intelligence and business ability do not always
      vote the Republican ticket straight; that it is not a universal custom to
      wear scratchy flannels next the skin in winter; that a violin is not
      inherently more immoral than a chapel organ; that some poets do not have
      long hair; and that Jews are not always pedlers or pants-makers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where does she get all them the'ries?&rdquo; marveled Uncle Whittier Smail;
      while Aunt Bessie inquired, &ldquo;Do you suppose there's many folks got notions
      like hers? My! If there are,&rdquo; and her tone settled the fact that there
      were not, &ldquo;I just don't know what the world's coming to!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Patiently&mdash;more or less&mdash;Carol awaited the exquisite day when
      they would announce departure. After three weeks Uncle Whittier remarked,
      &ldquo;We kinda like Gopher Prairie. Guess maybe we'll stay here. We'd been
      wondering what we'd do, now we've sold the creamery and my farms. So I had
      a talk with Ole Jenson about his grocery, and I guess I'll buy him out and
      storekeep for a while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol rebelled. Kennicott soothed her: &ldquo;Oh, we won't see much of them.
      They'll have their own house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She resolved to be so chilly that they would stay away. But she had no
      talent for conscious insolence. They found a house, but Carol was never
      safe from their appearance with a hearty, &ldquo;Thought we'd drop in this
      evening and keep you from being lonely. Why, you ain't had them curtains
      washed yet!&rdquo; Invariably, whenever she was touched by the realization that
      it was they who were lonely, they wrecked her pitying affection by
      comments&mdash;questions&mdash;comments&mdash;advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      They immediately became friendly with all of their own race, with the Luke
      Dawsons, the Deacon Piersons, and Mrs. Bogart; and brought them along in
      the evening. Aunt Bessie was a bridge over whom the older women, bearing
      gifts of counsel and the ignorance of experience, poured into Carol's
      island of reserve. Aunt Bessie urged the good Widow Bogart, &ldquo;Drop in and
      see Carrie real often. Young folks today don't understand housekeeping
      like we do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart showed herself perfectly willing to be an associate relative.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was thinking up protective insults when Kennicott's mother came down
      to stay with Brother Whittier for two months. Carol was fond of Mrs.
      Kennicott. She could not carry out her insults.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt trapped.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had been kidnaped by the town. She was Aunt Bessie's niece, and she
      was to be a mother. She was expected, she almost expected herself, to sit
      forever talking of babies, cooks, embroidery stitches, the price of
      potatoes, and the tastes of husbands in the matter of spinach.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found a refuge in the Jolly Seventeen. She suddenly understood that
      they could be depended upon to laugh with her at Mrs. Bogart, and she now
      saw Juanita Haydock's gossip not as vulgarity but as gaiety and remarkable
      analysis.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her life had changed, even before Hugh appeared. She looked forward to the
      next bridge of the Jolly Seventeen, and the security of whispering with
      her dear friends Maud Dyer and Juanita and Mrs. McGanum.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was part of the town. Its philosophy and its feuds dominated her.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She was no longer irritated by the cooing of the matrons, nor by their
      opinion that diet didn't matter so long as the Little Ones had plenty of
      lace and moist kisses, but she concluded that in the care of babies as in
      politics, intelligence was superior to quotations about pansies. She liked
      best to talk about Hugh to Kennicott, Vida, and the Bjornstams. She was
      happily domestic when Kennicott sat by her on the floor, to watch baby
      make faces. She was delighted when Miles, speaking as one man to another,
      admonished Hugh, &ldquo;I wouldn't stand them skirts if I was you. Come on. Join
      the union and strike. Make 'em give you pants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As a parent, Kennicott was moved to establish the first child-welfare week
      held in Gopher Prairie. Carol helped him weigh babies and examine their
      throats, and she wrote out the diets for mute German and Scandinavian
      mothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The aristocracy of Gopher Prairie, even the wives of the rival doctors,
      took part, and for several days there was community spirit and much
      uplift. But this reign of love was overthrown when the prize for Best Baby
      was awarded not to decent parents but to Bea and Miles Bjornstam! The good
      matrons glared at Olaf Bjornstam, with his blue eyes, his honey-colored
      hair, and magnificent back, and they remarked, &ldquo;Well, Mrs. Kennicott,
      maybe that Swede brat is as healthy as your husband says he is, but let me
      tell you I hate to think of the future that awaits any boy with a hired
      girl for a mother and an awful irreligious socialist for a pa!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raged, but so violent was the current of their respectability, so
      persistent was Aunt Bessie in running to her with their blabber, that she
      was embarrassed when she took Hugh to play with Olaf. She hated herself
      for it, but she hoped that no one saw her go into the Bjornstam shanty.
      She hated herself and the town's indifferent cruelty when she saw Bea's
      radiant devotion to both babies alike; when she saw Miles staring at them
      wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had saved money, had quit Elder's planing-mill and started a dairy on a
      vacant lot near his shack. He was proud of his three cows and sixty
      chickens, and got up nights to nurse them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll be a big farmer before you can bat an eye! I tell you that young
      fellow Olaf is going to go East to college along with the Haydock kids. Uh&mdash;&mdash;Lots
      of folks dropping in to chin with Bea and me now. Say! Ma Bogart come in
      one day! She was&mdash;&mdash;I liked the old lady fine. And the mill
      foreman comes in right along. Oh, we got lots of friends. You bet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Though the town seemed to Carol to change no more than the surrounding
      fields, there was a constant shifting, these three years. The citizen of
      the prairie drifts always westward. It may be because he is the heir of
      ancient migrations&mdash;and it may be because he finds within his own
      spirit so little adventure that he is driven to seek it by changing his
      horizon. The towns remain unvaried, yet the individual faces alter like
      classes in college. The Gopher Prairie jeweler sells out, for no
      discernible reason, and moves on to Alberta or the state of Washington, to
      open a shop precisely like his former one, in a town precisely like the
      one he has left. There is, except among professional men and the wealthy,
      small permanence either of residence or occupation. A man becomes farmer,
      grocer, town policeman, garageman, restaurant-owner, postmaster,
      insurance-agent, and farmer all over again, and the community more or less
      patiently suffers from his lack of knowledge in each of his experiments.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ole Jenson the grocer and Dahl the butcher moved on to South Dakota and
      Idaho. Luke and Mrs. Dawson picked up ten thousand acres of prairie soil,
      in the magic portable form of a small check book, and went to Pasadena, to
      a bungalow and sunshine and cafeterias. Chet Dashaway sold his furniture
      and undertaking business and wandered to Los Angeles, where, the Dauntless
      reported, &ldquo;Our good friend Chester has accepted a fine position with a
      real-estate firm, and his wife has in the charming social circles of the
      Queen City of the Southwestland that same popularity which she enjoyed in
      our own society sets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rita Simons was married to Terry Gould, and rivaled Juanita Haydock as the
      gayest of the Young Married Set. But Juanita also acquired merit. Harry's
      father died, Harry became senior partner in the Bon Ton Store, and Juanita
      was more acidulous and shrewd and cackling than ever. She bought an
      evening frock, and exposed her collar-bone to the wonder of the Jolly
      Seventeen, and talked of moving to Minneapolis.
    </p>
    <p>
      To defend her position against the new Mrs. Terry Gould she sought to
      attach Carol to her faction by giggling that &ldquo;SOME folks might call Rita
      innocent, but I've got a hunch that she isn't half as ignorant of things
      as brides are supposed to be&mdash;and of course Terry isn't one-two-three
      as a doctor alongside of your husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol herself would gladly have followed Mr. Ole Jenson, and migrated even
      to another Main Street; flight from familiar tedium to new tedium would
      have for a time the outer look and promise of adventure. She hinted to
      Kennicott of the probable medical advantages of Montana and Oregon. She
      knew that he was satisfied with Gopher Prairie, but it gave her vicarious
      hope to think of going, to ask for railroad folders at the station, to
      trace the maps with a restless forefinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet to the casual eye she was not discontented, she was not an abnormal
      and distressing traitor to the faith of Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The settled citizen believes that the rebel is constantly in a stew of
      complaining and, hearing of a Carol Kennicott, he gasps, &ldquo;What an awful
      person! She must be a Holy Terror to live with! Glad MY folks are
      satisfied with things way they are!&rdquo; Actually, it was not so much as five
      minutes a day that Carol devoted to lonely desires. It is probable that
      the agitated citizen has within his circle at least one inarticulate rebel
      with aspirations as wayward as Carol's.
    </p>
    <p>
      The presence of the baby had made her take Gopher Prairie and the brown
      house seriously, as natural places of residence. She pleased Kennicott by
      being friendly with the complacent maturity of Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Elder,
      and when she had often enough been in conference upon the Elders' new
      Cadillac car, or the job which the oldest Clark boy had taken in the
      office of the flour-mill, these topics became important, things to follow
      up day by day.
    </p>
    <p>
      With nine-tenths of her emotion concentrated upon Hugh, she did not
      criticize shops, streets, acquaintances . . . this year or two. She
      hurried to Uncle Whittier's store for a package of corn-flakes, she
      abstractedly listened to Uncle Whittier's denunciation of Martin Mahoney
      for asserting that the wind last Tuesday had been south and not southwest,
      she came back along streets that held no surprises nor the startling faces
      of strangers. Thinking of Hugh's teething all the way, she did not reflect
      that this store, these drab blocks, made up all her background. She did
      her work, and she triumphed over winning from the Clarks at five hundred.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most considerable event of the two years after the birth of Hugh
      occurred when Vida Sherwin resigned from the high school and was married.
      Carol was her attendant, and as the wedding was at the Episcopal Church,
      all the women wore new kid slippers and long white kid gloves, and looked
      refined.
    </p>
    <p>
      For years Carol had been little sister to Vida, and had never in the least
      known to what degree Vida loved her and hated her and in curious strained
      ways was bound to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      GRAY steel that seems unmoving because it spins so fast in the balanced
      fly-wheel, gray snow in an avenue of elms, gray dawn with the sun behind
      it&mdash;this was the gray of Vida Sherwin's life at thirty-six.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was small and active and sallow; her yellow hair was faded, and looked
      dry; her blue silk blouses and modest lace collars and high black shoes
      and sailor hats were as literal and uncharming as a schoolroom desk; but
      her eyes determined her appearance, revealed her as a personage and a
      force, indicated her faith in the goodness and purpose of everything. They
      were blue, and they were never still; they expressed amusement, pity,
      enthusiasm. If she had been seen in sleep, with the wrinkles beside her
      eyes stilled and the creased lids hiding the radiant irises, she would
      have lost her potency.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was born in a hill-smothered Wisconsin village where her father was a
      prosy minister; she labored through a sanctimonious college; she taught
      for two years in an iron-range town of blurry-faced Tatars and
      Montenegrins, and wastes of ore, and when she came to Gopher Prairie, its
      trees and the shining spaciousness of the wheat prairie made her certain
      that she was in paradise.
    </p>
    <p>
      She admitted to her fellow-teachers that the schoolbuilding was slightly
      damp, but she insisted that the rooms were &ldquo;arranged so conveniently&mdash;and
      then that bust of President McKinley at the head of the stairs, it's a
      lovely art-work, and isn't it an inspiration to have the brave, honest,
      martyr president to think about!&rdquo; She taught French, English, and history,
      and the Sophomore Latin class, which dealt in matters of a metaphysical
      nature called Indirect Discourse and the Ablative Absolute. Each year she
      was reconvinced that the pupils were beginning to learn more quickly. She
      spent four winters in building up the Debating Society, and when the
      debate really was lively one Friday afternoon, and the speakers of pieces
      did not forget their lines, she felt rewarded.
    </p>
    <p>
      She lived an engrossed useful life, and seemed as cool and simple as an
      apple. But secretly she was creeping among fears, longing, and guilt. She
      knew what it was, but she dared not name it. She hated even the sound of
      the word &ldquo;sex.&rdquo; When she dreamed of being a woman of the harem, with great
      white warm limbs, she awoke to shudder, defenseless in the dusk of her
      room. She prayed to Jesus, always to the Son of God, offering him the
      terrible power of her adoration, addressing him as the eternal lover,
      growing passionate, exalted, large, as she contemplated his splendor. Thus
      she mounted to endurance and surcease.
    </p>
    <p>
      By day, rattling about in many activities, she was able to ridicule her
      blazing nights of darkness. With spurious cheerfulness she announced
      everywhere, &ldquo;I guess I'm a born spinster,&rdquo; and &ldquo;No one will ever marry a
      plain schoolma'am like me,&rdquo; and &ldquo;You men, great big noisy bothersome
      creatures, we women wouldn't have you round the place, dirtying up nice
      clean rooms, if it wasn't that you have to be petted and guided. We just
      ought to say 'Scat!' to all of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But when a man held her close at a dance, even when &ldquo;Professor&rdquo; George
      Edwin Mott patted her hand paternally as they considered the naughtinesses
      of Cy Bogart, she quivered, and reflected how superior she was to have
      kept her virginity.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the autumn of 1911, a year before Dr. Will Kennicott was married, Vida
      was his partner at a five-hundred tournament. She was thirty-four then;
      Kennicott about thirty-six. To her he was a superb, boyish, diverting
      creature; all the heroic qualities in a manly magnificent body. They had
      been helping the hostess to serve the Waldorf salad and coffee and
      gingerbread. They were in the kitchen, side by side on a bench, while the
      others ponderously supped in the room beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was masculine and experimental. He stroked Vida's hand, he put
      his arm carelessly about her shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't!&rdquo; she said sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're a cunning thing,&rdquo; he offered, patting the back of her shoulder in
      an exploratory manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she strained away, she longed to move nearer to him. He bent over,
      looked at her knowingly. She glanced down at his left hand as it touched
      her knee. She sprang up, started noisily and needlessly to wash the
      dishes. He helped her. He was too lazy to adventure further&mdash;and too
      used to women in his profession. She was grateful for the impersonality of
      his talk. It enabled her to gain control. She knew that she had skirted
      wild thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      A month after, on a sleighing-party, under the buffalo robes in the
      bob-sled, he whispered, &ldquo;You pretend to be a grown-up schoolteacher, but
      you're nothing but a kiddie.&rdquo; His arm was about her. She resisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you like the poor lonely bachelor?&rdquo; he yammered in a fatuous way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't! You don't care for me in the least. You're just practising
      on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're so mean! I'm terribly fond of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm not of you. And I'm not going to let myself be fond of you, either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He persistently drew her toward him. She clutched his arm. Then she threw
      off the robe, climbed out of the sled, raced after it with Harry Haydock.
      At the dance which followed the sleigh-ride Kennicott was devoted to the
      watery prettiness of Maud Dyer, and Vida was noisily interested in getting
      up a Virginia Reel. Without seeming to watch Kennicott, she knew that he
      did not once look at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      That was all of her first love-affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave no sign of remembering that he was &ldquo;terribly fond.&rdquo; She waited for
      him; she reveled in longing, and in a sense of guilt because she longed.
      She told herself that she did not want part of him; unless he gave her all
      his devotion she would never let him touch her; and when she found that
      she was probably lying, she burned with scorn. She fought it out in
      prayer. She knelt in a pink flannel nightgown, her thin hair down her
      back, her forehead as full of horror as a mask of tragedy, while she
      identified her love for the Son of God with her love for a mortal, and
      wondered if any other woman had ever been so sacrilegious. She wanted to
      be a nun and observe perpetual adoration. She bought a rosary, but she had
      been so bitterly reared as a Protestant that she could not bring herself
      to use it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet none of her intimates in the school and in the boarding-house knew of
      her abyss of passion. They said she was &ldquo;so optimistic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she heard that Kennicott was to marry a girl, pretty, young, and
      imposingly from the Cities, Vida despaired. She congratulated Kennicott;
      carelessly ascertained from him the hour of marriage. At that hour,
      sitting in her room, Vida pictured the wedding in St. Paul. Full of an
      ecstasy which horrified her, she followed Kennicott and the girl who had
      stolen her place, followed them to the train, through the evening, the
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was relieved when she had worked out a belief that she wasn't really
      shameful, that there was a mystical relation between herself and Carol, so
      that she was vicariously yet veritably with Kennicott, and had the right
      to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw Carol during the first five minutes in Gopher Prairie. She stared
      at the passing motor, at Kennicott and the girl beside him. In that fog
      world of transference of emotion Vida had no normal jealousy but a
      conviction that, since through Carol she had received Kennicott's love,
      then Carol was a part of her, an astral self, a heightened and more
      beloved self. She was glad of the girl's charm, of the smooth black hair,
      the airy head and young shoulders. But she was suddenly angry. Carol
      glanced at her for a quarter-second, but looked past her, at an old
      roadside barn. If she had made the great sacrifice, at least she expected
      gratitude and recognition, Vida raged, while her conscious schoolroom mind
      fussily begged her to control this insanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      During her first call half of her wanted to welcome a fellow reader of
      books; the other half itched to find out whether Carol knew anything about
      Kennicott's former interest in herself. She discovered that Carol was not
      aware that he had ever touched another woman's hand. Carol was an amusing,
      naive, curiously learned child. While Vida was most actively describing
      the glories of the Thanatopsis, and complimenting this librarian on her
      training as a worker, she was fancying that this girl was the child born
      of herself and Kennicott; and out of that symbolizing she had a comfort
      she had not known for months.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she came home, after supper with the Kennicotts and Guy Pollock, she
      had a sudden and rather pleasant backsliding from devotion. She bustled
      into her room, she slammed her hat on the bed, and chattered, &ldquo;I don't
      CARE! I'm a lot like her&mdash;except a few years older. I'm light and
      quick, too, and I can talk just as well as she can, and I'm sure&mdash;&mdash;Men
      are such fools. I'd be ten times as sweet to make love to as that dreamy
      baby. And I AM as good-looking!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as she sat on the bed and stared at her thin thighs, defiance oozed
      away. She mourned:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I'm not. Dear God, how we fool ourselves! I pretend I'm 'spiritual.'
      I pretend my legs are graceful. They aren't. They're skinny. Old-maidish.
      I hate it! I hate that impertinent young woman! A selfish cat, taking his
      love for granted. . . . No, she's adorable. . . . I don't think she ought
      to be so friendly with Guy Pollock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a year Vida loved Carol, longed to and did not pry into the details of
      her relations with Kennicott, enjoyed her spirit of play as expressed in
      childish tea-parties, and, with the mystic bond between them forgotten,
      was healthily vexed by Carol's assumption that she was a sociological
      messiah come to save Gopher Prairie. This last facet of Vida's thought was
      the one which, after a year, was most often turned to the light. In a
      testy way she brooded, &ldquo;These people that want to change everything all of
      a sudden without doing any work, make me tired! Here I have to go and work
      for four years, picking out the pupils for debates, and drilling them, and
      nagging at them to get them to look up references, and begging them to
      choose their own subjects&mdash;four years, to get up a couple of good
      debates! And she comes rushing in, and expects in one year to change the
      whole town into a lollypop paradise with everybody stopping everything
      else to grow tulips and drink tea. And it's a comfy homey old town, too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had such an outburst after each of Carol's campaigns&mdash;for better
      Thanatopsis programs, for Shavian plays, for more human schools&mdash;but
      she never betrayed herself, and always she was penitent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was, and always would be, a reformer, a liberal. She believed that
      details could excitingly be altered, but that things-in-general were
      comely and kind and immutable. Carol was, without understanding or
      accepting it, a revolutionist, a radical, and therefore possessed of
      &ldquo;constructive ideas,&rdquo; which only the destroyer can have, since the
      reformer believes that all the essential constructing has already been
      done. After years of intimacy it was this unexpressed opposition more than
      the fancied loss of Kennicott's love which held Vida irritably fascinated.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the birth of Hugh revived the transcendental emotion. She was
      indignant that Carol should not be utterly fulfilled in having borne
      Kennicott's child. She admitted that Carol seemed to have affection and
      immaculate care for the baby, but she began to identify herself now with
      Kennicott, and in this phase to feel that she had endured quite too much
      from Carol's instability.
    </p>
    <p>
      She recalled certain other women who had come from the Outside and had not
      appreciated Gopher Prairie. She remembered the rector's wife who had been
      chilly to callers and who was rumored throughout the town to have said,
      &ldquo;Re-ah-ly I cawn't endure this bucolic heartiness in the responses.&rdquo; The
      woman was positively known to have worn handkerchiefs in her bodice as
      padding&mdash;oh, the town had simply roared at her. Of course the rector
      and she were got rid of in a few months.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then there was the mysterious woman with the dyed hair and penciled
      eyebrows, who wore tight English dresses, like basques, who smelled of
      stale musk, who flirted with the men and got them to advance money for her
      expenses in a lawsuit, who laughed at Vida's reading at a
      school-entertainment, and went off owing a hotel-bill and the three
      hundred dollars she had borrowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida insisted that she loved Carol, but with some satisfaction she
      compared her to these traducers of the town.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida had enjoyed Raymie Wutherspoon's singing in the Episcopal choir; she
      had thoroughly reviewed the weather with him at Methodist sociables and in
      the Bon Ton. But she did not really know him till she moved to Mrs.
      Gurrey's boarding-house. It was five years after her affair with
      Kennicott. She was thirty-nine, Raymie perhaps a year younger.
    </p>
    <p>
      She said to him, and sincerely, &ldquo;My! You can do anything, with your brains
      and tact and that heavenly voice. You were so good in 'The Girl from
      Kankakee.' You made me feel terribly stupid. If you'd gone on the stage, I
      believe you'd be just as good as anybody in Minneapolis. But still, I'm
      not sorry you stuck to business. It's such a constructive career.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really think so?&rdquo; yearned Raymie, across the apple-sauce.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time that either of them had found a dependable
      intellectual companionship. They looked down on Willis Woodford the
      bank-clerk, and his anxious babycentric wife, the silent Lyman Casses, the
      slangy traveling man, and the rest of Mrs. Gurrey's unenlightened guests.
      They sat opposite, and they sat late. They were exhilarated to find that
      they agreed in confession of faith:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;People like Sam Clark and Harry Haydock aren't earnest about music and
      pictures and eloquent sermons and really refined movies, but then, on the
      other hand, people like Carol Kennicott put too much stress on all this
      art. Folks ought to appreciate lovely things, but just the same, they got
      to be practical and&mdash;they got to look at things in a practical way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Smiling, passing each other the pressed-glass pickle-dish, seeing Mrs.
      Gurrey's linty supper-cloth irradiated by the light of intimacy, Vida and
      Raymie talked about Carol's rose-colored turban, Carol's sweetness,
      Carol's new low shoes, Carol's erroneous theory that there was no need of
      strict discipline in school, Carol's amiability in the Bon Ton, Carol's
      flow of wild ideas, which, honestly, just simply made you nervous trying
      to keep track of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      About the lovely display of gents' shirts in the Bon Ton window as dressed
      by Raymie, about Raymie's offertory last Sunday, the fact that there
      weren't any of these new solos as nice as &ldquo;Jerusalem the Golden,&rdquo; and the
      way Raymie stood up to Juanita Haydock when she came into the store and
      tried to run things and he as much as told her that she was so anxious to
      have folks think she was smart and bright that she said things she didn't
      mean, and anyway, Raymie was running the shoe-department, and if Juanita,
      or Harry either, didn't like the way he ran things, they could go get
      another man.
    </p>
    <p>
      About Vida's new jabot which made her look thirty-two (Vida's estimate) or
      twenty-two (Raymie's estimate), Vida's plan to have the high-school
      Debating Society give a playlet, and the difficulty of keeping the younger
      boys well behaved on the playground when a big lubber like Cy Bogart acted
      up so.
    </p>
    <p>
      About the picture post-card which Mrs. Dawson had sent to Mrs. Cass from
      Pasadena, showing roses growing right outdoors in February, the change in
      time on No. 4, the reckless way Dr. Gould always drove his auto, the
      reckless way almost all these people drove their autos, the fallacy of
      supposing that these socialists could carry on a government for as much as
      six months if they ever did have a chance to try out their theories, and
      the crazy way in which Carol jumped from subject to subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida had once beheld Raymie as a thin man with spectacles, mournful
      drawn-out face, and colorless stiff hair. Now she noted that his jaw was
      square, that his long hands moved quickly and were bleached in a refined
      manner, and that his trusting eyes indicated that he had &ldquo;led a clean
      life.&rdquo; She began to call him &ldquo;Ray,&rdquo; and to bounce in defense of his
      unselfishness and thoughtfulness every time Juanita Haydock or Rita Gould
      giggled about him at the Jolly Seventeen.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a Sunday afternoon of late autumn they walked down to Lake
      Minniemashie. Ray said that he would like to see the ocean; it must be a
      grand sight; it must be much grander than a lake, even a great big lake.
      Vida had seen it, she stated modestly; she had seen it on a summer trip to
      Cape Cod.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been clear to Cape Cod? Massachusetts? I knew you'd traveled,
      but I never realized you'd been that far!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Made taller and younger by his interest she poured out, &ldquo;Oh my yes. It was
      a wonderful trip. So many points of interest through Massachusetts&mdash;historical.
      There's Lexington where we turned back the redcoats, and Longfellow's home
      at Cambridge, and Cape Cod&mdash;just everything&mdash;fishermen and
      whale-ships and sand-dunes and everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wished that she had a little cane to carry. He broke off a willow
      branch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My, you're strong!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not very. I wish there was a Y. M. C. A. here, so I could take up
      regular exercise. I used to think I could do pretty good acrobatics, if I
      had a chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure you could. You're unusually lithe, for a large man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, not so very. But I wish we had a Y. M. It would be dandy to have
      lectures and everything, and I'd like to take a class in improving the
      memory&mdash;I believe a fellow ought to go on educating himself and
      improving his mind even if he is in business, don't you, Vida&mdash;I
      guess I'm kind of fresh to call you 'Vida'!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been calling you 'Ray' for weeks!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He wondered why she sounded tart.
    </p>
    <p>
      He helped her down the bank to the edge of the lake but dropped her hand
      abruptly, and as they sat on a willow log and he brushed her sleeve, he
      delicately moved over and murmured, &ldquo;Oh, excuse me&mdash;accident.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stared at the mud-browned chilly water, the floating gray reeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look so thoughtful,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She threw out her hands. &ldquo;I am! Will you kindly tell me what's the use of&mdash;anything!
      Oh, don't mind me. I'm a moody old hen. Tell me about your plan for
      getting a partnership in the Bon Ton. I do think you're right: Harry
      Haydock and that mean old Simons ought to give you one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hymned the old unhappy wars in which he had been Achilles and the
      mellifluous Nestor, yet gone his righteous ways unheeded by the cruel
      kings. . . . &ldquo;Why, if I've told 'em once, I've told 'em a dozen times to
      get in a side-line of light-weight pants for gents' summer wear, and of
      course here they go and let a cheap kike like Rifkin beat them to it and
      grab the trade right off 'em, and then Harry said&mdash;you know how Harry
      is, maybe he don't mean to be grouchy, but he's such a sore-head&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He gave her a hand to rise. &ldquo;If you don't MIND. I think a fellow is awful
      if a lady goes on a walk with him and she can't trust him and he tries to
      flirt with her and all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure you're highly trustworthy!&rdquo; she snapped, and she sprang up
      without his aid. Then, smiling excessively, &ldquo;Uh&mdash;don't you think
      Carol sometimes fails to appreciate Dr. Will's ability?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Ray habitually asked her about his window-trimming, the display of the new
      shoes, the best music for the entertainment at the Eastern Star, and
      (though he was recognized as a professional authority on what the town
      called &ldquo;gents' furnishings&rdquo;) about his own clothes. She persuaded him not
      to wear the small bow ties which made him look like an elongated Sunday
      School scholar. Once she burst out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ray, I could shake you! Do you know you're too apologetic? You always
      appreciate other people too much. You fuss over Carol Kennicott when she
      has some crazy theory that we all ought to turn anarchists or live on figs
      and nuts or something. And you listen when Harry Haydock tries to show off
      and talk about turnovers and credits and things you know lots better than
      he does. Look folks in the eye! Glare at 'em! Talk deep! You're the
      smartest man in town, if you only knew it. You ARE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could not believe it. He kept coming back to her for confirmation. He
      practised glaring and talking deep, but he circuitously hinted to Vida
      that when he had tried to look Harry Haydock in the eye, Harry had
      inquired, &ldquo;What's the matter with you, Raymie? Got a pain?&rdquo; But afterward
      Harry had asked about Kantbeatum socks in a manner which, Ray felt, was
      somehow different from his former condescension.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were sitting on the squat yellow satin settee in the boarding-house
      parlor. As Ray reannounced that he simply wouldn't stand it many more
      years if Harry didn't give him a partnership, his gesticulating hand
      touched Vida's shoulders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, excuse me!&rdquo; he pleaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's all right. Well, I think I must be running up to my room. Headache,&rdquo;
       she said briefly.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Ray and she had stopped in at Dyer's for a hot chocolate on their way home
      from the movies, that March evening. Vida speculated, &ldquo;Do you know that I
      may not be here next year?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With her fragile narrow nails she smoothed the glass slab which formed the
      top of the round table at which they sat. She peeped through the glass at
      the perfume-boxes of black and gold and citron in the hollow table. She
      looked about at shelves of red rubber water-bottles, pale yellow sponges,
      wash-rags with blue borders, hair-brushes of polished cherry backs. She
      shook her head like a nervous medium coming out of a trance, stared at him
      unhappily, demanded:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I stay here? And I must make up my mind. Now. Time to renew
      our teaching-contracts for next year. I think I'll go teach in some other
      town. Everybody here is tired of me. I might as well go. Before folks come
      out and SAY they're tired of me. I have to decide tonight. I might as well&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      no matter. Come. Let's skip. It's late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sprang up, ignoring his wail of &ldquo;Vida! Wait! Sit down! Gosh! I'm
      flabbergasted! Gee! Vida!&rdquo; She marched out. While he was paying his check
      she got ahead. He ran after her, blubbering, &ldquo;Vida! Wait!&rdquo; In the shade of
      the lilacs in front of the Gougerling house he came up with her, stayed
      her flight by a hand on her shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, don't! Don't! What does it matter?&rdquo; she begged. She was sobbing, her
      soft wrinkly lids soaked with tears. &ldquo;Who cares for my affection or help?
      I might as well drift on, forgotten. O Ray, please don't hold me. Let me
      go. I'll just decide not to renew my contract here, and&mdash;and drift&mdash;way
      off&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hand was steady on her shoulder. She dropped her head, rubbed the back
      of his hand with her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were married in June.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      They took the Ole Jenson house. &ldquo;It's small,&rdquo; said Vida, &ldquo;but it's got the
      dearest vegetable garden, and I love having time to get near to Nature for
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though she became Vida Wutherspoon technically, and though she certainly
      had no ideals about the independence of keeping her name, she continued to
      be known as Vida Sherwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had resigned from the school, but she kept up one class in English.
      She bustled about on every committee of the Thanatopsis; she was always
      popping into the rest-room to make Mrs. Nodelquist sweep the floor; she
      was appointed to the library-board to succeed Carol; she taught the Senior
      Girls' Class in the Episcopal Sunday School, and tried to revive the
      King's Daughters. She exploded into self-confidence and happiness; her
      draining thoughts were by marriage turned into energy. She became daily
      and visibly more plump, and though she chattered as eagerly, she was less
      obviously admiring of marital bliss, less sentimental about babies,
      sharper in demanding that the entire town share her reforms&mdash;the
      purchase of a park, the compulsory cleaning of back-yards.
    </p>
    <p>
      She penned Harry Haydock at his desk in the Bon Ton; she interrupted his
      joking; she told him that it was Ray who had built up the shoe-department
      and men's department; she demanded that he be made a partner. Before Harry
      could answer she threatened that Ray and she would start a rival shop.
      &ldquo;I'll clerk behind the counter myself, and a Certain Party is all ready to
      put up the money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rather wondered who the Certain Party was.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ray was made a one-sixth partner.
    </p>
    <p>
      He became a glorified floor-walker, greeting the men with new poise, no
      longer coyly subservient to pretty women. When he was not affectionately
      coercing people into buying things they did not need, he stood at the back
      of the store, glowing, abstracted, feeling masculine as he recalled the
      tempestuous surprises of love revealed by Vida.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only remnant of Vida's identification of herself with Carol was a
      jealousy when she saw Kennicott and Ray together, and reflected that some
      people might suppose that Kennicott was his superior. She was sure that
      Carol thought so, and she wanted to shriek, &ldquo;You needn't try to gloat! I
      wouldn't have your pokey old husband. He hasn't one single bit of Ray's
      spiritual nobility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      THE greatest mystery about a human being is not his reaction to sex or
      praise, but the manner in which he contrives to put in twenty-four hours a
      day. It is this which puzzles the long-shoreman about the clerk, the
      Londoner about the bushman. It was this which puzzled Carol in regard to
      the married Vida. Carol herself had the baby, a larger house to care for,
      all the telephone calls for Kennicott when he was away; and she read
      everything, while Vida was satisfied with newspaper headlines.
    </p>
    <p>
      But after detached brown years in boarding-houses, Vida was hungry for
      housework, for the most pottering detail of it. She had no maid, nor
      wanted one. She cooked, baked, swept, washed supper-cloths, with the
      triumph of a chemist in a new laboratory. To her the hearth was veritably
      the altar. When she went shopping she hugged the cans of soup, and she
      bought a mop or a side of bacon as though she were preparing for a
      reception. She knelt beside a bean sprout and crooned, &ldquo;I raised this with
      my own hands&mdash;I brought this new life into the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love her for being so happy,&rdquo; Carol brooded. &ldquo;I ought to be that way. I
      worship the baby, but the housework&mdash;&mdash;Oh, I suppose I'm
      fortunate; so much better off than farm-women on a new clearing, or people
      in a slum.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It has not yet been recorded that any human being has gained a very large
      or permanent contentment from meditation upon the fact that he is better
      off than others.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Carol's own twenty-four hours a day she got up, dressed the baby, had
      breakfast, talked to Oscarina about the day's shopping, put the baby on
      the porch to play, went to the butcher's to choose between steak and pork
      chops, bathed the baby, nailed up a shelf, had dinner, put the baby to bed
      for a nap, paid the iceman, read for an hour, took the baby out for a
      walk, called on Vida, had supper, put the baby to bed, darned socks,
      listened to Kennicott's yawning comment on what a fool Dr. McGanum was to
      try to use that cheap X-ray outfit of his on an epithelioma, repaired a
      frock, drowsily heard Kennicott stoke the furnace, tried to read a page of
      Thorstein Veblen&mdash;and the day was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Except when Hugh was vigorously naughty, or whiney, or laughing, or saying
      &ldquo;I like my chair&rdquo; with thrilling maturity, she was always enfeebled by
      loneliness. She no longer felt superior about that misfortune. She would
      gladly have been converted to Vida's satisfaction in Gopher Prairie and
      mopping the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol drove through an astonishing number of books from the public library
      and from city shops. Kennicott was at first uncomfortable over her
      disconcerting habit of buying them. A book was a book, and if you had
      several thousand of them right here in the library, free, why the dickens
      should you spend your good money? After worrying about it for two or three
      years, he decided that this was one of the Funny Ideas which she had
      caught as a librarian and from which she would never entirely recover.
    </p>
    <p>
      The authors whom she read were most of them frightfully annoyed by the
      Vida Sherwins. They were young American sociologists, young English
      realists, Russian horrorists; Anatole France, Rolland, Nexo, Wells, Shaw,
      Key, Edgar Lee Masters, Theodore Dreiser, Sherwood Anderson, Henry
      Mencken, and all the other subversive philosophers and artists whom women
      were consulting everywhere, in batik-curtained studios in New York, in
      Kansas farmhouses, San Francisco drawing-rooms, Alabama schools for
      negroes. From them she got the same confused desire which the million
      other women felt; the same determination to be class-conscious without
      discovering the class of which she was to be conscious.
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly her reading precipitated her observations of Main Street, of
      Gopher Prairie and of the several adjacent Gopher Prairies which she had
      seen on drives with Kennicott. In her fluid thought certain convictions
      appeared, jaggedly, a fragment of an impression at a time, while she was
      going to sleep, or manicuring her nails, or waiting for Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      These convictions she presented to Vida Sherwin&mdash;Vida Wutherspoon&mdash;beside
      a radiator, over a bowl of not very good walnuts and pecans from Uncle
      Whittier's grocery, on an evening when both Kennicott and Raymie had gone
      out of town with the other officers of the Ancient and Affiliated Order of
      Spartans, to inaugurate a new chapter at Wakamin. Vida had come to the
      house for the night. She helped in putting Hugh to bed, sputtering the
      while about his soft skin. Then they talked till midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      What Carol said that evening, what she was passionately thinking, was also
      emerging in the minds of women in ten thousand Gopher Prairies. Her
      formulations were not pat solutions but visions of a tragic futility. She
      did not utter them so compactly that they can be given in her words; they
      were roughened with &ldquo;Well, you see&rdquo; and &ldquo;if you get what I mean&rdquo; and &ldquo;I
      don't know that I'm making myself clear.&rdquo; But they were definite enough,
      and indignant enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      In reading popular stories and seeing plays, asserted Carol, she had found
      only two traditions of the American small town. The first tradition,
      repeated in scores of magazines every month, is that the American village
      remains the one sure abode of friendship, honesty, and clean sweet
      marriageable girls. Therefore all men who succeed in painting in Paris or
      in finance in New York at last become weary of smart women, return to
      their native towns, assert that cities are vicious, marry their childhood
      sweethearts and, presumably, joyously abide in those towns until death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other tradition is that the significant features of all villages are
      whiskers, iron dogs upon lawns, gold bricks, checkers, jars of gilded
      cat-tails, and shrewd comic old men who are known as &ldquo;hicks&rdquo; and who
      ejaculate &ldquo;Waal I swan.&rdquo; This altogether admirable tradition rules the
      vaudeville stage, facetious illustrators, and syndicated newspaper humor,
      but out of actual life it passed forty years ago. Carol's small town
      thinks not in hoss-swapping but in cheap motor cars, telephones,
      ready-made clothes, silos, alfalfa, kodaks, phonographs,
      leather-upholstered Morris chairs, bridge-prizes, oil-stocks,
      motion-pictures, land-deals, unread sets of Mark Twain, and a chaste
      version of national politics.
    </p>
    <p>
      With such a small-town life a Kennicott or a Champ Perry is content, but
      there are also hundreds of thousands, particularly women and young men,
      who are not at all content. The more intelligent young people (and the
      fortunate widows!) flee to the cities with agility and, despite the
      fictional tradition, resolutely stay there, seldom returning even for
      holidays. The most protesting patriots of the towns leave them in old age,
      if they can afford it, and go to live in California or in the cities.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reason, Carol insisted, is not a whiskered rusticity. It is nothing so
      amusing!
    </p>
    <p>
      It is an unimaginatively standardized background, a sluggishness of speech
      and manners, a rigid ruling of the spirit by the desire to appear
      respectable. It is contentment . . . the contentment of the quiet dead,
      who are scornful of the living for their restless walking. It is negation
      canonized as the one positive virtue. It is the prohibition of happiness.
      It is slavery self-sought and self-defended. It is dullness made God.
    </p>
    <p>
      A savorless people, gulping tasteless food, and sitting afterward,
      coatless and thoughtless, in rocking-chairs prickly with inane
      decorations, listening to mechanical music, saying mechanical things about
      the excellence of Ford automobiles, and viewing themselves as the greatest
      race in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She had inquired as to the effect of this dominating dullness upon
      foreigners. She remembered the feeble exotic quality to be found in the
      first-generation Scandinavians; she recalled the Norwegian Fair at the
      Lutheran Church, to which Bea had taken her. There, in the bondestue, the
      replica of a Norse farm kitchen, pale women in scarlet jackets embroidered
      with gold thread and colored beads, in black skirts with a line of blue,
      green-striped aprons, and ridged caps very pretty to set off a fresh face,
      had served rommegrod og lefse&mdash;sweet cakes and sour milk pudding
      spiced with cinnamon. For the first time in Gopher Prairie Carol had found
      novelty. She had reveled in the mild foreignness of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she saw these Scandinavian women zealously exchanging their spiced
      puddings and red jackets for fried pork chops and congealed white blouses,
      trading the ancient Christmas hymns of the fjords for &ldquo;She's My Jazzland
      Cutie,&rdquo; being Americanized into uniformity, and in less than a generation
      losing in the grayness whatever pleasant new customs they might have added
      to the life of the town. Their sons finished the process. In ready-made
      clothes and ready-made high-school phrases they sank into propriety, and
      the sound American customs had absorbed without one trace of pollution
      another alien invasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      And along with these foreigners, she felt herself being ironed into glossy
      mediocrity, and she rebelled, in fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The respectability of the Gopher Prairies, said Carol, is reinforced by
      vows of poverty and chastity in the matter of knowledge. Except for half a
      dozen in each town the citizens are proud of that achievement of ignorance
      which it is so easy to come by. To be &ldquo;intellectual&rdquo; or &ldquo;artistic&rdquo; or, in
      their own word, to be &ldquo;highbrow,&rdquo; is to be priggish and of dubious virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Large experiments in politics and in co-operative distribution, ventures
      requiring knowledge, courage, and imagination, do originate in the West
      and Middlewest, but they are not of the towns, they are of the farmers. If
      these heresies are supported by the townsmen it is only by occasional
      teachers doctors, lawyers, the labor unions, and workmen like Miles
      Bjornstam, who are punished by being mocked as &ldquo;cranks,&rdquo; as &ldquo;half-baked
      parlor socialists.&rdquo; The editor and the rector preach at them. The cloud of
      serene ignorance submerges them in unhappiness and futility.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Vida observed, &ldquo;Yes&mdash;well&mdash;&mdash;Do you know, I've always
      thought that Ray would have made a wonderful rector. He has what I call an
      essentially religious soul. My! He'd have read the service beautifully! I
      suppose it's too late now, but as I tell him, he can also serve the world
      by selling shoes and&mdash;&mdash;I wonder if we oughtn't to have
      family-prayers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Doubtless all small towns, in all countries, in all ages, Carol admitted,
      have a tendency to be not only dull but mean, bitter, infested with
      curiosity. In France or Tibet quite as much as in Wyoming or Indiana these
      timidities are inherent in isolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      But a village in a country which is taking pains to become altogether
      standardized and pure, which aspires to succeed Victorian England as the
      chief mediocrity of the world, is no longer merely provincial, no longer
      downy and restful in its leaf-shadowed ignorance. It is a force seeking to
      dominate the earth, to drain the hills and sea of color, to set Dante at
      boosting Gopher Prairie, and to dress the high gods in Klassy Kollege
      Klothes. Sure of itself, it bullies other civilizations, as a traveling
      salesman in a brown derby conquers the wisdom of China and tacks
      advertisements of cigarettes over arches for centuries dedicate to the
      sayings of Confucius.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a society functions admirably in the large production of cheap
      automobiles, dollar watches, and safety razors. But it is not satisfied
      until the entire world also admits that the end and joyous purpose of
      living is to ride in flivvers, to make advertising-pictures of dollar
      watches, and in the twilight to sit talking not of love and courage but of
      the convenience of safety razors.
    </p>
    <p>
      And such a society, such a nation, is determined by the Gopher Prairies.
      The greatest manufacturer is but a busier Sam Clark, and all the rotund
      senators and presidents are village lawyers and bankers grown nine feet
      tall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though a Gopher Prairie regards itself as a part of the Great World,
      compares itself to Rome and Vienna, it will not acquire the scientific
      spirit, the international mind, which would make it great. It picks at
      information which will visibly procure money or social distinction. Its
      conception of a community ideal is not the grand manner, the noble
      aspiration, the fine aristocratic pride, but cheap labor for the kitchen
      and rapid increase in the price of land. It plays at cards on greasy
      oil-cloth in a shanty, and does not know that prophets are walking and
      talking on the terrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      If all the provincials were as kindly as Champ Perry and Sam Clark there
      would be no reason for desiring the town to seek great traditions. It is
      the Harry Haydocks, the Dave Dyers, the Jackson Elders, small busy men
      crushingly powerful in their common purpose, viewing themselves as men of
      the world but keeping themselves men of the cash-register and the comic
      film, who make the town a sterile oligarchy.
    </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      She had sought to be definite in analyzing the surface ugliness of the
      Gopher Prairies. She asserted that it is a matter of universal similarity;
      of flimsiness of construction, so that the towns resemble frontier camps;
      of neglect of natural advantages, so that the hills are covered with
      brush, the lakes shut off by railroads, and the creeks lined with
      dumping-grounds; of depressing sobriety of color; rectangularity of
      buildings; and excessive breadth and straightness of the gashed streets,
      so that there is no escape from gales and from sight of the grim sweep of
      land, nor any windings to coax the loiterer along, while the breadth which
      would be majestic in an avenue of palaces makes the low shabby shops
      creeping down the typical Main Street the more mean by comparison.
    </p>
    <p>
      The universal similarity&mdash;that is the physical expression of the
      philosophy of dull safety. Nine-tenths of the American towns are so alike
      that it is the completest boredom to wander from one to another. Always,
      west of Pittsburg, and often, east of it, there is the same lumber yard,
      the same railroad station, the same Ford garage, the same creamery, the
      same box-like houses and two-story shops. The new, more conscious houses
      are alike in their very attempts at diversity: the same bungalows, the
      same square houses of stucco or tapestry brick. The shops show the same
      standardized, nationally advertised wares; the newspapers of sections
      three thousand miles apart have the same &ldquo;syndicated features&rdquo;; the boy in
      Arkansas displays just such a flamboyant ready-made suit as is found on
      just such a boy in Delaware, both of them iterate the same slang phrases
      from the same sporting-pages, and if one of them is in college and the
      other is a barber, no one may surmise which is which.
    </p>
    <p>
      If Kennicott were snatched from Gopher Prairie and instantly conveyed to a
      town leagues away, he would not realize it. He would go down apparently
      the same Main Street (almost certainly it would be called Main Street); in
      the same drug store he would see the same young man serving the same
      ice-cream soda to the same young woman with the same magazines and
      phonograph records under her arm. Not till he had climbed to his office
      and found another sign on the door, another Dr. Kennicott inside, would he
      understand that something curious had presumably happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally, behind all her comments, Carol saw the fact that the prairie
      towns no more exist to serve the farmers who are their reason of existence
      than do the great capitals; they exist to fatten on the farmers, to
      provide for the townsmen large motors and social preferment; and, unlike
      the capitals, they do not give to the district in return for usury a
      stately and permanent center, but only this ragged camp. It is a
      &ldquo;parasitic Greek civilization&rdquo;&mdash;minus the civilization.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There we are then,&rdquo; said Carol. &ldquo;The remedy? Is there any? Criticism,
      perhaps, for the beginning of the beginning. Oh, there's nothing that
      attacks the Tribal God Mediocrity that doesn't help a little . . . and
      probably there's nothing that helps very much. Perhaps some day the
      farmers will build and own their market-towns. (Think of the club they
      could have!) But I'm afraid I haven't any 'reform program.' Not any more!
      The trouble is spiritual, and no League or Party can enact a preference
      for gardens rather than dumping-grounds. . . . There's my confession.
      WELL?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In other words, all you want is perfection?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you hate this place! How can you expect to do anything with it if you
      haven't any sympathy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have! And affection. Or else I wouldn't fume so. I've learned that
      Gopher Prairie isn't just an eruption on the prairie, as I thought first,
      but as large as New York. In New York I wouldn't know more than forty or
      fifty people, and I know that many here. Go on! Say what you're thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear, if I DID take all your notions seriously, it would be
      pretty discouraging. Imagine how a person would feel, after working hard
      for years and helping to build up a nice town, to have you airily flit in
      and simply say 'Rotten!' Think that's fair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? It must be just as discouraging for the Gopher Prairieite to see
      Venice and make comparisons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not! I imagine gondolas are kind of nice to ride in, but we've
      got better bath-rooms! But&mdash;&mdash;My dear, you're not the only
      person in this town who has done some thinking for herself, although
      (pardon my rudeness) I'm afraid you think so. I'll admit we lack some
      things. Maybe our theater isn't as good as shows in Paris. All right! I
      don't want to see any foreign culture suddenly forced on us&mdash;whether
      it's street-planning or table-manners or crazy communistic ideas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vida sketched what she termed &ldquo;practical things that will make a happier
      and prettier town, but that do belong to our life, that actually are being
      done.&rdquo; Of the Thanatopsis Club she spoke; of the rest-room, the fight
      against mosquitos, the campaign for more gardens and shade-trees and
      sewers&mdash;matters not fantastic and nebulous and distant, but immediate
      and sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's answer was fantastic and nebulous enough:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. . . . Yes. . . . I know. They're good. But if I could put through
      all those reforms at once, I'd still want startling, exotic things. Life
      is comfortable and clean enough here already. And so secure. What it needs
      is to be less secure, more eager. The civic improvements which I'd like
      the Thanatopsis to advocate are Strindberg plays, and classic dancers&mdash;exquisite
      legs beneath tulle&mdash;and (I can see him so clearly!) a thick,
      black-bearded, cynical Frenchman who would sit about and drink and sing
      opera and tell bawdy stories and laugh at our proprieties and quote
      Rabelais and not be ashamed to kiss my hand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh! Not sure about the rest of it but I guess that's what you and all
      the other discontented young women really want: some stranger kissing your
      hand!&rdquo; At Carol's gasp, the old squirrel-like Vida darted out and cried,
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear, don't take that too seriously. I just meant&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. You just meant it. Go on. Be good for my soul. Isn't it funny:
      here we all are&mdash;me trying to be good for Gopher Prairie's soul, and
      Gopher Prairie trying to be good for my soul. What are my other sins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, there's plenty of them. Possibly some day we shall have your fat
      cynical Frenchman (horrible, sneering, tobacco-stained object, ruining his
      brains and his digestion with vile liquor!) but, thank heaven, for a while
      we'll manage to keep busy with our lawns and pavements! You see, these
      things really are coming! The Thanatopsis is getting somewhere. And you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       Her tone italicized the words&mdash;&ldquo;to my great disappointment, are doing
      less, not more, than the people you laugh at! Sam Clark, on the
      school-board, is working for better school ventilation. Ella Stowbody
      (whose elocuting you always think is so absurd) has persuaded the railroad
      to share the expense of a parked space at the station, to do away with
      that vacant lot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You sneer so easily. I'm sorry, but I do think there's something
      essentially cheap in your attitude. Especially about religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you must know, you're not a sound reformer at all. You're an
      impossibilist. And you give up too easily. You gave up on the new city
      hall, the anti-fly campaign, club papers, the library-board, the dramatic
      association&mdash;just because we didn't graduate into Ibsen the very
      first thing. You want perfection all at once. Do you know what the finest
      thing you've done is&mdash;aside from bringing Hugh into the world? It was
      the help you gave Dr. Will during baby-welfare week. You didn't demand
      that each baby be a philosopher and artist before you weighed him, as you
      do with the rest of us.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now I'm afraid perhaps I'll hurt you. We're going to have a new
      schoolbuilding in this town&mdash;in just a few years&mdash;and we'll have
      it without one bit of help or interest from you!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Professor Mott and I and some others have been dinging away at the
      moneyed men for years. We didn't call on you because you would never stand
      the pound-pound-pounding year after year without one bit of encouragement.
      And we've won! I've got the promise of everybody who counts that just as
      soon as war-conditions permit, they'll vote the bonds for the schoolhouse.
      And we'll have a wonderful building&mdash;lovely brown brick, with big
      windows, and agricultural and manual-training departments. When we get it,
      that'll be my answer to all your theories!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm glad. And I'm ashamed I haven't had any part in getting it. But&mdash;&mdash;Please
      don't think I'm unsympathetic if I ask one question: Will the teachers in
      the hygienic new building go on informing the children that Persia is a
      yellow spot on the map, and 'Caesar' the title of a book of grammatical
      puzzles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was indignant; Carol was apologetic; they talked for another hour,
      the eternal Mary and Martha&mdash;an immoralist Mary and a reformist
      Martha. It was Vida who conquered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact that she had been left out of the campaign for the new
      schoolbuilding disconcerted Carol. She laid her dreams of perfection
      aside. When Vida asked her to take charge of a group of Camp Fire Girls,
      she obeyed, and had definite pleasure out of the Indian dances and ritual
      and costumes. She went more regularly to the Thanatopsis. With Vida as
      lieutenant and unofficial commander she campaigned for a village nurse to
      attend poor families, raised the fund herself, saw to it that the nurse
      was young and strong and amiable and intelligent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet all the while she beheld the burly cynical Frenchman and the
      diaphanous dancers as clearly as the child sees its air-born playmates;
      she relished the Camp Fire Girls not because, in Vida's words, &ldquo;this Scout
      training will help so much to make them Good Wives,&rdquo; but because she hoped
      that the Sioux dances would bring subversive color into their dinginess.
    </p>
    <p>
      She helped Ella Stowbody to set out plants in the tiny triangular park at
      the railroad station; she squatted in the dirt, with a small curved trowel
      and the most decorous of gardening gauntlets; she talked to Ella about the
      public-spiritedness of fuchsias and cannas; and she felt that she was
      scrubbing a temple deserted by the gods and empty even of incense and the
      sound of chanting. Passengers looking from trains saw her as a village
      woman of fading prettiness, incorruptible virtue, and no abnormalities;
      the baggageman heard her say, &ldquo;Oh yes, I do think it will be a good
      example for the children&rdquo;; and all the while she saw herself running
      garlanded through the streets of Babylon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Planting led her to botanizing. She never got much farther than
      recognizing the tiger lily and the wild rose, but she rediscovered Hugh.
      &ldquo;What does the buttercup say, mummy?&rdquo; he cried, his hand full of straggly
      grasses, his cheek gilded with pollen. She knelt to embrace him; she
      affirmed that he made life more than full; she was altogether reconciled .
      . . for an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she awoke at night to hovering death. She crept away from the hump of
      bedding that was Kennicott; tiptoed into the bathroom and, by the mirror
      in the door of the medicine-cabinet, examined her pallid face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wasn't she growing visibly older in ratio as Vida grew plumper and
      younger? Wasn't her nose sharper? Wasn't her neck granulated? She stared
      and choked. She was only thirty. But the five years since her marriage&mdash;had
      they not gone by as hastily and stupidly as though she had been under
      ether; would time not slink past till death? She pounded her fist on the
      cool enameled rim of the bathtub and raged mutely against the indifferent
      gods:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care! I won't endure it! They lie so&mdash;Vida and Will and Aunt
      Bessie&mdash;they tell me I ought to be satisfied with Hugh and a good
      home and planting seven nasturtiums in a station garden! I am I! When I
      die the world will be annihilated, as far as I'm concerned. I am I! I'm
      not content to leave the sea and the ivory towers to others. I want them
      for me! Damn Vida! Damn all of them! Do they think they can make me
      believe that a display of potatoes at Howland &amp; Gould's is enough
      beauty and strangeness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      WHEN America entered the Great European War, Vida sent Raymie off to an
      officers' training-camp&mdash;less than a year after her wedding. Raymie
      was diligent and rather strong. He came out a first lieutenant of
      infantry, and was one of the earliest sent abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol grew definitely afraid of Vida as Vida transferred the passion which
      had been released in marriage to the cause of the war; as she lost all
      tolerance. When Carol was touched by the desire for heroism in Raymie and
      tried tactfully to express it, Vida made her feel like an impertinent
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      By enlistment and draft, the sons of Lyman Cass, Nat Hicks, Sam Clark
      joined the army. But most of the soldiers were the sons of German and
      Swedish farmers unknown to Carol. Dr. Terry Gould and Dr. McGanum became
      captains in the medical corps, and were stationed at camps in Iowa and
      Georgia. They were the only officers, besides Raymie, from the Gopher
      Prairie district. Kennicott wanted to go with them, but the several
      doctors of the town forgot medical rivalry and, meeting in council,
      decided that he would do better to wait and keep the town well till he
      should be needed. Kennicott was forty-two now; the only youngish doctor
      left in a radius of eighteen miles. Old Dr. Westlake, who loved comfort
      like a cat, protestingly rolled out at night for country calls, and hunted
      through his collar-box for his G. A. R. button.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not quite know what she thought about Kennicott's going.
      Certainly she was no Spartan wife. She knew that he wanted to go; she knew
      that this longing was always in him, behind his unchanged trudging and
      remarks about the weather. She felt for him an admiring affection&mdash;and
      she was sorry that she had nothing more than affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cy Bogart was the spectacular warrior of the town. Cy was no longer the
      weedy boy who had sat in the loft speculating about Carol's egotism and
      the mysteries of generation. He was nineteen now, tall, broad, busy, the
      &ldquo;town sport,&rdquo; famous for his ability to drink beer, to shake dice, to tell
      undesirable stories, and, from his post in front of Dyer's drug store, to
      embarrass the girls by &ldquo;jollying&rdquo; them as they passed. His face was at
      once peach-bloomed and pimply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cy was to be heard publishing it abroad that if he couldn't get the Widow
      Bogart's permission to enlist, he'd run away and enlist without it. He
      shouted that he &ldquo;hated every dirty Hun; by gosh, if he could just poke a
      bayonet into one big fat Heinie and learn him some decency and democracy,
      he'd die happy.&rdquo; Cy got much reputation by whipping a farmboy named Adolph
      Pochbauer for being a &ldquo;damn hyphenated German.&rdquo; . . . This was the younger
      Pochbauer, who was killed in the Argonne, while he was trying to bring the
      body of his Yankee captain back to the lines. At this time Cy Bogart was
      still dwelling in Gopher Prairie and planning to go to war.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Everywhere Carol heard that the war was going to bring a basic change in
      psychology, to purify and uplift everything from marital relations to
      national politics, and she tried to exult in it. Only she did not find it.
      She saw the women who made bandages for the Red Cross giving up bridge,
      and laughing at having to do without sugar, but over the
      surgical-dressings they did not speak of God and the souls of men, but of
      Miles Bjornstam's impudence, of Terry Gould's scandalous carryings-on with
      a farmer's daughter four years ago, of cooking cabbage, and of altering
      blouses. Their references to the war touched atrocities only. She herself
      was punctual, and efficient at making dressings, but she could not, like
      Mrs. Lyman Cass and Mrs. Bogart, fill the dressings with hate for enemies.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she protested to Vida, &ldquo;The young do the work while these old ones
      sit around and interrupt us and gag with hate because they're too feeble
      to do anything but hate,&rdquo; then Vida turned on her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you can't be reverent, at least don't be so pert and opinionated, now
      when men and women are dying. Some of us&mdash;we have given up so much,
      and we're glad to. At least we expect that you others sha'n't try to be
      witty at our expense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol did desire to see the Prussian autocracy defeated; she did persuade
      herself that there were no autocracies save that of Prussia; she did
      thrill to motion-pictures of troops embarking in New York; and she was
      uncomfortable when she met Miles Bjornstam on the street and he croaked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How's tricks? Things going fine with me; got two new cows. Well, have you
      become a patriot? Eh? Sure, they'll bring democracy&mdash;the democracy of
      death. Yes, sure, in every war since the Garden of Eden the workmen have
      gone out to fight each other for perfectly good reasons&mdash;handed to
      them by their bosses. Now me, I'm wise. I'm so wise that I know I don't
      know anything about the war.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not a thought of the war that remained with her after Miles's
      declamation but a perception that she and Vida and all of the
      good-intentioners who wanted to &ldquo;do something for the common people&rdquo; were
      insignificant, because the &ldquo;common people&rdquo; were able to do things for
      themselves, and highly likely to, as soon as they learned the fact. The
      conception of millions of workmen like Miles taking control frightened
      her, and she scuttled rapidly away from the thought of a time when she
      might no longer retain the position of Lady Bountiful to the Bjornstams
      and Beas and Oscarinas whom she loved&mdash;and patronized.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in June, two months after America's entrance into the war, that the
      momentous event happened&mdash;the visit of the great Percy Bresnahan, the
      millionaire president of the Velvet Motor Car Company of Boston, the one
      native son who was always to be mentioned to strangers.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two weeks there were rumors. Sam Clark cried to Kennicott, &ldquo;Say, I
      hear Perce Bresnahan is coming! By golly it'll be great to see the old
      scout, eh?&rdquo; Finally the Dauntless printed, on the front page with a No. 1
      head, a letter from Bresnahan to Jackson Elder:
    </p>
    <p>
      DEAR JACK:
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, Jack, I find I can make it. I'm to go to Washington as a dollar a
      year man for the government, in the aviation motor section, and tell them
      how much I don't know about carburetors. But before I start in being a
      hero I want to shoot out and catch me a big black bass and cuss out you
      and Sam Clark and Harry Haydock and Will Kennicott and the rest of you
      pirates. I'll land in G. P. on June 7, on No. 7 from Mpls. Shake a
      day-day. Tell Bert Tybee to save me a glass of beer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sincerely yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      Perce.
    </p>
    <p>
      All members of the social, financial, scientific, literary, and sporting
      sets were at No. 7 to meet Bresnahan; Mrs. Lyman Cass was beside Del
      Snafflin the barber, and Juanita Haydock almost cordial to Miss Villets
      the librarian. Carol saw Bresnahan laughing down at them from the train
      vestibule&mdash;big, immaculate, overjawed, with the eye of an executive.
      In the voice of the professional Good Fellow he bellowed, &ldquo;Howdy, folks!&rdquo;
       As she was introduced to him (not he to her) Bresnahan looked into her
      eyes, and his hand-shake was warm, unhurried.
    </p>
    <p>
      He declined the offers of motors; he walked off, his arm about the
      shoulder of Nat Hicks the sporting tailor, with the elegant Harry Haydock
      carrying one of his enormous pale leather bags, Del Snafflin the other,
      Jack Elder bearing an overcoat, and Julius Flickerbaugh the
      fishing-tackle. Carol noted that though Bresnahan wore spats and a stick,
      no small boy jeered. She decided, &ldquo;I must have Will get a double-breasted
      blue coat and a wing collar and a dotted bow-tie like his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That evening, when Kennicott was trimming the grass along the walk with
      sheep-shears, Bresnahan rolled up, alone. He was now in corduroy trousers,
      khaki shirt open at the throat, a white boating hat, and marvelous
      canvas-and-leather shoes &ldquo;On the job there, old Will! Say, my Lord, this
      is living, to come back and get into a regular man-sized pair of pants.
      They can talk all they want to about the city, but my idea of a good time
      is to loaf around and see you boys and catch a gamey bass!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hustled up the walk and blared at Carol, &ldquo;Where's that little fellow? I
      hear you've got one fine big he-boy that you're holding out on me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's gone to bed,&rdquo; rather briefly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. And rules are rules, these days. Kids get routed through the shop
      like a motor. But look here, sister; I'm one great hand at busting rules.
      Come on now, let Uncle Perce have a look at him. Please now, sister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put his arm about her waist; it was a large, strong, sophisticated arm,
      and very agreeable; he grinned at her with a devastating knowingness,
      while Kennicott glowed inanely. She flushed; she was alarmed by the ease
      with which the big-city man invaded her guarded personality. She was glad,
      in retreat, to scamper ahead of the two men up-stairs to the hall-room in
      which Hugh slept. All the way Kennicott muttered, &ldquo;Well, well, say, gee
      whittakers but it's good to have you back, certainly is good to see you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hugh lay on his stomach, making an earnest business of sleeping. He
      burrowed his eyes in the dwarf blue pillow to escape the electric light,
      then sat up abruptly, small and frail in his woolly nightdrawers, his
      floss of brown hair wild, the pillow clutched to his breast. He wailed. He
      stared at the stranger, in a manner of patient dismissal. He explained
      confidentially to Carol, &ldquo;Daddy wouldn't let it be morning yet. What does
      the pillow say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bresnahan dropped his arm caressingly on Carol's shoulder; he pronounced,
      &ldquo;My Lord, you're a lucky girl to have a fine young husk like that. I
      figure Will knew what he was doing when he persuaded you to take a chance
      on an old bum like him! They tell me you come from St. Paul. We're going
      to get you to come to Boston some day.&rdquo; He leaned over the bed. &ldquo;Young
      man, you're the slickest sight I've seen this side of Boston. With your
      permission, may we present you with a slight token of our regard and
      appreciation of your long service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He held out a red rubber Pierrot. Hugh remarked, &ldquo;Gimme it,&rdquo; hid it under
      the bedclothes, and stared at Bresnahan as though he had never seen the
      man before.
    </p>
    <p>
      For once Carol permitted herself the spiritual luxury of not asking &ldquo;Why,
      Hugh dear, what do you say when some one gives you a present?&rdquo; The great
      man was apparently waiting. They stood in inane suspense till Bresnahan
      led them out, rumbling, &ldquo;How about planning a fishing-trip, Will?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He remained for half an hour. Always he told Carol what a charming person
      she was; always he looked at her knowingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He probably would make a woman fall in love with him. But it
      wouldn't last a week. I'd get tired of his confounded buoyancy. His
      hypocrisy. He's a spiritual bully. He makes me rude to him in
      self-defense. Oh yes, he is glad to be here. He does like us. He's so good
      an actor that he convinces his own self. . . . I'd HATE him in Boston.
      He'd have all the obvious big-city things. Limousines. Discreet
      evening-clothes. Order a clever dinner at a smart restaurant. Drawing-room
      decorated by the best firm&mdash;but the pictures giving him away. I'd
      rather talk to Guy Pollock in his dusty office. . . . How I lie! His arm
      coaxed my shoulder and his eyes dared me not to admire him. I'd be afraid
      of him. I hate him! . . . Oh, the inconceivable egotistic imagination of
      women! All this stew of analysis about a man, a good, decent, friendly,
      efficient man, because he was kind to me, as Will's wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The Kennicotts, the Elders, the Clarks, and Bresnahan went fishing at Red
      Squaw Lake. They drove forty miles to the lake in Elder's new Cadillac.
      There was much laughter and bustle at the start, much storing of
      lunch-baskets and jointed poles, much inquiry as to whether it would
      really bother Carol to sit with her feet up on a roll of shawls. When they
      were ready to go Mrs. Clark lamented, &ldquo;Oh, Sam, I forgot my magazine,&rdquo; and
      Bresnahan bullied, &ldquo;Come on now, if you women think you're going to be
      literary, you can't go with us tough guys!&rdquo; Every one laughed a great
      deal, and as they drove on Mrs. Clark explained that though probably she
      would not have read it, still, she might have wanted to, while the other
      girls had a nap in the afternoon, and she was right in the middle of a
      serial&mdash;it was an awfully exciting story&mdash;it seems that this
      girl was a Turkish dancer (only she was really the daughter of an American
      lady and a Russian prince) and men kept running after her, just
      disgustingly, but she remained pure, and there was a scene&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      While the men floated on the lake, casting for black bass, the women
      prepared lunch and yawned. Carol was a little resentful of the manner in
      which the men assumed that they did not care to fish. &ldquo;I don't want to go
      with them, but I would like the privilege of refusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lunch was long and pleasant. It was a background for the talk of the
      great man come home, hints of cities and large imperative affairs and
      famous people, jocosely modest admissions that, yes, their friend Perce
      was doing about as well as most of these &ldquo;Boston swells that think so much
      of themselves because they come from rich old families and went to college
      and everything. Believe me, it's us new business men that are running
      Beantown today, and not a lot of fussy old bucks snoozing in their clubs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol realized that he was not one of the sons of Gopher Prairie who, if
      they do not actually starve in the East, are invariably spoken of as
      &ldquo;highly successful&rdquo;; and she found behind his too incessant flattery a
      genuine affection for his mates. It was in the matter of the war that he
      most favored and thrilled them. Dropping his voice while they bent nearer
      (there was no one within two miles to overhear), he disclosed the fact
      that in both Boston and Washington he'd been getting a lot of inside stuff
      on the war&mdash;right straight from headquarters&mdash;he was in touch
      with some men&mdash;couldn't name them but they were darn high up in both
      the War and State Departments&mdash;and he would say&mdash;only for Pete's
      sake they mustn't breathe one word of this; it was strictly on the Q.T.
      and not generally known outside of Washington&mdash;but just between
      ourselves&mdash;and they could take this for gospel&mdash;Spain had
      finally decided to join the Entente allies in the Grand Scrap. Yes, sir,
      there'd be two million fully equipped Spanish soldiers fighting with us in
      France in one month now. Some surprise for Germany, all right!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about the prospects for revolution in Germany?&rdquo; reverently asked
      Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      The authority grunted, &ldquo;Nothing to it. The one thing you can bet on is
      that no matter what happens to the German people, win or lose, they'll
      stick by the Kaiser till hell freezes over. I got that absolutely
      straight, from a fellow who's on the inside of the inside in Washington.
      No, sir! I don't pretend to know much about international affairs but one
      thing you can put down as settled is that Germany will be a Hohenzollern
      empire for the next forty years. At that, I don't know as it's so bad. The
      Kaiser and the Junkers keep a firm hand on a lot of these red agitators
      who'd be worse than a king if they could get control.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm terribly interested in this uprising that overthrew the Czar in
      Russia,&rdquo; suggested Carol. She had finally been conquered by the man's
      wizard knowledge of affairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott apologized for her: &ldquo;Carrie's nuts about this Russian
      revolution. Is there much to it, Perce?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is not!&rdquo; Bresnahan said flatly. &ldquo;I can speak by the book there.
      Carol, honey, I'm surprised to find you talking like a New York Russian
      Jew, or one of these long-hairs! I can tell you, only you don't need to
      let every one in on it, this is confidential, I got it from a man who's
      close to the State Department, but as a matter of fact the Czar will be
      back in power before the end of the year. You read a lot about his
      retiring and about his being killed, but I know he's got a big army back
      of him, and he'll show these damn agitators, lazy beggars hunting for a
      soft berth bossing the poor goats that fall for 'em, he'll show 'em where
      they get off!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was sorry to hear that the Czar was coming back, but she said
      nothing. The others had looked vacant at the mention of a country so far
      away as Russia. Now they edged in and asked Bresnahan what he thought
      about the Packard car, investments in Texas oil-wells, the comparative
      merits of young men born in Minnesota and in Massachusetts, the question
      of prohibition, the future cost of motor tires, and wasn't it true that
      American aviators put it all over these Frenchmen?
    </p>
    <p>
      They were glad to find that he agreed with them on every point.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she heard Bresnahan announce, &ldquo;We're perfectly willing to talk to any
      committee the men may choose, but we're not going to stand for some
      outside agitator butting in and telling us how we're going to run our
      plant!&rdquo; Carol remembered that Jackson Elder (now meekly receiving New
      Ideas) had said the same thing in the same words.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Sam Clark was digging up from his memory a long and immensely
      detailed story of the crushing things he had said to a Pullman porter,
      named George, Bresnahan hugged his knees and rocked and watched Carol. She
      wondered if he did not understand the laboriousness of the smile with
      which she listened to Kennicott's account of the &ldquo;good one he had on
      Carrie,&rdquo; that marital, coyly improper, ten-times-told tale of how she had
      forgotten to attend to Hugh because she was &ldquo;all het up pounding the box&rdquo;&mdash;which
      may be translated as &ldquo;eagerly playing the piano.&rdquo; She was certain that
      Bresnahan saw through her when she pretended not to hear Kennicott's
      invitation to join a game of cribbage. She feared the comments he might
      make; she was irritated by her fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was equally irritated, when the motor returned through Gopher Prairie,
      to find that she was proud of sharing in Bresnahan's kudos as people
      waved, and Juanita Haydock leaned from a window. She said to herself, &ldquo;As
      though I cared whether I'm seen with this fat phonograph!&rdquo; and
      simultaneously, &ldquo;Everybody has noticed how much Will and I are playing
      with Mr. Bresnahan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The town was full of his stories, his friendliness, his memory for names,
      his clothes, his trout-flies, his generosity. He had given a hundred
      dollars to Father Klubok the priest, and a hundred to the Reverend Mr.
      Zitterel the Baptist minister, for Americanization work.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the Bon Ton, Carol heard Nat Hicks the tailor exulting:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old Perce certainly pulled a good one on this fellow Bjornstam that
      always is shooting off his mouth. He's supposed to of settled down since
      he got married, but Lord, those fellows that think they know it all, they
      never change. Well, the Red Swede got the grand razz handed to him, all
      right. He had the nerve to breeze up to Perce, at Dave Dyer's, and he
      said, he said to Perce, 'I've always wanted to look at a man that was so
      useful that folks would pay him a million dollars for existing,' and Perce
      gave him the once-over and come right back, 'Have, eh?' he says. 'Well,'
      he says, 'I've been looking for a man so useful sweeping floors that I
      could pay him four dollars a day. Want the job, my friend?' Ha, ha, ha!
      Say, you know how lippy Bjornstam is? Well for once he didn't have a thing
      to say. He tried to get fresh, and tell what a rotten town this is, and
      Perce come right back at him, 'If you don't like this country, you better
      get out of it and go back to Germany, where you belong!' Say, maybe us
      fellows didn't give Bjornstam the horse-laugh though! Oh, Perce is the
      white-haired boy in this burg, all rightee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Bresnahan had borrowed Jackson Elder's motor; he stopped at the
      Kennicotts'; he bawled at Carol, rocking with Hugh on the porch, &ldquo;Better
      come for a ride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to snub him. &ldquo;Thanks so much, but I'm being maternal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring him along! Bring him along!&rdquo; Bresnahan was out of the seat,
      stalking up the sidewalk, and the rest of her protests and dignities were
      feeble.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not bring Hugh along.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bresnahan was silent for a mile, in words, But he looked at her as though
      he meant her to know that he understood everything she thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      She observed how deep was his chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lovely fields over there,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You really like them? There's no profit in them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He chuckled. &ldquo;Sister, you can't get away with it. I'm onto you. You
      consider me a big bluff. Well, maybe I am. But so are you, my dear&mdash;and
      pretty enough so that I'd try to make love to you, if I weren't afraid
      you'd slap me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Bresnahan, do you talk that way to your wife's friends? And do you
      call them 'sister'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a matter of fact, I do! And I make 'em like it. Score two!&rdquo; But his
      chuckle was not so rotund, and he was very attentive to the ammeter.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a moment he was cautiously attacking: &ldquo;That's a wonderful boy, Will
      Kennicott. Great work these country practitioners are doing. The other
      day, in Washington, I was talking to a big scientific shark, a professor
      in Johns Hopkins medical school, and he was saying that no one has ever
      sufficiently appreciated the general practitioner and the sympathy and
      help he gives folks. These crack specialists, the young scientific
      fellows, they're so cocksure and so wrapped up in their laboratories that
      they miss the human element. Except in the case of a few freak diseases
      that no respectable human being would waste his time having, it's the old
      doc that keeps a community well, mind and body. And strikes me that Will
      is one of the steadiest and clearest-headed counter practitioners I've
      ever met. Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure he is. He's a servant of reality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come again? Um. Yes. All of that, whatever that is. . . . Say, child, you
      don't care a whole lot for Gopher Prairie, if I'm not mistaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's where you're missing a big chance. There's nothing to these
      cities. Believe me, I KNOW! This is a good town, as they go. You're lucky
      to be here. I wish I could shy on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, why don't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh? Why&mdash;Lord&mdash;can't get away fr&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't have to stay. I do! So I want to change it. Do you know that
      men like you, prominent men, do quite a reasonable amount of harm by
      insisting that your native towns and native states are perfect? It's you
      who encourage the denizens not to change. They quote you, and go on
      believing that they live in paradise, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She clenched her
      fist. &ldquo;The incredible dullness of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose you were right. Even so, don't you think you waste a lot of
      thundering on one poor scared little town? Kind of mean!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you it's dull. DULL!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The folks don't find it dull. These couples like the Haydocks have a high
      old time; dances and cards&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't. They're bored. Almost every one here is. Vacuousness and bad
      manners and spiteful gossip&mdash;that's what I hate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those things&mdash;course they're here. So are they in Boston! And every
      place else! Why, the faults you find in this town are simply human nature,
      and never will be changed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. But in a Boston all the good Carols (I'll admit I have no
      faults) can find one another and play. But here&mdash;I'm alone, in a
      stale pool&mdash;except as it's stirred by the great Mr. Bresnahan!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My Lord, to hear you tell it, a fellow 'd think that all the denizens, as
      you impolitely call 'em, are so confoundedly unhappy that it's a wonder
      they don't all up and commit suicide. But they seem to struggle along
      somehow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't know what they miss. And anybody can endure anything. Look at
      men in mines and in prisons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew up on the south shore of Lake Minniemashie. He glanced across the
      reeds reflected on the water, the quiver of wavelets like crumpled
      tinfoil, the distant shores patched with dark woods, silvery oats and deep
      yellow wheat. He patted her hand. &ldquo;Sis&mdash;&mdash;Carol, you're a
      darling girl, but you're difficult. Know what I think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph. Maybe you do, but&mdash;&mdash;My humble (not too humble!) opinion
      is that you like to be different. You like to think you're peculiar. Why,
      if you knew how many tens of thousands of women, especially in New York,
      say just what you do, you'd lose all the fun of thinking you're a lone
      genius and you'd be on the band-wagon whooping it up for Gopher Prairie
      and a good decent family life. There's always about a million young women
      just out of college who want to teach their grandmothers how to suck
      eggs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How proud you are of that homely rustic metaphor! You use it at
      'banquets' and directors' meetings, and boast of your climb from a humble
      homestead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh! You may have my number. I'm not telling. But look here: You're so
      prejudiced against Gopher Prairie that you overshoot the mark; you
      antagonize those who might be inclined to agree with you in some
      particulars but&mdash;&mdash;Great guns, the town can't be all wrong!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it isn't. But it could be. Let me tell you a fable. Imagine a
      cavewoman complaining to her mate. She doesn't like one single thing; she
      hates the damp cave, the rats running over her bare legs, the stiff skin
      garments, the eating of half-raw meat, her husband's bushy face, the
      constant battles, and the worship of the spirits who will hoodoo her
      unless she gives the priests her best claw necklace. Her man protests,
      'But it can't all be wrong!' and he thinks he has reduced her to
      absurdity. Now you assume that a world which produces a Percy Bresnahan
      and a Velvet Motor Company must be civilized. It is? Aren't we only about
      half-way along in barbarism? I suggest Mrs. Bogart as a test. And we'll
      continue in barbarism just as long as people as nearly intelligent as you
      continue to defend things as they are because they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're a fair spieler, child. But, by golly, I'd like to see you try to
      design a new manifold, or run a factory and keep a lot of your fellow reds
      from Czech-slovenski-magyar-godknowswheria on the job! You'd drop your
      theories so darn quick! I'm not any defender of things as they are. Sure.
      They're rotten. Only I'm sensible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He preached his gospel: love of outdoors, Playing the Game, loyalty to
      friends. She had the neophyte's shock of discovery that, outside of
      tracts, conservatives do not tremble and find no answer when an iconoclast
      turns on them, but retort with agility and confusing statistics.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was so much the man, the worker, the friend, that she liked him when
      she most tried to stand out against him; he was so much the successful
      executive that she did not want him to despise her. His manner of sneering
      at what he called &ldquo;parlor socialists&rdquo; (though the phrase was not
      overwhelmingly new) had a power which made her wish to placate his company
      of well-fed, speed-loving administrators. When he demanded, &ldquo;Would you
      like to associate with nothing but a lot of turkey-necked, horn-spectacled
      nuts that have adenoids and need a hair-cut, and that spend all their time
      kicking about 'conditions' and never do a lick of work?&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;No,
      but just the same&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; When he asserted, &ldquo;Even if your cavewoman
      was right in knocking the whole works, I bet some red-blooded Regular
      Fellow, some real He-man, found her a nice dry cave, and not any whining
      criticizing radical,&rdquo; she wriggled her head feebly, between a nod and a
      shake.
    </p>
    <p>
      His large hands, sensual lips, easy voice supported his self-confidence.
      He made her feel young and soft&mdash;as Kennicott had once made her feel.
      She had nothing to say when he bent his powerful head and experimented,
      &ldquo;My dear, I'm sorry I'm going away from this town. You'd be a darling
      child to play with. You ARE pretty! Some day in Boston I'll show you how
      we buy a lunch. Well, hang it, got to be starting back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The only answer to his gospel of beef which she could find, when she was
      home, was a wail of &ldquo;But just the same&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not see him again before he departed for Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      His eyes remained. His glances at her lips and hair and shoulders had
      revealed to her that she was not a wife-and-mother alone, but a girl; that
      there still were men in the world, as there had been in college days.
    </p>
    <p>
      That admiration led her to study Kennicott, to tear at the shroud of
      intimacy, to perceive the strangeness of the most familiar.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      ALL that midsummer month Carol was sensitive to Kennicott. She recalled a
      hundred grotesqueries: her comic dismay at his having chewed tobacco, the
      evening when she had tried to read poetry to him; matters which had seemed
      to vanish with no trace or sequence. Always she repeated that he had been
      heroically patient in his desire to join the army. She made much of her
      consoling affection for him in little things. She liked the homeliness of
      his tinkering about the house; his strength and handiness as he tightened
      the hinges of a shutter; his boyishness when he ran to her to be comforted
      because he had found rust in the barrel of his pump-gun. But at the
      highest he was to her another Hugh, without the glamor of Hugh's unknown
      future.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was, late in June, a day of heat-lightning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Because of the work imposed by the absence of the other doctors the
      Kennicotts had not moved to the lake cottage but remained in town, dusty
      and irritable. In the afternoon, when she went to Oleson &amp; McGuire's
      (formerly Dahl &amp; Oleson's), Carol was vexed by the assumption of the
      youthful clerk, recently come from the farm, that he had to be neighborly
      and rude. He was no more brusquely familiar than a dozen other clerks of
      the town, but her nerves were heat-scorched.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she asked for codfish, for supper, he grunted, &ldquo;What d'you want that
      darned old dry stuff for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Punk! Guess the doc can afford something better than that. Try some of
      the new wienies we got in. Swell. The Haydocks use 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She exploded. &ldquo;My dear young man, it is not your duty to instruct me in
      housekeeping, and it doesn't particularly concern me what the Haydocks
      condescend to approve!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was hurt. He hastily wrapped up the leprous fragment of fish; he gaped
      as she trailed out. She lamented, &ldquo;I shouldn't have spoken so. He didn't
      mean anything. He doesn't know when he is being rude.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her repentance was not proof against Uncle Whittier when she stopped in at
      his grocery for salt and a package of safety matches. Uncle Whittier, in a
      shirt collarless and soaked with sweat in a brown streak down his back,
      was whining at a clerk, &ldquo;Come on now, get a hustle on and lug that pound
      cake up to Mis' Cass's. Some folks in this town think a storekeeper ain't
      got nothing to do but chase out 'phone-orders. . . . Hello, Carrie. That
      dress you got on looks kind of low in the neck to me. May be decent and
      modest&mdash;I suppose I'm old-fashioned&mdash;but I never thought much of
      showing the whole town a woman's bust! Hee, hee, hee! . . . Afternoon,
      Mrs. Hicks. Sage? Just out of it. Lemme sell you some other spices. Heh?&rdquo;
       Uncle Whittier was nasally indignant &ldquo;CERTAINLY! Got PLENTY other spices
      jus' good as sage for any purp'se whatever! What's the matter with&mdash;well,
      with allspice?&rdquo; When Mrs. Hicks had gone, he raged, &ldquo;Some folks don't know
      what they want!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sweating sanctimonious bully&mdash;my husband's uncle!&rdquo; thought Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      She crept into Dave Dyer's. Dave held up his arms with, &ldquo;Don't shoot! I
      surrender!&rdquo; She smiled, but it occurred to her that for nearly five years
      Dave had kept up this game of pretending that she threatened his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she went dragging through the prickly-hot street she reflected that a
      citizen of Gopher Prairie does not have jests&mdash;he has a jest. Every
      cold morning for five winters Lyman Cass had remarked, &ldquo;Fair to middlin'
      chilly&mdash;get worse before it gets better.&rdquo; Fifty times had Ezra
      Stowbody informed the public that Carol had once asked, &ldquo;Shall I indorse
      this check on the back?&rdquo; Fifty times had Sam Clark called to her, &ldquo;Where'd
      you steal that hat?&rdquo; Fifty times had the mention of Barney Cahoon, the
      town drayman, like a nickel in a slot produced from Kennicott the
      apocryphal story of Barney's directing a minister, &ldquo;Come down to the depot
      and get your case of religious books&mdash;they're leaking!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came home by the unvarying route. She knew every house-front, every
      street-crossing, every billboard, every tree, every dog. She knew every
      blackened banana-skin and empty cigarette-box in the gutters. She knew
      every greeting. When Jim Howland stopped and gaped at her there was no
      possibility that he was about to confide anything but his grudging, &ldquo;Well,
      haryuh t'day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All her future life, this same red-labeled bread-crate in front of the
      bakery, this same thimble-shaped crack in the sidewalk a quarter of a
      block beyond Stowbody's granite hitching-post&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She silently handed her purchases to the silent Oscarina. She sat on the
      porch, rocking, fanning, twitchy with Hugh's whining.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott came home, grumbled, &ldquo;What the devil is the kid yapping about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess you can stand it ten minutes if I can stand it all day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He came to supper in his shirt sleeves, his vest partly open, revealing
      discolored suspenders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you put on your nice Palm Beach suit, and take off that hideous
      vest?&rdquo; she complained.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too much trouble. Too hot to go up-stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She realized that for perhaps a year she had not definitely looked at her
      husband. She regarded his table-manners. He violently chased fragments of
      fish about his plate with a knife and licked the knife after gobbling
      them. She was slightly sick. She asserted, &ldquo;I'm ridiculous. What do these
      things matter! Don't be so simple!&rdquo; But she knew that to her they did
      matter, these solecisms and mixed tenses of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      She realized that they found little to say; that, incredibly, they were
      like the talked-out couples whom she had pitied at restaurants.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bresnahan would have spouted in a lively, exciting, unreliable manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      She realized that Kennicott's clothes were seldom pressed. His coat was
      wrinkled; his trousers would flap at the knees when he arose. His shoes
      were unblacked, and they were of an elderly shapelessness. He refused to
      wear soft hats; cleaved to a hard derby, as a symbol of virility and
      prosperity; and sometimes he forgot to take it off in the house. She
      peeped at his cuffs. They were frayed in prickles of starched linen. She
      had turned them once; she clipped them every week; but when she had begged
      him to throw the shirt away, last Sunday morning at the crisis of the
      weekly bath, he had uneasily protested, &ldquo;Oh, it'll wear quite a while
      yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was shaved (by himself or more socially by Del Snafflin) only three
      times a week. This morning had not been one of the three times.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet he was vain of his new turn-down collars and sleek ties; he often
      spoke of the &ldquo;sloppy dressing&rdquo; of Dr. McGanum; and he laughed at old men
      who wore detachable cuffs or Gladstone collars.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not care much for the creamed codfish that evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      She noted that his nails were jagged and ill-shaped from his habit of
      cutting them with a pocket-knife and despising a nail-file as effeminate
      and urban. That they were invariably clean, that his were the scoured
      fingers of the surgeon, made his stubborn untidiness the more jarring.
      They were wise hands, kind hands, but they were not the hands of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      She remembered him in the days of courtship. He had tried to please her,
      then, had touched her by sheepishly wearing a colored band on his straw
      hat. Was it possible that those days of fumbling for each other were gone
      so completely? He had read books, to impress her; had said (she recalled
      it ironically) that she was to point out his every fault; had insisted
      once, as they sat in the secret place beneath the walls of Fort Snelling&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She shut the door on her thoughts. That was sacred ground. But it WAS a
      shame that&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She nervously pushed away her cake and stewed apricots.
    </p>
    <p>
      After supper, when they had been driven in from the porch by mosquitos,
      when Kennicott had for the two-hundredth time in five years commented, &ldquo;We
      must have a new screen on the porch&mdash;lets all the bugs in,&rdquo; they sat
      reading, and she noted, and detested herself for noting, and noted again
      his habitual awkwardness. He slumped down in one chair, his legs up on
      another, and he explored the recesses of his left ear with the end of his
      little finger&mdash;she could hear the faint smack&mdash;he kept it up&mdash;he
      kept it up&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He blurted, &ldquo;Oh. Forgot tell you. Some of the fellows coming in to play
      poker this evening. Suppose we could have some crackers and cheese and
      beer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She nodded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might have mentioned it before. Oh well, it's his house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poker-party straggled in: Sam Clark, Jack Elder, Dave Dyer, Jim
      Howland. To her they mechanically said, &ldquo;'Devenin',&rdquo; but to Kennicott, in
      a heroic male manner, &ldquo;Well, well, shall we start playing? Got a hunch I'm
      going to lick somebody real bad.&rdquo; No one suggested that she join them. She
      told herself that it was her own fault, because she was not more friendly;
      but she remembered that they never asked Mrs. Sam Clark to play.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bresnahan would have asked her.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat in the living-room, glancing across the hall at the men as they
      humped over the dining table.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were in shirt sleeves; smoking, chewing, spitting incessantly;
      lowering their voices for a moment so that she did not hear what they said
      and afterward giggling hoarsely; using over and over the canonical
      phrases: &ldquo;Three to dole,&rdquo; &ldquo;I raise you a finif,&rdquo; &ldquo;Come on now, ante up;
      what do you think this is, a pink tea?&rdquo; The cigar-smoke was acrid and
      pervasive. The firmness with which the men mouthed their cigars made the
      lower part of their faces expressionless, heavy, unappealing. They were
      like politicians cynically dividing appointments.
    </p>
    <p>
      How could they understand her world?
    </p>
    <p>
      Did that faint and delicate world exist? Was she a fool? She doubted her
      world, doubted herself, and was sick in the acid, smoke-stained air.
    </p>
    <p>
      She slipped back into brooding upon the habituality of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was as fixed in routine as an isolated old man. At first he had
      amorously deceived himself into liking her experiments with food&mdash;the
      one medium in which she could express imagination&mdash;but now he wanted
      only his round of favorite dishes: steak, roast beef, boiled pig's-feet,
      oatmeal, baked apples. Because at some more flexible period he had
      advanced from oranges to grape-fruit he considered himself an epicure.
    </p>
    <p>
      During their first autumn she had smiled over his affection for his
      hunting-coat, but now that the leather had come unstitched in dribbles of
      pale yellow thread, and tatters of canvas, smeared with dirt of the fields
      and grease from gun-cleaning, hung in a border of rags, she hated the
      thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wasn't her whole life like that hunting-coat?
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew every nick and brown spot on each piece of the set of china
      purchased by Kennicott's mother in 1895&mdash;discreet china with a
      pattern of washed-out forget-me-nots, rimmed with blurred gold: the
      gravy-boat, in a saucer which did not match, the solemn and evangelical
      covered vegetable-dishes, the two platters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twenty times had Kennicott sighed over the fact that Bea had broken the
      other platter&mdash;the medium-sized one.
    </p>
    <p>
      The kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Damp black iron sink, damp whitey-yellow drain-board with shreds of
      discolored wood which from long scrubbing were as soft as cotton thread,
      warped table, alarm clock, stove bravely blackened by Oscarina but an
      abomination in its loose doors and broken drafts and oven that never would
      keep an even heat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had done her best by the kitchen: painted it white, put up curtains,
      replaced a six-year-old calendar by a color print. She had hoped for
      tiling, and a kerosene range for summer cooking, but Kennicott always
      postponed these expenses.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was better acquainted with the utensils in the kitchen than with Vida
      Sherwin or Guy Pollock. The can-opener, whose soft gray metal handle was
      twisted from some ancient effort to pry open a window, was more pertinent
      to her than all the cathedrals in Europe; and more significant than the
      future of Asia was the never-settled weekly question as to whether the
      small kitchen knife with the unpainted handle or the second-best buckhorn
      carving-knife was better for cutting up cold chicken for Sunday supper.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She was ignored by the males till midnight. Her husband called, &ldquo;Suppose
      we could have some eats, Carrie?&rdquo; As she passed through the dining-room
      the men smiled on her, belly-smiles. None of them noticed her while she
      was serving the crackers and cheese and sardines and beer. They were
      determining the exact psychology of Dave Dyer in standing pat, two hours
      before.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they were gone she said to Kennicott, &ldquo;Your friends have the manners
      of a barroom. They expect me to wait on them like a servant. They're not
      so much interested in me as they would be in a waiter, because they don't
      have to tip me. Unfortunately! Well, good night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So rarely did she nag in this petty, hot-weather fashion that he was
      astonished rather than angry. &ldquo;Hey! Wait! What's the idea? I must say I
      don't get you. The boys&mdash;&mdash;Barroom? Why, Perce Bresnahan was
      saying there isn't a finer bunch of royal good fellows anywhere than just
      the crowd that were here tonight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They stood in the lower hall. He was too shocked to go on with his duties
      of locking the front door and winding his watch and the clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bresnahan! I'm sick of him!&rdquo; She meant nothing in particular.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Carrie, he's one of the biggest men in the country! Boston just eats
      out of his hand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if it does? How do we know but that in Boston, among well-bred
      people, he may be regarded as an absolute lout? The way he calls women
      'Sister,' and the way&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now look here! That'll do! Of course I know you don't mean it&mdash;you're
      simply hot and tired, and trying to work off your peeve on me. But just
      the same, I won't stand your jumping on Perce. You&mdash;&mdash;It's just
      like your attitude toward the war&mdash;so darn afraid that America will
      become militaristic&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are the pure patriot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By God, I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I heard you talking to Sam Clark tonight about ways of avoiding the
      income tax!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had recovered enough to lock the door; he clumped up-stairs ahead of
      her, growling, &ldquo;You don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly
      willing to pay my full tax&mdash;fact, I'm in favor of the income tax&mdash;even
      though I do think it's a penalty on frugality and enterprise&mdash;fact,
      it's an unjust, darn-fool tax. But just the same, I'll pay it. Only, I'm
      not idiot enough to pay more than the government makes me pay, and Sam and
      I were just figuring out whether all automobile expenses oughn't to be
      exemptions. I'll take a lot off you, Carrie, but I don't propose for one
      second to stand your saying I'm not patriotic. You know mighty well and
      good that I've tried to get away and join the army. And at the beginning
      of the whole fracas I said&mdash;I've said right along&mdash;that we ought
      to have entered the war the minute Germany invaded Belgium. You don't get
      me at all. You can't appreciate a man's work. You're abnormal. You've
      fussed so much with these fool novels and books and all this highbrow junk&mdash;&mdash;You
      like to argue!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It ended, a quarter of an hour later, in his calling her a &ldquo;neurotic&rdquo;
       before he turned away and pretended to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first time they had failed to make peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are two races of people, only two, and they live side by side. His
      calls mine 'neurotic'; mine calls his 'stupid.' We'll never understand
      each other, never; and it's madness for us to debate&mdash;to lie together
      in a hot bed in a creepy room&mdash;enemies, yoked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      It clarified in her the longing for a place of her own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While it's so hot, I think I'll sleep in the spare room,&rdquo; she said next
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bad idea.&rdquo; He was cheerful and kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The room was filled with a lumbering double bed and a cheap pine bureau.
      She stored the bed in the attic; replaced it by a cot which, with a denim
      cover, made a couch by day; put in a dressing-table, a rocker transformed
      by a cretonne cover; had Miles Bjornstam build book-shelves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott slowly understood that she meant to keep up her seclusion. In
      his queries, &ldquo;Changing the whole room?&rdquo; &ldquo;Putting your books in there?&rdquo; she
      caught his dismay. But it was so easy, once her door was closed, to shut
      out his worry. That hurt her&mdash;the ease of forgetting him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Bessie Smail sleuthed out this anarchy. She yammered, &ldquo;Why, Carrie,
      you ain't going to sleep all alone by yourself? I don't believe in that.
      Married folks should have the same room, of course! Don't go getting silly
      notions. No telling what a thing like that might lead to. Suppose I up and
      told your Uncle Whit that I wanted a room of my own!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol spoke of recipes for corn-pudding.
    </p>
    <p>
      But from Mrs. Dr. Westlake she drew encouragement. She had made an
      afternoon call on Mrs. Westlake. She was for the first time invited
      up-stairs, and found the suave old woman sewing in a white and mahogany
      room with a small bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, do you have your own royal apartments, and the doctor his?&rdquo; Carol
      hinted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed I do! The doctor says it's bad enough to have to stand my temper
      at meals. Do&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Mrs. Westlake looked at her sharply. &ldquo;Why,
      don't you do the same thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been thinking about it.&rdquo; Carol laughed in an embarrassed way. &ldquo;Then
      you wouldn't regard me as a complete hussy if I wanted to be by myself now
      and then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, child, every woman ought to get off by herself and turn over her
      thoughts&mdash;about children, and God, and how bad her complexion is, and
      the way men don't really understand her, and how much work she finds to do
      in the house, and how much patience it takes to endure some things in a
      man's love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; Carol said it in a gasp, her hands twisted together. She wanted to
      confess not only her hatred for the Aunt Bessies but her covert irritation
      toward those she best loved: her alienation from Kennicott, her
      disappointment in Guy Pollock, her uneasiness in the presence of Vida. She
      had enough self-control to confine herself to, &ldquo;Yes. Men! The dear
      blundering souls, we do have to get off and laugh at them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course we do. Not that you have to laugh at Dr. Kennicott so much, but
      MY man, heavens, now there's a rare old bird! Reading story-books when he
      ought to be tending to business! 'Marcus Westlake,' I say to him, 'you're
      a romantic old fool.' And does he get angry? He does not! He chuckles and
      says, 'Yes, my beloved, folks do say that married people grow to resemble
      each other!' Drat him!&rdquo; Mrs. Westlake laughed comfortably.
    </p>
    <p>
      After such a disclosure what could Carol do but return the courtesy by
      remarking that as for Kennicott, he wasn't romantic enough&mdash;the
      darling. Before she left she had babbled to Mrs. Westlake her dislike for
      Aunt Bessie, the fact that Kennicott's income was now more than five
      thousand a year, her view of the reason why Vida had married Raymie (which
      included some thoroughly insincere praise of Raymie's &ldquo;kind heart&rdquo;), her
      opinion of the library-board, just what Kennicott had said about Mrs.
      Carthal's diabetes, and what Kennicott thought of the several surgeons in
      the Cities.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went home soothed by confession, inspirited by finding a new friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The tragicomedy of the &ldquo;domestic situation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Oscarina went back home to help on the farm, and Carol had a succession of
      maids, with gaps between. The lack of servants was becoming one of the
      most cramping problems of the prairie town. Increasingly the farmers'
      daughters rebelled against village dullness, and against the unchanged
      attitude of the Juanitas toward &ldquo;hired girls.&rdquo; They went off to city
      kitchens, or to city shops and factories, that they might be free and even
      human after hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Jolly Seventeen were delighted at Carol's desertion by the loyal
      Oscarina. They reminded her that she had said, &ldquo;I don't have any trouble
      with maids; see how Oscarina stays on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Between incumbencies of Finn maids from the North Woods, Germans from the
      prairies, occasional Swedes and Norwegians and Icelanders, Carol did her
      own work&mdash;and endured Aunt Bessie's skittering in to tell her how to
      dampen a broom for fluffy dust, how to sugar doughnuts, how to stuff a
      goose. Carol was deft, and won shy praise from Kennicott, but as her
      shoulder blades began to sting, she wondered how many millions of women
      had lied to themselves during the death-rimmed years through which they
      had pretended to enjoy the puerile methods persisting in housework.
    </p>
    <p>
      She doubted the convenience and, as a natural sequent, the sanctity of the
      monogamous and separate home which she had regarded as the basis of all
      decent life.
    </p>
    <p>
      She considered her doubts vicious. She refused to remember how many of the
      women of the Jolly Seventeen nagged their husbands and were nagged by
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She energetically did not whine to Kennicott. But her eyes ached; she was
      not the girl in breeches and a flannel shirt who had cooked over a
      camp-fire in the Colorado mountains five years ago. Her ambition was to
      get to bed at nine; her strongest emotion was resentment over rising at
      half-past six to care for Hugh. The back of her neck ached as she got out
      of bed. She was cynical about the joys of a simple laborious life. She
      understood why workmen and workmen's wives are not grateful to their kind
      employers.
    </p>
    <p>
      At mid-morning, when she was momentarily free from the ache in her neck
      and back, she was glad of the reality of work. The hours were living and
      nimble. But she had no desire to read the eloquent little newspaper essays
      in praise of labor which are daily written by the white-browed
      journalistic prophets. She felt independent and (though she hid it) a bit
      surly.
    </p>
    <p>
      In cleaning the house she pondered upon the maid's-room. It was a
      slant-roofed, small-windowed hole above the kitchen, oppressive in summer,
      frigid in winter. She saw that while she had been considering herself an
      unusually good mistress, she had been permitting her friends Bea and
      Oscarina to live in a sty. She complained to Kennicott. &ldquo;What's the matter
      with it?&rdquo; he growled, as they stood on the perilous stairs dodging up from
      the kitchen. She commented upon the sloping roof of unplastered boards
      stained in brown rings by the rain, the uneven floor, the cot and its
      tumbled discouraged-looking quilts, the broken rocker, the distorting
      mirror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe it ain't any Hotel Radisson parlor, but still, it's so much better
      than anything these hired girls are accustomed to at home that they think
      it's fine. Seems foolish to spend money when they wouldn't appreciate it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But that night he drawled, with the casualness of a man who wishes to be
      surprising and delightful, &ldquo;Carrie, don't know but what we might begin to
      think about building a new house, one of these days. How'd you like that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;W-why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm getting to the point now where I feel we can afford one&mdash;and a
      corker! I'll show this burg something like a real house! We'll put one
      over on Sam and Harry! Make folks sit up an' take notice!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Daily he returned to the subject of the new house, but as to time and mode
      he was indefinite. At first she believed. She babbled of a low stone house
      with lattice windows and tulip-beds, of colonial brick, of a white frame
      cottage with green shutters and dormer windows. To her enthusiasms he
      answered, &ldquo;Well, ye-es, might be worth thinking about. Remember where I
      put my pipe?&rdquo; When she pressed him he fidgeted, &ldquo;I don't know; seems to me
      those kind of houses you speak of have been overdone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It proved that what he wanted was a house exactly like Sam Clark's, which
      was exactly like every third new house in every town in the country: a
      square, yellow stolidity with immaculate clapboards, a broad screened
      porch, tidy grass-plots, and concrete walks; a house resembling the mind
      of a merchant who votes the party ticket straight and goes to church once
      a month and owns a good car.
    </p>
    <p>
      He admitted, &ldquo;Well, yes, maybe it isn't so darn artistic but&mdash;&mdash;Matter
      of fact, though, I don't want a place just like Sam's. Maybe I would cut
      off that fool tower he's got, and I think probably it would look better
      painted a nice cream color. That yellow on Sam's house is too kind of
      flashy. Then there's another kind of house that's mighty nice and
      substantial-looking, with shingles, in a nice brown stain, instead of
      clapboards&mdash;seen some in Minneapolis. You're way off your base when
      you say I only like one kind of house!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Whittier and Aunt Bessie came in one evening when Carol was sleepily
      advocating a rose-garden cottage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've had a lot of experience with housekeeping, aunty, and don't you
      think,&rdquo; Kennicott appealed, &ldquo;that it would be sensible to have a nice
      square house, and pay more attention to getting a crackajack furnace than
      to all this architecture and doodads?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Bessie worked her lips as though they were an elastic band. &ldquo;Why of
      course! I know how it is with young folks like you, Carrie; you want
      towers and bay-windows and pianos and heaven knows what all, but the thing
      to get is closets and a good furnace and a handy place to hang out the
      washing, and the rest don't matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Uncle Whittier dribbled a little, put his face near to Carol's, and
      sputtered, &ldquo;Course it don't! What d'you care what folks think about the
      outside of your house? It's the inside you're living in. None of my
      business, but I must say you young folks that'd rather have cakes than
      potatoes get me riled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She reached her room before she became savage. Below, dreadfully near, she
      could hear the broom-swish of Aunt Bessie's voice, and the mop-pounding of
      Uncle Whittier's grumble. She had a reasonless dread that they would
      intrude on her, then a fear that she would yield to Gopher Prairie's
      conception of duty toward an Aunt Bessie and go down-stairs to be &ldquo;nice.&rdquo;
       She felt the demand for standardized behavior coming in waves from all the
      citizens who sat in their sitting-rooms watching her with respectable
      eyes, waiting, demanding, unyielding. She snarled, &ldquo;Oh, all right, I'll
      go!&rdquo; She powdered her nose, straightened her collar, and coldly marched
      down-stairs. The three elders ignored her. They had advanced from the new
      house to agreeable general fussing. Aunt Bessie was saying, in a tone like
      the munching of dry toast:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do think Mr. Stowbody ought to have had the rain-pipe fixed at our
      store right away. I went to see him on Tuesday morning before ten, no, it
      was couple minutes after ten, but anyway, it was long before noon&mdash;I
      know because I went right from the bank to the meat market to get some
      steak&mdash;my! I think it's outrageous, the prices Oleson &amp; McGuire
      charge for their meat, and it isn't as if they gave you a good cut either
      but just any old thing, and I had time to get it, and I stopped in at Mrs.
      Bogart's to ask about her rheumatism&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was watching Uncle Whittier. She knew from his taut expression that
      he was not listening to Aunt Bessie but herding his own thoughts, and that
      he would interrupt her bluntly. He did:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will, where c'n I get an extra pair of pants for this coat and vest? D'
      want to pay too much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, guess Nat Hicks could make you up a pair. But if I were you, I'd
      drop into Ike Rifkin's&mdash;his prices are lower than the Bon Ton's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph. Got the new stove in your office yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, been looking at some at Sam Clark's but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, y' ought get 't in. Don't do to put off getting a stove all summer,
      and then have it come cold on you in the fall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol smiled upon them ingratiatingly. &ldquo;Do you dears mind if I slip up to
      bed? I'm rather tired&mdash;cleaned the upstairs today.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She retreated. She was certain that they were discussing her, and foully
      forgiving her. She lay awake till she heard the distant creak of a bed
      which indicated that Kennicott had retired. Then she felt safe.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Kennicott who brought up the matter of the Smails at breakfast.
      With no visible connection he said, &ldquo;Uncle Whit is kind of clumsy, but
      just the same, he's a pretty wise old coot. He's certainly making good
      with the store.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol smiled, and Kennicott was pleased that she had come to her senses.
      &ldquo;As Whit says, after all the first thing is to have the inside of a house
      right, and darn the people on the outside looking in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It seemed settled that the house was to be a sound example of the Sam
      Clark school.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott made much of erecting it entirely for her and the baby. He spoke
      of closets for her frocks, and &ldquo;a comfy sewing-room.&rdquo; But when he drew on
      a leaf from an old account-book (he was a paper-saver and a string-picker)
      the plans for the garage, he gave much more attention to a cement floor
      and a work-bench and a gasoline-tank than he had to sewing-rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat back and was afraid.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the present rookery there were odd things&mdash;a step up from the hall
      to the dining-room, a picturesqueness in the shed and bedraggled lilac
      bush. But the new place would be smooth, standardized, fixed. It was
      probable, now that Kennicott was past forty, and settled, that this would
      be the last venture he would ever make in building. So long as she stayed
      in this ark, she would always have a possibility of change, but once she
      was in the new house, there she would sit for all the rest of her life&mdash;there
      she would die. Desperately she wanted to put it off, against the chance of
      miracles. While Kennicott was chattering about a patent swing-door for the
      garage she saw the swing-doors of a prison.
    </p>
    <p>
      She never voluntarily returned to the project. Aggrieved, Kennicott
      stopped drawing plans, and in ten days the new house was forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      Every year since their marriage Carol had longed for a trip through the
      East. Every year Kennicott had talked of attending the American Medical
      Association convention, &ldquo;and then afterwards we could do the East up
      brown. I know New York clean through&mdash;spent pretty near a week there&mdash;but
      I would like to see New England and all these historic places and have
      some sea-food.&rdquo; He talked of it from February to May, and in May he
      invariably decided that coming confinement-cases or land-deals would
      prevent his &ldquo;getting away from home-base for very long THIS year&mdash;and
      no sense going till we can do it right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The weariness of dish-washing had increased her desire to go. She pictured
      herself looking at Emerson's manse, bathing in a surf of jade and ivory,
      wearing a trottoir and a summer fur, meeting an aristocratic Stranger. In
      the spring Kennicott had pathetically volunteered, &ldquo;S'pose you'd like to
      get in a good long tour this summer, but with Gould and Mac away and so
      many patients depending on me, don't see how I can make it. By golly, I
      feel like a tightwad though, not taking you.&rdquo; Through all this restless
      July after she had tasted Bresnahan's disturbing flavor of travel and
      gaiety, she wanted to go, but she said nothing. They spoke of and
      postponed a trip to the Twin Cities. When she suggested, as though it were
      a tremendous joke, &ldquo;I think baby and I might up and leave you, and run off
      to Cape Cod by ourselves!&rdquo; his only reaction was &ldquo;Golly, don't know but
      what you may almost have to do that, if we don't get in a trip next year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Toward the end of July he proposed, &ldquo;Say, the Beavers are holding a
      convention in Joralemon, street fair and everything. We might go down
      tomorrow. And I'd like to see Dr. Calibree about some business. Put in the
      whole day. Might help some to make up for our trip. Fine fellow, Dr.
      Calibree.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Joralemon was a prairie town of the size of Gopher Prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their motor was out of order, and there was no passenger-train at an early
      hour. They went down by freight-train, after the weighty and
      conversational business of leaving Hugh with Aunt Bessie. Carol was
      exultant over this irregular jaunting. It was the first unusual thing,
      except the glance of Bresnahan, that had happened since the weaning of
      Hugh. They rode in the caboose, the small red cupola-topped car jerked
      along at the end of the train. It was a roving shanty, the cabin of a land
      schooner, with black oilcloth seats along the side, and for desk, a pine
      board to be let down on hinges. Kennicott played seven-up with the
      conductor and two brakemen. Carol liked the blue silk kerchiefs about the
      brakemen's throats; she liked their welcome to her, and their air of
      friendly independence. Since there were no sweating passengers crammed in
      beside her, she reveled in the train's slowness. She was part of these
      lakes and tawny wheat-fields. She liked the smell of hot earth and clean
      grease; and the leisurely chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug of the trucks was a
      song of contentment in the sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      She pretended that she was going to the Rockies. When they reached
      Joralemon she was radiant with holiday-making.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her eagerness began to lessen the moment they stopped at a red frame
      station exactly like the one they had just left at Gopher Prairie, and
      Kennicott yawned, &ldquo;Right on time. Just in time for dinner at the
      Calibrees'. I 'phoned the doctor from G. P. that we'd be here. 'We'll
      catch the freight that gets in before twelve,' I told him. He said he'd
      meet us at the depot and take us right up to the house for dinner.
      Calibree is a good man, and you'll find his wife is a mighty brainy little
      woman, bright as a dollar. By golly, there he is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Calibree was a squat, clean-shaven, conscientious-looking man of
      forty. He was curiously like his own brown-painted motor car, with
      eye-glasses for windshield. &ldquo;Want you to meet my wife, doctor&mdash;Carrie,
      make you 'quainted with Dr. Calibree,&rdquo; said Kennicott. Calibree bowed
      quietly and shook her hand, but before he had finished shaking it he was
      concentrating upon Kennicott with, &ldquo;Nice to see you, doctor. Say, don't
      let me forget to ask you about what you did in that exopthalmic goiter
      case&mdash;that Bohemian woman at Wahkeenyan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two men, on the front seat of the car, chanted goiters and ignored
      her. She did not know it. She was trying to feed her illusion of adventure
      by staring at unfamiliar houses . . . drab cottages, artificial stone
      bungalows, square painty stolidities with immaculate clapboards and broad
      screened porches and tidy grass-plots.
    </p>
    <p>
      Calibree handed her over to his wife, a thick woman who called her
      &ldquo;dearie,&rdquo; and asked if she was hot and, visibly searching for
      conversation, produced, &ldquo;Let's see, you and the doctor have a Little One,
      haven't you?&rdquo; At dinner Mrs. Calibree served the corned beef and cabbage
      and looked steamy, looked like the steamy leaves of cabbage. The men were
      oblivious of their wives as they gave the social passwords of Main Street,
      the orthodox opinions on weather, crops, and motor cars, then flung away
      restraint and gyrated in the debauch of shop-talk. Stroking his chin,
      drawling in the ecstasy of being erudite, Kennicott inquired, &ldquo;Say,
      doctor, what success have you had with thyroid for treatment of pains in
      the legs before child-birth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol did not resent their assumption that she was too ignorant to be
      admitted to masculine mysteries. She was used to it. But the cabbage and
      Mrs. Calibree's monotonous &ldquo;I don't know what we're coming to with all
      this difficulty getting hired girls&rdquo; were gumming her eyes with
      drowsiness. She sought to clear them by appealing to Calibree, in a manner
      of exaggerated liveliness, &ldquo;Doctor, have the medical societies in
      Minnesota ever advocated legislation for help to nursing mothers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Calibree slowly revolved toward her. &ldquo;Uh&mdash;I've never&mdash;uh&mdash;never
      looked into it. I don't believe much in getting mixed up in politics.&rdquo; He
      turned squarely from her and, peering earnestly at Kennicott, resumed,
      &ldquo;Doctor, what's been your experience with unilateral pyelonephritis?
      Buckburn of Baltimore advocates decapsulation and nephrotomy, but seems to
      me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not till after two did they rise. In the lee of the stonily mature trio
      Carol proceeded to the street fair which added mundane gaiety to the
      annual rites of the United and Fraternal Order of Beavers. Beavers, human
      Beavers, were everywhere: thirty-second degree Beavers in gray sack suits
      and decent derbies, more flippant Beavers in crash summer coats and straw
      hats, rustic Beavers in shirt sleeves and frayed suspenders; but whatever
      his caste-symbols, every Beaver was distinguished by an enormous
      shrimp-colored ribbon lettered in silver, &ldquo;Sir Knight and Brother, U. F.
      O. B., Annual State Convention.&rdquo; On the motherly shirtwaist of each of
      their wives was a badge &ldquo;Sir Knight's Lady.&rdquo; The Duluth delegation had
      brought their famous Beaver amateur band, in Zouave costumes of green
      velvet jacket, blue trousers, and scarlet fez. The strange thing was that
      beneath their scarlet pride the Zouaves' faces remained those of American
      business-men, pink, smooth, eye-glassed; and as they stood playing in a
      circle, at the corner of Main Street and Second, as they tootled on fifes
      or with swelling cheeks blew into cornets, their eyes remained as owlish
      as though they were sitting at desks under the sign &ldquo;This Is My Busy Day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol had supposed that the Beavers were average citizens organized for
      the purposes of getting cheap life-insurance and playing poker at the
      lodge-rooms every second Wednesday, but she saw a large poster which
      proclaimed:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     BEAVERS
     U. F. O. B.

     The greatest influence for good citizenship in the
     country.  The jolliest aggregation of red-blooded,
     open-handed, hustle-em-up good fellows in the world.
     Joralemon welcomes you to her hospitable city.
</pre>
    <p>
      Kennicott read the poster and to Calibree admired, &ldquo;Strong lodge, the
      Beavers. Never joined. Don't know but what I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Calibree adumbrated, &ldquo;They're a good bunch. Good strong lodge. See that
      fellow there that's playing the snare drum? He's the smartest wholesale
      grocer in Duluth, they say. Guess it would be worth joining. Oh say, are
      you doing much insurance examining?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went on to the street fair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lining one block of Main Street were the &ldquo;attractions&rdquo;&mdash;two hot-dog
      stands, a lemonade and pop-corn stand, a merry-go-round, and booths in
      which balls might be thrown at rag dolls, if one wished to throw balls at
      rag dolls. The dignified delegates were shy of the booths, but country
      boys with brickred necks and pale-blue ties and bright-yellow shoes, who
      had brought sweethearts into town in somewhat dusty and listed Fords, were
      wolfing sandwiches, drinking strawberry pop out of bottles, and riding the
      revolving crimson and gold horses. They shrieked and giggled;
      peanut-roasters whistled; the merry-go-round pounded out monotonous music;
      the barkers bawled, &ldquo;Here's your chance&mdash;here's your chance&mdash;come
      on here, boy&mdash;come on here&mdash;give that girl a good time&mdash;give
      her a swell time&mdash;here's your chance to win a genuwine gold watch for
      five cents, half a dime, the twentieth part of a dollah!&rdquo; The prairie sun
      jabbed the unshaded street with shafts that were like poisonous thorns the
      tinny cornices above the brick stores were glaring; the dull breeze
      scattered dust on sweaty Beavers who crawled along in tight scorching new
      shoes, up two blocks and back, up two blocks and back, wondering what to
      do next, working at having a good time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's head ached as she trailed behind the unsmiling Calibrees along the
      block of booths. She chirruped at Kennicott, &ldquo;Let's be wild! Let's ride on
      the merry-go-round and grab a gold ring!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott considered it, and mumbled to Calibree, &ldquo;Think you folks would
      like to stop and try a ride on the merry-go-round?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Calibree considered it, and mumbled to his wife, &ldquo;Think you'd like to stop
      and try a ride on the merry-go-round?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Calibree smiled in a washed-out manner, and sighed, &ldquo;Oh no, I don't
      believe I care to much, but you folks go ahead and try it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Calibree stated to Kennicott, &ldquo;No, I don't believe we care to a whole lot,
      but you folks go ahead and try it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott summarized the whole case against wildness: &ldquo;Let's try it some
      other time, Carrie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gave it up. She looked at the town. She saw that in adventuring from
      Main Street, Gopher Prairie, to Main Street, Joralemon, she had not
      stirred. There were the same two-story brick groceries with lodge-signs
      above the awnings; the same one-story wooden millinery shop; the same
      fire-brick garages; the same prairie at the open end of the wide street;
      the same people wondering whether the levity of eating a hot-dog sandwich
      would break their taboos.
    </p>
    <p>
      They reached Gopher Prairie at nine in the evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You look kind of hot,&rdquo; said Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Joralemon is an enterprising town, don't you think so?&rdquo; She broke. &ldquo;No! I
      think it's an ash-heap.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Carrie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He worried over it for a week. While he ground his plate with his knife as
      he energetically pursued fragments of bacon, he peeped at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;CARRIE'S all right. She's finicky, but she'll get over it. But I wish
      she'd hurry up about it! What she can't understand is that a fellow
      practising medicine in a small town like this has got to cut out the
      highbrow stuff, and not spend all his time going to concerts and shining
      his shoes. (Not but what he might be just as good at all these
      intellectual and art things as some other folks, if he had the time for
      it!)&rdquo; Dr. Will Kennicott was brooding in his office, during a free moment
      toward the end of the summer afternoon. He hunched down in his tilted
      desk-chair, undid a button of his shirt, glanced at the state news in the
      back of the Journal of the American Medical Association, dropped the
      magazine, leaned back with his right thumb hooked in the arm-hole of his
      vest and his left thumb stroking the back of his hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By golly, she's taking an awful big chance, though. You'd expect her to
      learn by and by that I won't be a parlor lizard. She says we try to 'make
      her over.' Well, she's always trying to make me over, from a perfectly
      good M. D. into a damn poet with a socialist necktie! She'd have a fit if
      she knew how many women would be willing to cuddle up to Friend Will and
      comfort him, if he'd give 'em the chance! There's still a few dames that
      think the old man isn't so darn unattractive! I'm glad I've ducked all
      that woman-game since I've been married but&mdash;&mdash;Be switched if
      sometimes I don't feel tempted to shine up to some girl that has sense
      enough to take life as it is; some frau that doesn't want to talk
      Longfellow all the time, but just hold my hand and say, 'You look all in,
      honey. Take it easy, and don't try to talk.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carrie thinks she's such a whale at analyzing folks. Giving the town the
      once-over. Telling us where we get off. Why, she'd simply turn up her toes
      and croak if she found out how much she doesn't know about the high old
      times a wise guy could have in this burg on the Q.T., if he wasn't
      faithful to his wife. But I am. At that, no matter what faults she's got,
      there's nobody here, no, nor in Minn'aplus either, that's as nice-looking
      and square and bright as Carrie. She ought to of been an artist or a
      writer or one of those things. But once she took a shot at living here,
      she ought to stick by it. Pretty&mdash;&mdash;Lord yes. But cold. She
      simply doesn't know what passion is. She simply hasn't got an í-dea how
      hard it is for a full-blooded man to go on pretending to be satisfied with
      just being endured. It gets awful tiresome, having to feel like a criminal
      just because I'm normal. She's getting so she doesn't even care for my
      kissing her. Well&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess I can weather it, same as I did earning my way through school and
      getting started in practise. But I wonder how long I can stand being an
      outsider in my own home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat up at the entrance of Mrs. Dave Dyer. She slumped into a chair and
      gasped with the heat. He chuckled, &ldquo;Well, well, Maud, this is fine.
      Where's the subscription-list? What cause do I get robbed for, this trip?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't any subscription-list, Will. I want to see you professionally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you a Christian Scientist? Have you given that up? What next? New
      Thought or Spiritualism?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I have not given it up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strikes me it's kind of a knock on the sisterhood, your coming to see a
      doctor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it isn't. It's just that my faith isn't strong enough yet. So there
      now! And besides, you ARE kind of consoling, Will. I mean as a man, not
      just as a doctor. You're so strong and placid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat on the edge of his desk, coatless, his vest swinging open with the
      thick gold line of his watch-chain across the gap, his hands in his
      trousers pockets, his big arms bent and easy. As she purred he cocked an
      interested eye. Maud Dyer was neurotic, religiocentric, faded; her
      emotions were moist, and her figure was unsystematic&mdash;splendid thighs
      and arms, with thick ankles, and a body that was bulgy in the wrong
      places. But her milky skin was delicious, her eyes were alive, her
      chestnut hair shone, and there was a tender slope from her ears to the
      shadowy place below her jaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      With unusual solicitude he uttered his stock phrase, &ldquo;Well, what seems to
      be the matter, Maud?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've got such a backache all the time. I'm afraid the organic trouble
      that you treated me for is coming back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any definite signs of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no, but I think you'd better examine me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope. Don't believe it's necessary, Maud. To be honest, between old
      friends, I think your troubles are mostly imaginary. I can't really advise
      you to have an examination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She flushed, looked out of the window. He was conscious that his voice was
      not impersonal and even.
    </p>
    <p>
      She turned quickly. &ldquo;Will, you always say my troubles are imaginary. Why
      can't you be scientific? I've been reading an article about these new
      nerve-specialists, and they claim that lots of 'imaginary' ailments, yes,
      and lots of real pain, too, are what they call psychoses, and they order a
      change in a woman's way of living so she can get on a higher plane&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait! Wait! Whoa-up! Wait now! Don't mix up your Christian Science and
      your psychology! They're two entirely different fads! You'll be mixing in
      socialism next! You're as bad as Carrie, with your 'psychoses.' Why, Good
      Lord, Maud, I could talk about neuroses and psychoses and inhibitions and
      repressions and complexes just as well as any damn specialist, if I got
      paid for it, if I was in the city and had the nerve to charge the fees
      that those fellows do. If a specialist stung you for a hundred-dollar
      consultation-fee and told you to go to New York to duck Dave's nagging,
      you'd do it, to save the hundred dollars! But you know me&mdash;I'm your
      neighbor&mdash;you see me mowing the lawn&mdash;you figure I'm just a plug
      general practitioner. If I said, 'Go to New York,' Dave and you would
      laugh your heads off and say, 'Look at the airs Will is putting on. What
      does he think he is?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a matter of fact, you're right. You have a perfectly well-developed
      case of repression of sex instinct, and it raises the old Ned with your
      body. What you need is to get away from Dave and travel, yes, and go to
      every dog-gone kind of New Thought and Bahai and Swami and Hooptedoodle
      meeting you can find. I know it, well 's you do. But how can I advise it?
      Dave would be up here taking my hide off. I'm willing to be family
      physician and priest and lawyer and plumber and wet-nurse, but I draw the
      line at making Dave loosen up on money. Too hard a job in weather like
      this! So, savvy, my dear? Believe it will rain if this heat keeps&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Will, he'd never give it to me on my say-so. He'd never let me go
      away. You know how Dave is: so jolly and liberal in society, and oh, just
      LOVES to match quarters, and such a perfect sport if he loses! But at home
      he pinches a nickel till the buffalo drips blood. I have to nag him for
      every single dollar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, I know, but it's your fight, honey. Keep after him. He'd simply
      resent my butting in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He crossed over and patted her shoulder. Outside the window, beyond the
      fly-screen that was opaque with dust and cottonwood lint, Main Street was
      hushed except for the impatient throb of a standing motor car. She took
      his firm hand, pressed his knuckles against her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Will, Dave is so mean and little and noisy&mdash;the shrimp! You're so
      calm. When he's cutting up at parties I see you standing back and watching
      him&mdash;the way a mastiff watches a terrier.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He fought for professional dignity with, &ldquo;Dave 's not a bad fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lingeringly she released his hand. &ldquo;Will, drop round by the house this
      evening and scold me. Make me be good and sensible. And I'm so lonely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I did, Dave would be there, and we'd have to play cards. It's his
      evening off from the store.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. The clerk just got called to Corinth&mdash;mother sick. Dave will be
      in the store till midnight. Oh, come on over. There's some lovely beer on
      the ice, and we can sit and talk and be all cool and lazy. That wouldn't
      be wrong of us, WOULD it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, course it wouldn't be wrong. But still, oughtn't to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       He saw Carol, slim black and ivory, cool, scornful of intrigue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right. But I'll be so lonely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her throat seemed young, above her loose blouse of muslin and
      machine-lace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell you, Maud: I'll drop in just for a minute, if I happen to be called
      down that way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you'd like,&rdquo; demurely. &ldquo;O Will, I just want comfort. I know you're all
      married, and my, such a proud papa, and of course now&mdash;&mdash;If I
      could just sit near you in the dusk, and be quiet, and forget Dave! You
      WILL come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure I will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll expect you. I'll be lonely if you don't come! Good-by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He cursed himself: &ldquo;Darned fool, what 'd I promise to go for? I'll have to
      keep my promise, or she'll feel hurt. She's a good, decent, affectionate
      girl, and Dave's a cheap skate, all right. She's got more life to her than
      Carol has. All my fault, anyway. Why can't I be more cagey, like Calibree
      and McGanum and the rest of the doctors? Oh, I am, but Maud's such a
      demanding idiot. Deliberately bamboozling me into going up there tonight.
      Matter of principle: ought not to let her get away with it. I won't go.
      I'll call her up and tell her I won't go. Me, with Carrie at home, finest
      little woman in the world, and a messy-minded female like Maud Dyer&mdash;no,
      SIR! Though there's no need of hurting her feelings. I may just drop in
      for a second, to tell her I can't stay. All my fault anyway; ought never
      to have started in and jollied Maud along in the old days. If it's my
      fault, I've got no right to punish Maud. I could just drop in for a second
      and then pretend I had a country call and beat it. Damn nuisance, though,
      having to fake up excuses. Lord, why can't the women let you alone? Just
      because once or twice, seven hundred million years ago, you were a poor
      fool, why can't they let you forget it? Maud's own fault. I'll stay
      strictly away. Take Carrie to the movies, and forget Maud. . . . But it
      would be kind of hot at the movies tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He fled from himself. He rammed on his hat, threw his coat over his arm,
      banged the door, locked it, tramped downstairs. &ldquo;I won't go!&rdquo; he said
      sturdily and, as he said it, he would have given a good deal to know
      whether he was going.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was refreshed, as always, by the familiar windows and faces. It
      restored his soul to have Sam Clark trustingly bellow, &ldquo;Better come down
      to the lake this evening and have a swim, doc. Ain't you going to open
      your cottage at all, this summer? By golly, we miss you.&rdquo; He noted the
      progress on the new garage. He had triumphed in the laying of every course
      of bricks; in them he had seen the growth of the town. His pride was
      ushered back to its throne by the respectfulness of Oley Sundquist:
      &ldquo;Evenin', doc! The woman is a lot better. That was swell medicine you gave
      her.&rdquo; He was calmed by the mechanicalness of the tasks at home: burning
      the gray web of a tent-worm on the wild cherry tree, sealing with gum a
      cut in the right front tire of the car, sprinkling the road before the
      house. The hose was cool to his hands. As the bright arrows fell with a
      faint puttering sound, a crescent of blackness was formed in the gray
      dust.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dave Dyer came along.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where going, Dave?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Down to the store. Just had supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Thursday 's your night off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, but Pete went home. His mother 's supposed to be sick. Gosh, these
      clerks you get nowadays&mdash;overpay 'em and then they won't work!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's tough, Dave. You'll have to work clear up till twelve, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yup. Better drop in and have a cigar, if you're downtown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I may, at that. May have to go down and see Mrs. Champ Perry. She's
      ailing. So long, Dave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had not yet entered the house. He was conscious that Carol was
      near him, that she was important, that he was afraid of her disapproval;
      but he was content to be alone. When he had finished sprinkling he
      strolled into the house, up to the baby's room, and cried to Hugh,
      &ldquo;Story-time for the old man, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was in a low chair, framed and haloed by the window behind her, an
      image in pale gold. The baby curled in her lap, his head on her arm,
      listening with gravity while she sang from Gene Field:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning&mdash;
     'Tis little Luddy-Dud at night:
     And all day long
     'Tis the same dear song
     Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite.
</pre>
    <p>
      Kennicott was enchanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maud Dyer? I should say not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the current maid bawled up-stairs, &ldquo;Supper on de table!&rdquo; Kennicott
      was upon his back, flapping his hands in the earnest effort to be a seal,
      thrilled by the strength with which his son kicked him. He slipped his arm
      about Carol's shoulder; he went down to supper rejoicing that he was
      cleansed of perilous stuff. While Carol was putting the baby to bed he sat
      on the front steps. Nat Hicks, tailor and roue, came to sit beside him.
      Between waves of his hand as he drove off mosquitos, Nat whispered, &ldquo;Say,
      doc, you don't feel like imagining you're a bacheldore again, and coming
      out for a Time tonight, do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As how?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know this new dressmaker, Mrs. Swiftwaite?&mdash;swell dame with
      blondine hair? Well, she's a pretty good goer. Me and Harry Haydock are
      going to take her and that fat wren that works in the Bon Ton&mdash;nice
      kid, too&mdash;on an auto ride tonight. Maybe we'll drive down to that
      farm Harry bought. We're taking some beer, and some of the smoothest rye
      you ever laid tongue to. I'm not predicting none, but if we don't have a
      picnic, I'll miss my guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to it. No skin off my ear, Nat. Think I want to be fifth wheel in the
      coach?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but look here: The little Swiftwaite has a friend with her from
      Winona, dandy looker and some gay bird, and Harry and me thought maybe
      you'd like to sneak off for one evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rats now, doc, forget your everlasting dignity. You used to be a pretty
      good sport yourself, when you were foot-free.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It may have been the fact that Mrs. Swiftwaite's friend remained to
      Kennicott an ill-told rumor, it may have been Carol's voice, wistful in
      the pallid evening as she sang to Hugh, it may have been natural and
      commendable virtue, but certainly he was positive:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope. I'm married for keeps. Don't pretend to be any saint. Like to get
      out and raise Cain and shoot a few drinks. But a fellow owes a duty&mdash;&mdash;Straight
      now, won't you feel like a sneak when you come back to the missus after
      your jamboree?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me? My moral in life is, 'What they don't know won't hurt 'em none.' The
      way to handle wives, like the fellow says, is to catch 'em early, treat
      'em rough, and tell 'em nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, that's your business, I suppose. But I can't get away with it.
      Besides that&mdash;way I figure it, this illicit love-making is the one
      game that you always lose at. If you do lose, you feel foolish; and if you
      win, as soon as you find out how little it is that you've been scheming
      for, why then you lose worse than ever. Nature stinging us, as usual. But
      at that, I guess a lot of wives in this burg would be surprised if they
      knew everything that goes on behind their backs, eh, Nattie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;WOULD they! Say, boy! If the good wives knew what some of the boys get
      away with when they go down to the Cities, why, they'd throw a fit! Sure
      you won't come, doc? Think of getting all cooled off by a good long drive,
      and then the lov-e-ly Swiftwaite's white hand mixing you a good stiff
      highball!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nope. Nope. Sorry. Guess I won't,&rdquo; grumbled Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was glad that Nat showed signs of going. But he was restless. He heard
      Carol on the stairs. &ldquo;Come have a seat&mdash;have the whole earth!&rdquo; he
      shouted jovially.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not answer his joviality. She sat on the porch, rocked silently,
      then sighed, &ldquo;So many mosquitos out here. You haven't had the screen
      fixed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As though he was testing her he said quietly, &ldquo;Head aching again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, not much, but&mdash;&mdash;This maid is SO slow to learn. I have to
      show her everything. I had to clean most of the silver myself. And Hugh
      was so bad all afternoon. He whined so. Poor soul, he was hot, but he did
      wear me out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uh&mdash;&mdash;You usually want to get out. Like to walk down to the
      lake shore? (The girl can stay home.) Or go to the movies? Come on, let's
      go to the movies! Or shall we jump in the car and run out to Sam's, for a
      swim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you don't mind, dear, I'm afraid I'm rather tired.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don't you sleep down-stairs tonight, on the couch? Be cooler. I'm
      going to bring down my mattress. Come on! Keep the old man company. Can't
      tell&mdash;I might get scared of burglars. Lettin' little fellow like me
      stay all alone by himself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's sweet of you to think of it, but I like my own room so much. But you
      go ahead and do it, dear. Why don't you sleep on the couch, instead of
      putting your mattress on the floor? Well I believe I'll run in and read
      for just a second&mdash;want to look at the last Vogue&mdash;and then
      perhaps I'll go by-by. Unless you want me, dear? Of course if there's
      anything you really WANT me for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. No. . . . Matter of fact, I really ought to run down and see Mrs.
      Champ Perry. She's ailing. So you skip in and&mdash;&mdash;May drop in at
      the drug store. If I'm not home when you get sleepy, don't wait up for
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He kissed her, rambled off, nodded to Jim Howland, stopped indifferently
      to speak to Mrs. Terry Gould. But his heart was racing, his stomach was
      constricted. He walked more slowly. He reached Dave Dyer's yard. He
      glanced in. On the porch, sheltered by a wild-grape vine, was the figure
      of a woman in white. He heard the swing-couch creak as she sat up
      abruptly, peered, then leaned back and pretended to relax.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be nice to have some cool beer. Just drop in for a second,&rdquo; he insisted,
      as he opened the Dyer gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart was calling upon Carol, protected by Aunt Bessie Smail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you heard about this awful woman that's supposed to have come here
      to do dressmaking&mdash;a Mrs. Swiftwaite&mdash;awful peroxide blonde?&rdquo;
       moaned Mrs. Bogart. &ldquo;They say there's some of the awfullest goings-on at
      her house&mdash;mere boys and old gray-headed rips sneaking in there
      evenings and drinking licker and every kind of goings-on. We women can't
      never realize the carnal thoughts in the hearts of men. I tell you, even
      though I been acquainted with Will Kennicott almost since he was a mere
      boy, seems like, I wouldn't trust even him! Who knows what designin' women
      might tempt him! Especially a doctor, with women rushin' in to see him at
      his office and all! You know I never hint around, but haven't you felt
      that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was furious. &ldquo;I don't pretend that Will has no faults. But one thing
      I do know: He's as simple-hearted about what you call 'goings-on' as a
      babe. And if he ever were such a sad dog as to look at another woman, I
      certainly hope he'd have spirit enough to do the tempting, and not be
      coaxed into it, as in your depressing picture!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what a wicked thing to say, Carrie!&rdquo; from Aunt Bessie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I mean it! Oh, of course, I don't mean it! But&mdash;&mdash;I know
      every thought in his head so well that he couldn't hide anything even if
      he wanted to. Now this morning&mdash;&mdash;He was out late, last night;
      he had to go see Mrs. Perry, who is ailing, and then fix a man's hand, and
      this morning he was so quiet and thoughtful at breakfast and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       She leaned forward, breathed dramatically to the two perched harpies,
      &ldquo;What do you suppose he was thinking of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; trembled Mrs. Bogart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whether the grass needs cutting, probably! There, there! Don't mind my
      naughtiness. I have some fresh-made raisin cookies for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      CAROL'S liveliest interest was in her walks with the baby. Hugh wanted to
      know what the box-elder tree said, and what the Ford garage said, and what
      the big cloud said, and she told him, with a feeling that she was not in
      the least making up stories, but discovering the souls of things. They had
      an especial fondness for the hitching-post in front of the mill. It was a
      brown post, stout and agreeable; the smooth leg of it held the sunlight,
      while its neck, grooved by hitching-straps, tickled one's fingers. Carol
      had never been awake to the earth except as a show of changing color and
      great satisfying masses; she had lived in people and in ideas about having
      ideas; but Hugh's questions made her attentive to the comedies of
      sparrows, robins, blue jays, yellowhammers; she regained her pleasure in
      the arching flight of swallows, and added to it a solicitude about their
      nests and family squabbles.
    </p>
    <p>
      She forgot her seasons of boredom. She said to Hugh, &ldquo;We're two fat
      disreputable old minstrels roaming round the world,&rdquo; and he echoed her,
      &ldquo;Roamin' round&mdash;roamin' round.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The high adventure, the secret place to which they both fled joyously, was
      the house of Miles and Bea and Olaf Bjornstam.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott steadily disapproved of the Bjornstams. He protested, &ldquo;What do
      you want to talk to that crank for?&rdquo; He hinted that a former &ldquo;Swede hired
      girl&rdquo; was low company for the son of Dr. Will Kennicott. She did not
      explain. She did not quite understand it herself; did not know that in the
      Bjornstams she found her friends, her club, her sympathy and her ration of
      blessed cynicism. For a time the gossip of Juanita Haydock and the Jolly
      Seventeen had been a refuge from the droning of Aunt Bessie, but the
      relief had not continued. The young matrons made her nervous. They talked
      so loud, always so loud. They filled a room with clashing cackle; their
      jests and gags they repeated nine times over. Unconsciously, she had
      discarded the Jolly Seventeen, Guy Pollock, Vida, and every one save Mrs.
      Dr. Westlake and the friends whom she did not clearly know as friends&mdash;the
      Bjornstams.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Hugh, the Red Swede was the most heroic and powerful person in the
      world. With unrestrained adoration he trotted after while Miles fed the
      cows, chased his one pig&mdash;an animal of lax and migratory instincts&mdash;or
      dramatically slaughtered a chicken. And to Hugh, Olaf was lord among
      mortal men, less stalwart than the old monarch, King Miles, but more
      understanding of the relations and values of things, of small sticks, lone
      playing-cards, and irretrievably injured hoops.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol saw, though she did not admit, that Olaf was not only more beautiful
      than her own dark child, but more gracious. Olaf was a Norse chieftain:
      straight, sunny-haired, large-limbed, resplendently amiable to his
      subjects. Hugh was a vulgarian; a bustling business man. It was Hugh that
      bounced and said &ldquo;Let's play&rdquo;; Olaf that opened luminous blue eyes and
      agreed &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; in condescending gentleness. If Hugh batted him&mdash;and
      Hugh did bat him&mdash;Olaf was unafraid but shocked. In magnificent
      solitude he marched toward the house, while Hugh bewailed his sin and the
      overclouding of august favor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two friends played with an imperial chariot which Miles had made out
      of a starch-box and four red spools; together they stuck switches into a
      mouse-hole, with vast satisfaction though entirely without known results.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea, the chubby and humming Bea, impartially gave cookies and scoldings to
      both children, and if Carol refused a cup of coffee and a wafer of
      buttered knackebrod, she was desolated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles had done well with his dairy. He had six cows, two hundred chickens,
      a cream separator, a Ford truck. In the spring he had built a two-room
      addition to his shack. That illustrious building was to Hugh a carnival.
      Uncle Miles did the most spectacular, unexpected things: ran up the
      ladder; stood on the ridge-pole, waving a hammer and singing something
      about &ldquo;To arms, my citizens&rdquo;; nailed shingles faster than Aunt Bessie
      could iron handkerchiefs; and lifted a two-by-six with Hugh riding on one
      end and Olaf on the other. Uncle Miles's most ecstatic trick was to make
      figures not on paper but right on a new pine board, with the broadest
      softest pencil in the world. There was a thing worth seeing!
    </p>
    <p>
      The tools! In his office Father had tools fascinating in their shininess
      and curious shapes, but they were sharp, they were something called
      sterized, and they distinctly were not for boys to touch. In fact it was a
      good dodge to volunteer &ldquo;I must not touch,&rdquo; when you looked at the tools
      on the glass shelves in Father's office. But Uncle Miles, who was a person
      altogether superior to Father, let you handle all his kit except the saws.
      There was a hammer with a silver head; there was a metal thing like a big
      L; there was a magic instrument, very precious, made out of costly red
      wood and gold, with a tube which contained a drop&mdash;no, it wasn't a
      drop, it was a nothing, which lived in the water, but the nothing LOOKED
      like a drop, and it ran in a frightened way up and down the tube, no
      matter how cautiously you tilted the magic instrument. And there were
      nails, very different and clever&mdash;big valiant spikes, middle-sized
      ones which were not very interesting, and shingle-nails much jollier than
      the fussed-up fairies in the yellow book.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      While he had worked on the addition Miles had talked frankly to Carol. He
      admitted now that so long as he stayed in Gopher Prairie he would remain a
      pariah. Bea's Lutheran friends were as much offended by his agnostic gibes
      as the merchants by his radicalism. &ldquo;And I can't seem to keep my mouth
      shut. I think I'm being a baa-lamb, and not springing any theories wilder
      than 'c-a-t spells cat,' but when folks have gone, I re'lize I've been
      stepping on their pet religious corns. Oh, the mill foreman keeps dropping
      in, and that Danish shoemaker, and one fellow from Elder's factory, and a
      few Svenskas, but you know Bea: big good-hearted wench like her wants a
      lot of folks around&mdash;likes to fuss over 'em&mdash;never satisfied
      unless she tiring herself out making coffee for somebody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once she kidnapped me and drug me to the Methodist Church. I goes in,
      pious as Widow Bogart, and sits still and never cracks a smile while the
      preacher is favoring us with his misinformation on evolution. But
      afterwards, when the old stalwarts were pumphandling everybody at the door
      and calling 'em 'Brother' and 'Sister,' they let me sail right by with
      nary a clinch. They figure I'm the town badman. Always will be, I guess.
      It'll have to be Olaf who goes on. 'And sometimes&mdash;&mdash;Blamed if I
      don't feel like coming out and saying, 'I've been conservative. Nothing to
      it. Now I'm going to start something in these rotten one-horse
      lumber-camps west of town.' But Bea's got me hypnotized. Lord, Mrs.
      Kennicott, do you re'lize what a jolly, square, faithful woman she is? And
      I love Olaf&mdash;&mdash;Oh well, I won't go and get sentimental on you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Course I've had thoughts of pulling up stakes and going West. Maybe if
      they didn't know it beforehand, they wouldn't find out I'd ever been
      guilty of trying to think for myself. But&mdash;oh, I've worked hard, and
      built up this dairy business, and I hate to start all over again, and move
      Bea and the kid into another one-room shack. That's how they get us!
      Encourage us to be thrifty and own our own houses, and then, by golly,
      they've got us; they know we won't dare risk everything by committing lez&mdash;what
      is it? lez majesty?&mdash;I mean they know we won't be hinting around that
      if we had a co-operative bank, we could get along without Stowbody. Well&mdash;&mdash;As
      long as I can sit and play pinochle with Bea, and tell whoppers to Olaf
      about his daddy's adventures in the woods, and how he snared a wapaloosie
      and knew Paul Bunyan, why, I don't mind being a bum. It's just for them
      that I mind. Say! Say! Don't whisper a word to Bea, but when I get this
      addition done, I'm going to buy her a phonograph!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was busy with the activities her work-hungry muscles found&mdash;washing,
      ironing, mending, baking, dusting, preserving, plucking a chicken,
      painting the sink; tasks which, because she was Miles's full partner, were
      exciting and creative&mdash;Bea listened to the phonograph records with
      rapture like that of cattle in a warm stable. The addition gave her a
      kitchen with a bedroom above. The original one-room shack was now a
      living-room, with the phonograph, a genuine leather-upholstered golden-oak
      rocker, and a picture of Governor John Johnson.
    </p>
    <p>
      In late July Carol went to the Bjornstams' desirous of a chance to express
      her opinion of Beavers and Calibrees and Joralemons. She found Olaf abed,
      restless from a slight fever, and Bea flushed and dizzy but trying to keep
      up her work. She lured Miles aside and worried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They don't look at all well. What's the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their stomachs are out of whack. I wanted to call in Doc Kennicott, but
      Bea thinks the doc doesn't like us&mdash;she thinks maybe he's sore
      because you come down here. But I'm getting worried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going to call the doctor at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She yearned over Olaf. His lambent eyes were stupid, he moaned, he rubbed
      his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they been eating something that's been bad for them?&rdquo; she fluttered
      to Miles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Might be bum water. I'll tell you: We used to get our water at Oscar
      Eklund's place, over across the street, but Oscar kept dinging at me, and
      hinting I was a tightwad not to dig a well of my own. One time he said,
      'Sure, you socialists are great on divvying up other folks' money&mdash;and
      water!' I knew if he kept it up there'd be a fuss, and I ain't safe to
      have around, once a fuss starts; I'm likely to forget myself and let loose
      with a punch in the snoot. I offered to pay Oscar but he refused&mdash;he'd
      rather have the chance to kid me. So I starts getting water down at Mrs.
      Fageros's, in the hollow there, and I don't believe it's real good.
      Figuring to dig my own well this fall.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One scarlet word was before Carol's eyes while she listened. She fled to
      Kennicott's office. He gravely heard her out; nodded, said, &ldquo;Be right
      over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He examined Bea and Olaf. He shook his head. &ldquo;Yes. Looks to me like
      typhoid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Golly, I've seen typhoid in lumber-camps,&rdquo; groaned Miles, all the
      strength dripping out of him. &ldquo;Have they got it very bad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we'll take good care of them,&rdquo; said Kennicott, and for the first time
      in their acquaintance he smiled on Miles and clapped his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't you need a nurse?&rdquo; demanded Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; To Miles, Kennicott hinted, &ldquo;Couldn't you get Bea's
      cousin, Tina?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's down at the old folks', in the country.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then let me do it!&rdquo; Carol insisted. &ldquo;They need some one to cook for them,
      and isn't it good to give them sponge baths, in typhoid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. All right.&rdquo; Kennicott was automatic; he was the official, the
      physician. &ldquo;I guess probably it would be hard to get a nurse here in town
      just now. Mrs. Stiver is busy with an obstetrical case, and that town
      nurse of yours is off on vacation, ain't she? All right, Bjornstam can
      spell you at night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All week, from eight each morning till midnight, Carol fed them, bathed
      them, smoothed sheets, took temperatures. Miles refused to let her cook.
      Terrified, pallid, noiseless in stocking feet, he did the kitchen work and
      the sweeping, his big red hands awkwardly careful. Kennicott came in three
      times a day, unchangingly tender and hopeful in the sick-room, evenly
      polite to Miles.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol understood how great was her love for her friends. It bore her
      through; it made her arm steady and tireless to bathe them. What exhausted
      her was the sight of Bea and Olaf turned into flaccid invalids,
      uncomfortably flushed after taking food, begging for the healing of sleep
      at night.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the second week Olaf's powerful legs were flabby. Spots of a
      viciously delicate pink came out on his chest and back. His cheeks sank.
      He looked frightened. His tongue was brown and revolting. His confident
      voice dwindled to a bewildered murmur, ceaseless and racking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea had stayed on her feet too long at the beginning. The moment Kennicott
      had ordered her to bed she had begun to collapse. One early evening she
      startled them by screaming, in an intense abdominal pain, and within half
      an hour she was in a delirium. Till dawn Carol was with her, and not all
      of Bea's groping through the blackness of half-delirious pain was so
      pitiful to Carol as the way in which Miles silently peered into the room
      from the top of the narrow stairs. Carol slept three hours next morning,
      and ran back. Bea was altogether delirious but she muttered nothing save,
      &ldquo;Olaf&mdash;ve have such a good time&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At ten, while Carol was preparing an ice-bag in the kitchen, Miles
      answered a knock. At the front door she saw Vida Sherwin, Maud Dyer, and
      Mrs. Zitterel, wife of the Baptist pastor. They were carrying grapes, and
      women's-magazines, magazines with high-colored pictures and optimistic
      fiction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We just heard your wife was sick. We've come to see if there isn't
      something we can do,&rdquo; chirruped Vida.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles looked steadily at the three women. &ldquo;You're too late. You can't do
      nothing now. Bea's always kind of hoped that you folks would come see her.
      She wanted to have a chance and be friends. She used to sit waiting for
      somebody to knock. I've seen her sitting here, waiting. Now&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      you ain't worth God-damning.&rdquo; He shut the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      All day Carol watched Olaf's strength oozing. He was emaciated. His ribs
      were grim clear lines, his skin was clammy, his pulse was feeble but
      terrifyingly rapid. It beat&mdash;beat&mdash;beat in a drum-roll of death.
      Late that afternoon he sobbed, and died.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bea did not know it. She was delirious. Next morning, when she went, she
      did not know that Olaf would no longer swing his lath sword on the
      door-step, no longer rule his subjects of the cattle-yard; that Miles's
      son would not go East to college.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles, Carol, Kennicott were silent. They washed the bodies together,
      their eyes veiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go home now and sleep. You're pretty tired. I can't ever pay you back for
      what you done,&rdquo; Miles whispered to Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But I'll be back here tomorrow. Go with you to the funeral,&rdquo; she
      said laboriously.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the time for the funeral came, Carol was in bed, collapsed. She
      assumed that neighbors would go. They had not told her that word of
      Miles's rebuff to Vida had spread through town, a cyclonic fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only by chance that, leaning on her elbow in bed, she glanced
      through the window and saw the funeral of Bea and Olaf. There was no
      music, no carriages. There was only Miles Bjornstam, in his black
      wedding-suit, walking quite alone, head down, behind the shabby hearse
      that bore the bodies of his wife and baby.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour after, Hugh came into her room crying, and when she said as
      cheerily as she could, &ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo; he besought, &ldquo;Mummy, I want to
      go play with Olaf.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That afternoon Juanita Haydock dropped in to brighten Carol. She said,
      &ldquo;Too bad about this Bea that was your hired girl. But I don't waste any
      sympathy on that man of hers. Everybody says he drank too much, and
      treated his family awful, and that's how they got sick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      A LETTER from Raymie Wutherspoon, in France, said that he had been sent to
      the front, been slightly wounded, been made a captain. From Vida's pride
      Carol sought to draw a stimulant to rouse her from depression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miles had sold his dairy. He had several thousand dollars. To Carol he
      said good-by with a mumbled word, a harsh hand-shake, &ldquo;Going to buy a farm
      in northern Alberta&mdash;far off from folks as I can get.&rdquo; He turned
      sharply away, but he did not walk with his former spring. His shoulders
      seemed old.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was said that before he went he cursed the town. There was talk of
      arresting him, of riding him on a rail. It was rumored that at the station
      old Champ Perry rebuked him, &ldquo;You better not come back here. We've got
      respect for your dead, but we haven't got any for a blasphemer and a
      traitor that won't do anything for his country and only bought one Liberty
      Bond.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Some of the people who had been at the station declared that Miles made
      some dreadful seditious retort: something about loving German workmen more
      than American bankers; but others asserted that he couldn't find one word
      with which to answer the veteran; that he merely sneaked up on the
      platform of the train. He must have felt guilty, everybody agreed, for as
      the train left town, a farmer saw him standing in the vestibule and
      looking out.
    </p>
    <p>
      His house&mdash;with the addition which he had built four months ago&mdash;was
      very near the track on which his train passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Carol went there, for the last time, she found Olaf's chariot with
      its red spool wheels standing in the sunny corner beside the stable. She
      wondered if a quick eye could have noticed it from a train.
    </p>
    <p>
      That day and that week she went reluctantly to Red Cross work; she
      stitched and packed silently, while Vida read the war bulletins. And she
      said nothing at all when Kennicott commented, &ldquo;From what Champ says, I
      guess Bjornstam was a bad egg, after all. In spite of Bea, don't know but
      what the citizens' committee ought to have forced him to be patriotic&mdash;let
      on like they could send him to jail if he didn't volunteer and come
      through for bonds and the Y. M. C. A. They've worked that stunt fine with
      all these German farmers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She found no inspiration but she did find a dependable kindness in Mrs.
      Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old woman's receptivity and had
      relief in sobbing the story of Bea.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely a pleasant
      voice which said things about Charles Lamb and sunsets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs. Flickerbaugh, the
      tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney. Carol encountered her at the
      drug store.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Walking?&rdquo; snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that retains the use of
      her legs. Come home and have a cup o' tea with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she was uncomfortable
      in the presence of the amused stares which Mrs. Flickerbaugh's raiment
      drew. Today, in reeking early August, she wore a man's cap, a skinny fur
      like a dead cat, a necklace of imitation pearls, a scabrous satin blouse,
      and a thick cloth skirt hiked up in front.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope you don't mind the
      house looking like a rat's nest. You don't like this town. Neither do I,&rdquo;
       said Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Course you don't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find some solution.
      Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find the hexagonal hole.&rdquo; Carol
      was very brisk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know you ever will find it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman&mdash;she ought
      to have a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston&mdash;but she escapes
      by being absorbed in reading.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You be satisfied to never do anything but read?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town always!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll die here&mdash;and
      I'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a business woman. I had a
      good deal of talent for tending to figures. All gone now. Some folks think
      I'm crazy. Guess I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and sing hymns. Folks
      think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing and ironing and mending
      socks. Want an office of my own, and sell things. Julius never hear of it.
      Too late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could this drabness of
      life keep up forever, then? Would she some day so despise herself and her
      neighbors that she too would walk Main Street an old skinny eccentric
      woman in a mangy cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt that the trap had
      finally closed. She went into the house, a frail small woman, still
      winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with the weight of the drowsy
      boy in her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that Kennicott had to
      make a professional call on Mrs. Dave Dyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the street was meshed
      in silence. There was but the hum of motor tires crunching the road, the
      creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand attacking a
      mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the precise rhythm
      of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen&mdash;sounds that were a
      distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of the world, beyond the
      boundaries of hope. Though she should sit here forever, no brave
      procession, no one who was interesting, would be coming by. It was
      tediousness made tangible, a street builded of lassitude and of futility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and bounced when Cy
      tickled her ear in village love. They strolled with the half-dancing gait
      of lovers, kicking their feet out sideways or shuffling a dragging jig,
      and the concrete walk sounded to the broken two-four rhythm. Their voices
      had a dusky turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on the porch of the
      doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt that everywhere in the
      darkness panted an ardent quest which she was missing as she sank back to
      wait for&mdash;&mdash;There must be something.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT WAS at a supper of the Jolly Seventeen in August that Carol heard of
      &ldquo;Elizabeth,&rdquo; from Mrs. Dave Dyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was fond of Maud Dyer, because she had been particularly agreeable
      lately; had obviously repented of the nervous distaste which she had once
      shown. Maud patted her hand when they met, and asked about Hugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott said that he was &ldquo;kind of sorry for the girl, some ways; she's
      too darn emotional, but still, Dave is sort of mean to her.&rdquo; He was polite
      to poor Maud when they all went down to the cottages for a swim. Carol was
      proud of that sympathy in him, and now she took pains to sit with their
      new friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dyer was bubbling, &ldquo;Oh, have you folks heard about this young fellow
      that's just come to town that the boys call 'Elizabeth'? He's working in
      Nat Hicks's tailor shop. I bet he doesn't make eighteen a week, but my!
      isn't he the perfect lady though! He talks so refined, and oh, the lugs he
      puts on&mdash;belted coat, and pique collar with a gold pin, and socks to
      match his necktie, and honest&mdash;you won't believe this, but I got it
      straight&mdash;this fellow, you know he's staying at Mrs. Gurrey's punk
      old boarding-house, and they say he asked Mrs. Gurrey if he ought to put
      on a dress-suit for supper! Imagine! Can you beat that? And him nothing
      but a Swede tailor&mdash;Erik Valborg his name is. But he used to be in a
      tailor shop in Minneapolis (they do say he's a smart needle-pusher, at
      that) and he tries to let on that he's a regular city fellow. They say he
      tries to make people think he's a poet&mdash;carries books around and
      pretends to read 'em. Myrtle Cass says she met him at a dance, and he was
      mooning around all over the place, and he asked her did she like flowers
      and poetry and music and everything; he spieled like he was a regular
      United States Senator; and Myrtle&mdash;she's a devil, that girl, ha! ha!&mdash;she
      kidded him along, and got him going, and honest, what d'you think he said?
      He said he didn't find any intellectual companionship in this town. Can
      you BEAT it? Imagine! And him a Swede tailor! My! And they say he's the
      most awful mollycoddle&mdash;looks just like a girl. The boys call him
      'Elizabeth,' and they stop him and ask about the books he lets on to have
      read, and he goes and tells them, and they take it all in and jolly him
      terribly, and he never gets onto the fact they're kidding him. Oh, I think
      it's just TOO funny!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Jolly Seventeen laughed, and Carol laughed with them. Mrs. Jack Elder
      added that this Erik Valborg had confided to Mrs. Gurrey that he would
      &ldquo;love to design clothes for women.&rdquo; Imagine! Mrs. Harvey Dillon had had a
      glimpse of him, but honestly, she'd thought he was awfully handsome. This
      was instantly controverted by Mrs. B. J. Gougerling, wife of the banker.
      Mrs. Gougerling had had, she reported, a good look at this Valborg fellow.
      She and B. J. had been motoring, and passed &ldquo;Elizabeth&rdquo; out by McGruder's
      Bridge. He was wearing the awfullest clothes, with the waist pinched in
      like a girl's. He was sitting on a rock doing nothing, but when he heard
      the Gougerling car coming he snatched a book out of his pocket, and as
      they went by he pretended to be reading it, to show off. And he wasn't
      really good-looking&mdash;just kind of soft, as B. J. had pointed out.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the husbands came they joined in the expose. &ldquo;My name is Elizabeth.
      I'm the celebrated musical tailor. The skirts fall for me by the thou. Do
      I get some more veal loaf?&rdquo; merrily shrieked Dave Dyer. He had some
      admirable stories about the tricks the town youngsters had played on
      Valborg. They had dropped a decaying perch into his pocket. They had
      pinned on his back a sign, &ldquo;I'm the prize boob, kick me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Glad of any laughter, Carol joined the frolic, and surprised them by
      crying, &ldquo;Dave, I do think you're the dearest thing since you got your hair
      cut!&rdquo; That was an excellent sally. Everybody applauded. Kennicott looked
      proud.
    </p>
    <p>
      She decided that sometime she really must go out of her way to pass
      Hicks's shop and see this freak.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She was at Sunday morning service at the Baptist Church, in a solemn row
      with her husband, Hugh, Uncle Whittier, Aunt Bessie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Despite Aunt Bessie's nagging the Kennicotts rarely attended church. The
      doctor asserted, &ldquo;Sure, religion is a fine influence&mdash;got to have it
      to keep the lower classes in order&mdash;fact, it's the only thing that
      appeals to a lot of those fellows and makes 'em respect the rights of
      property. And I guess this theology is O.K.; lot of wise old coots figured
      it all out, and they knew more about it than we do.&rdquo; He believed in the
      Christian religion, and never thought about it, he believed in the church,
      and seldom went near it; he was shocked by Carol's lack of faith, and
      wasn't quite sure what was the nature of the faith that she lacked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol herself was an uneasy and dodging agnostic.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she ventured to Sunday School and heard the teachers droning that the
      genealogy of Shamsherai was a valuable ethical problem for children to
      think about; when she experimented with Wednesday prayer-meeting and
      listened to store-keeping elders giving their unvarying weekly testimony
      in primitive erotic symbols and such gory Chaldean phrases as &ldquo;washed in
      the blood of the lamb&rdquo; and &ldquo;a vengeful God&rdquo;; when Mrs. Bogart boasted that
      through his boyhood she had made Cy confess nightly upon the basis of the
      Ten Commandments; then Carol was dismayed to find the Christian religion,
      in America, in the twentieth century, as abnormal as Zoroastrianism&mdash;without
      the splendor. But when she went to church suppers and felt the
      friendliness, saw the gaiety with which the sisters served cold ham and
      scalloped potatoes; when Mrs. Champ Perry cried to her, on an afternoon
      call, &ldquo;My dear, if you just knew how happy it makes you to come into
      abiding grace,&rdquo; then Carol found the humanness behind the sanguinary and
      alien theology. Always she perceived that the churches&mdash;Methodist,
      Baptist, Congregational, Catholic, all of them&mdash;which had seemed so
      unimportant to the judge's home in her childhood, so isolated from the
      city struggle in St. Paul, were still, in Gopher Prairie, the strongest of
      the forces compelling respectability.
    </p>
    <p>
      This August Sunday she had been tempted by the announcement that the
      Reverend Edmund Zitterel would preach on the topic &ldquo;America, Face Your
      Problems!&rdquo; With the great war, workmen in every nation showing a desire to
      control industries, Russia hinting a leftward revolution against Kerensky,
      woman suffrage coming, there seemed to be plenty of problems for the
      Reverend Mr. Zitterel to call on America to face. Carol gathered her
      family and trotted off behind Uncle Whittier.
    </p>
    <p>
      The congregation faced the heat with informality. Men with highly
      plastered hair, so painfully shaved that their faces looked sore, removed
      their coats, sighed, and unbuttoned two buttons of their uncreased Sunday
      vests. Large-bosomed, white-bloused, hot-necked, spectacled matrons&mdash;the
      Mothers in Israel, pioneers and friends of Mrs. Champ Perry&mdash;waved
      their palm-leaf fans in a steady rhythm. Abashed boys slunk into the rear
      pews and giggled, while milky little girls, up front with their mothers,
      self-consciously kept from turning around.
    </p>
    <p>
      The church was half barn and half Gopher Prairie parlor. The streaky brown
      wallpaper was broken in its dismal sweep only by framed texts, &ldquo;Come unto
      Me&rdquo; and &ldquo;The Lord is My Shepherd,&rdquo; by a list of hymns, and by a crimson
      and green diagram, staggeringly drawn upon hemp-colored paper, indicating
      the alarming ease with which a young man may descend from Palaces of
      Pleasure and the House of Pride to Eternal Damnation. But the varnished
      oak pews and the new red carpet and the three large chairs on the
      platform, behind the bare reading-stand, were all of a rocking-chair
      comfort.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was civic and neighborly and commendable today. She beamed and
      bowed. She trolled out with the others the hymn:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     How pleasant 'tis on Sabbath morn
     To gather in the church
     And there I'll have no carnal thoughts,
     Nor sin shall me besmirch.
</pre>
    <p>
      With a rustle of starched linen skirts and stiff shirt-fronts, the
      congregation sat down, and gave heed to the Reverend Mr. Zitterel. The
      priest was a thin, swart, intense young man with a bang. He wore a black
      sack suit and a lilac tie. He smote the enormous Bible on the
      reading-stand, vociferated, &ldquo;Come, let us reason together,&rdquo; delivered a
      prayer informing Almighty God of the news of the past week, and began to
      reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      It proved that the only problems which America had to face were Mormonism
      and Prohibition:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't let any of these self-conceited fellows that are always trying to
      stir up trouble deceive you with the belief that there's anything to all
      these smart-aleck movements to let the unions and the Farmers' Nonpartisan
      League kill all our initiative and enterprise by fixing wages and prices.
      There isn't any movement that amounts to a whoop without it's got a moral
      background. And let me tell you that while folks are fussing about what
      they call 'economics' and 'socialism' and 'science' and a lot of things
      that are nothing in the world but a disguise for atheism, the Old Satan is
      busy spreading his secret net and tentacles out there in Utah, under his
      guise of Joe Smith or Brigham Young or whoever their leaders happen to be
      today, it doesn't make any difference, and they're making game of the Old
      Bible that has led this American people through its manifold trials and
      tribulations to its firm position as the fulfilment of the prophecies and
      the recognized leader of all nations. 'Sit thou on my right hand till I
      make thine enemies the footstool of my feet,' said the Lord of Hosts, Acts
      II, the thirty-fourth verse&mdash;and let me tell you right now, you got
      to get up a good deal earlier in the morning than you get up even when
      you're going fishing, if you want to be smarter than the Lord, who has
      shown us the straight and narrow way, and he that passeth therefrom is in
      eternal peril and, to return to this vital and terrible subject of
      Mormonism&mdash;and as I say, it is terrible to realize how little
      attention is given to this evil right here in our midst and on our very
      doorstep, as it were&mdash;it's a shame and a disgrace that the Congress
      of these United States spends all its time talking about inconsequential
      financial matters that ought to be left to the Treasury Department, as I
      understand it, instead of arising in their might and passing a law that
      any one admitting he is a Mormon shall simply be deported and as it were
      kicked out of this free country in which we haven't got any room for
      polygamy and the tyrannies of Satan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, to digress for a moment, especially as there are more of them in
      this state than there are Mormons, though you never can tell what will
      happen with this vain generation of young girls, that think more about
      wearing silk stockings than about minding their mothers and learning to
      bake a good loaf of bread, and many of them listening to these sneaking
      Mormon missionaries&mdash;and I actually heard one of them talking right
      out on a street-corner in Duluth, a few years ago, and the officers of the
      law not protesting&mdash;but still, as they are a smaller but more
      immediate problem, let me stop for just a moment to pay my respects to
      these Seventh-Day Adventists. Not that they are immoral, I don't mean, but
      when a body of men go on insisting that Saturday is the Sabbath, after
      Christ himself has clearly indicated the new dispensation, then I think
      the legislature ought to step in&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point Carol awoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      She got through three more minutes by studying the face of a girl in the
      pew across: a sensitive unhappy girl whose longing poured out with
      intimidating self-revelation as she worshiped Mr. Zitterel. Carol wondered
      who the girl was. She had seen her at church suppers. She considered how
      many of the three thousand people in the town she did not know; to how
      many of them the Thanatopsis and the Jolly Seventeen were icy social
      peaks; how many of them might be toiling through boredom thicker than her
      own&mdash;with greater courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      She examined her nails. She read two hymns. She got some satisfaction out
      of rubbing an itching knuckle. She pillowed on her shoulder the head of
      the baby who, after killing time in the same manner as his mother, was so
      fortunate as to fall asleep. She read the introduction, title-page, and
      acknowledgment of copyrights, in the hymnal. She tried to evolve a
      philosophy which would explain why Kennicott could never tie his scarf so
      that it would reach the top of the gap in his turn-down collar.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were no other diversions to be found in the pew. She glanced back at
      the congregation. She thought that it would be amiable to bow to Mrs.
      Champ Perry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her slow turning head stopped, galvanized.
    </p>
    <p>
      Across the aisle, two rows back, was a strange young man who shone among
      the cud-chewing citizens like a visitant from the sun-amber curls, low
      forehead, fine nose, chin smooth but not raw from Sabbath shaving. His
      lips startled her. The lips of men in Gopher Prairie are flat in the face,
      straight and grudging. The stranger's mouth was arched, the upper lip
      short. He wore a brown jersey coat, a delft-blue bow, a white silk shirt,
      white flannel trousers. He suggested the ocean beach, a tennis court,
      anything but the sun-blistered utility of Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      A visitor from Minneapolis, here for business? No. He wasn't a business
      man. He was a poet. Keats was in his face, and Shelley, and Arthur Upson,
      whom she had once seen in Minneapolis. He was at once too sensitive and
      too sophisticated to touch business as she knew it in Gopher Prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      With restrained amusement he was analyzing the noisy Mr. Zitterel. Carol
      was ashamed to have this spy from the Great World hear the pastor's
      maundering. She felt responsible for the town. She resented his gaping at
      their private rites. She flushed, turned away. But she continued to feel
      his presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      How could she meet him? She must! For an hour of talk. He was all that she
      was hungry for. She could not let him get away without a word&mdash;and
      she would have to. She pictured, and ridiculed, herself as walking up to
      him and remarking, &ldquo;I am sick with the Village Virus. Will you please tell
      me what people are saying and playing in New York?&rdquo; She pictured, and
      groaned over, the expression of Kennicott if she should say, &ldquo;Why wouldn't
      it be reasonable for you, my soul, to ask that complete stranger in the
      brown jersey coat to come to supper tonight?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She brooded, not looking back. She warned herself that she was probably
      exaggerating; that no young man could have all these exalted qualities.
      Wasn't he too obviously smart, too glossy-new? Like a movie actor.
      Probably he was a traveling salesman who sang tenor and fancied himself in
      imitations of Newport clothes and spoke of &ldquo;the swellest business
      proposition that ever came down the pike.&rdquo; In a panic she peered at him.
      No! This was no hustling salesman, this boy with the curving Grecian lips
      and the serious eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She rose after the service, carefully taking Kennicott's arm and smiling
      at him in a mute assertion that she was devoted to him no matter what
      happened. She followed the Mystery's soft brown jersey shoulders out of
      the church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fatty Hicks, the shrill and puffy son of Nat, flapped his hand at the
      beautiful stranger and jeered, &ldquo;How's the kid? All dolled up like a plush
      horse today, ain't we!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was exceeding sick. Her herald from the outside was Erik Valborg,
      &ldquo;Elizabeth.&rdquo; Apprentice tailor! Gasoline and hot goose! Mending dirty
      jackets! Respectfully holding a tape-measure about a paunch!
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, she insisted, this boy was also himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      They had Sunday dinner with the Smails, in a dining-room which centered
      about a fruit and flower piece and a crayon-enlargement of Uncle Whittier.
      Carol did not heed Aunt Bessie's fussing in regard to Mrs. Robert B.
      Schminke's bead necklace and Whittier's error in putting on the striped
      pants, day like this. She did not taste the shreds of roast pork. She said
      vacuously:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Uh&mdash;Will, I wonder if that young man in the white flannel trousers,
      at church this morning, was this Valborg person that they're all talking
      about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump. That's him. Wasn't that the darndest get-up he had on!&rdquo; Kennicott
      scratched at a white smear on his hard gray sleeve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wasn't so bad. I wonder where he comes from? He seems to have lived in
      cities a good deal. Is he from the East?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The East? Him? Why, he comes from a farm right up north here, just this
      side of Jefferson. I know his father slightly&mdash;Adolph Valborg&mdash;typical
      cranky old Swede farmer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, really?&rdquo; blandly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe he has lived in Minneapolis for quite some time, though. Learned
      his trade there. And I will say he's bright, some ways. Reads a lot.
      Pollock says he takes more books out of the library than anybody else in
      town. Huh! He's kind of like you in that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Smails and Kennicott laughed very much at this sly jest. Uncle
      Whittier seized the conversation. &ldquo;That fellow that's working for Hicks?
      Milksop, that's what he is. Makes me tired to see a young fellow that
      ought to be in the war, or anyway out in the fields earning his living
      honest, like I done when I was young, doing a woman's work and then come
      out and dress up like a show-actor! Why, when I was his age&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol reflected that the carving-knife would make an excellent dagger with
      which to kill Uncle Whittier. It would slide in easily. The headlines
      would be terrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott said judiciously, &ldquo;Oh, I don't want to be unjust to him. I
      believe he took his physical examination for military service. Got
      varicose veins&mdash;not bad, but enough to disqualify him. Though I will
      say he doesn't look like a fellow that would be so awful darn crazy to
      poke his bayonet into a Hun's guts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will! PLEASE!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he don't. Looks soft to me. And they say he told Del Snafflin, when
      he was getting a hair-cut on Saturday, that he wished he could play the
      piano.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn't it wonderful how much we all know about one another in a town like
      this,&rdquo; said Carol innocently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was suspicious, but Aunt Bessie, serving the floating island
      pudding, agreed, &ldquo;Yes, it is wonderful. Folks can get away with all sorts
      of meannesses and sins in these terrible cities, but they can't here. I
      was noticing this tailor fellow this morning, and when Mrs. Riggs offered
      to share her hymn-book with him, he shook his head, and all the while we
      was singing he just stood there like a bump on a log and never opened his
      mouth. Everybody says he's got an idea that he's got so much better
      manners and all than what the rest of us have, but if that's what he calls
      good manners, I want to know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol again studied the carving-knife. Blood on the whiteness of a
      tablecloth might be gorgeous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool! Neurotic impossibilist! Telling yourself orchard fairy-tales&mdash;at
      thirty. . . . Dear Lord, am I really THIRTY? That boy can't be more than
      twenty-five.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She went calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Boarding with the Widow Bogart was Fern Mullins, a girl of twenty-two who
      was to be teacher of English, French, and gymnastics in the high school
      this coming session. Fern Mullins had come to town early, for the
      six-weeks normal course for country teachers. Carol had noticed her on the
      street, had heard almost as much about her as about Erik Valborg. She was
      tall, weedy, pretty, and incurably rakish. Whether she wore a low middy
      collar or dressed reticently for school in a black suit with a high-necked
      blouse, she was airy, flippant. &ldquo;She looks like an absolute totty,&rdquo; said
      all the Mrs. Sam Clarks, disapprovingly, and all the Juanita Haydocks,
      enviously.
    </p>
    <p>
      That Sunday evening, sitting in baggy canvas lawn-chairs beside the house,
      the Kennicotts saw Fern laughing with Cy Bogart who, though still a junior
      in high school, was now a lump of a man, only two or three years younger
      than Fern. Cy had to go downtown for weighty matters connected with the
      pool-parlor. Fern drooped on the Bogart porch, her chin in her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She looks lonely,&rdquo; said Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She does, poor soul. I believe I'll go over and speak to her. I was
      introduced to her at Dave's but I haven't called.&rdquo; Carol was slipping
      across the lawn, a white figure in the dimness, faintly brushing the dewy
      grass. She was thinking of Erik and of the fact that her feet were wet,
      and she was casual in her greeting: &ldquo;Hello! The doctor and I wondered if
      you were lonely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Resentfully, &ldquo;I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol concentrated on her. &ldquo;My dear, you sound so! I know how it is. I
      used to be tired when I was on the job&mdash;I was a librarian. What was
      your college? I was Blodgett.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      More interestedly, &ldquo;I went to the U.&rdquo; Fern meant the University of
      Minnesota.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have had a splendid time. Blodgett was a bit dull.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where were you a librarian?&rdquo; challengingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;St. Paul&mdash;the main library.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Honest? Oh dear, I wish I was back in the Cities! This is my first year
      of teaching, and I'm scared stiff. I did have the best time in college:
      dramatics and basket-ball and fussing and dancing&mdash;I'm simply crazy
      about dancing. And here, except when I have the kids in gymnasium class,
      or when I'm chaperoning the basket-ball team on a trip out-of-town, I
      won't dare to move above a whisper. I guess they don't care much if you
      put any pep into teaching or not, as long as you look like a Good
      Influence out of school-hours&mdash;and that means never doing anything
      you want to. This normal course is bad enough, but the regular school will
      be FIERCE! If it wasn't too late to get a job in the Cities, I swear I'd
      resign here. I bet I won't dare to go to a single dance all winter. If I
      cut loose and danced the way I like to, they'd think I was a perfect
      hellion&mdash;poor harmless me! Oh, I oughtn't to be talking like this.
      Fern, you never could be cagey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be frightened, my dear! . . . Doesn't that sound atrociously old
      and kind! I'm talking to you the way Mrs. Westlake talks to me! That's
      having a husband and a kitchen range, I suppose. But I feel young, and I
      want to dance like a&mdash;like a hellion?&mdash;too. So I sympathize.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fern made a sound of gratitude. Carol inquired, &ldquo;What experience did you
      have with college dramatics? I tried to start a kind of Little Theater
      here. It was dreadful. I must tell you about it&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two hours later, when Kennicott came over to greet Fern and to yawn, &ldquo;Look
      here, Carrie, don't you suppose you better be thinking about turning in?
      I've got a hard day tomorrow,&rdquo; the two were talking so intimately that
      they constantly interrupted each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she went respectably home, convoyed by a husband, and decorously
      holding up her skirts, Carol rejoiced, &ldquo;Everything has changed! I have two
      friends, Fern and&mdash;&mdash;But who's the other? That's queer; I
      thought there was&mdash;&mdash;Oh, how absurd!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She often passed Erik Valborg on the street; the brown jersey coat became
      unremarkable. When she was driving with Kennicott, in early evening, she
      saw him on the lake shore, reading a thin book which might easily have
      been poetry. She noted that he was the only person in the motorized town
      who still took long walks.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told herself that she was the daughter of a judge, the wife of a
      doctor, and that she did not care to know a capering tailor. She told
      herself that she was not responsive to men . . . not even to Percy
      Bresnahan. She told herself that a woman of thirty who heeded a boy of
      twenty-five was ridiculous. And on Friday, when she had convinced herself
      that the errand was necessary, she went to Nat Hicks's shop, bearing the
      not very romantic burden of a pair of her husband's trousers. Hicks was in
      the back room. She faced the Greek god who, in a somewhat ungodlike way,
      was stitching a coat on a scaley sewing-machine, in a room of smutted
      plaster walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw that his hands were not in keeping with a Hellenic face. They were
      thick, roughened with needle and hot iron and plow-handle. Even in the
      shop he persisted in his finery. He wore a silk shirt, a topaz scarf, thin
      tan shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      This she absorbed while she was saying curtly, &ldquo;Can I get these pressed,
      please?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not rising from the sewing-machine he stuck out his hand, mumbled, &ldquo;When
      do you want them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Monday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The adventure was over. She was marching out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What name?&rdquo; he called after her.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had risen and, despite the farcicality of Dr. Will Kennicott's bulgy
      trousers draped over his arm, he had the grace of a cat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kennicott.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kennicott. Oh! Oh say, you're Mrs. Dr. Kennicott then, aren't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She stood at the door. Now that she had carried out her
      preposterous impulse to see what he was like, she was cold, she was as
      ready to detect familiarities as the virtuous Miss Ella Stowbody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've heard about you. Myrtle Cass was saying you got up a dramatic club
      and gave a dandy play. I've always wished I had a chance to belong to a
      Little Theater, and give some European plays, or whimsical like Barrie, or
      a pageant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He pronounced it &ldquo;pagent&rdquo;; he rhymed &ldquo;pag&rdquo; with &ldquo;rag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol nodded in the manner of a lady being kind to a tradesman, and one of
      her selves sneered, &ldquo;Our Erik is indeed a lost John Keats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was appealing, &ldquo;Do you suppose it would be possible to get up another
      dramatic club this coming fall?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it might be worth thinking of.&rdquo; She came out of her several
      conflicting poses, and said sincerely, &ldquo;There's a new teacher, Miss
      Mullins, who might have some talent. That would make three of us for a
      nucleus. If we could scrape up half a dozen we might give a real play with
      a small cast. Have you had any experience?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just a bum club that some of us got up in Minneapolis when I was working
      there. We had one good man, an interior decorator&mdash;maybe he was kind
      of sis and effeminate, but he really was an artist, and we gave one dandy
      play. But I&mdash;&mdash;Of course I've always had to work hard, and study
      by myself, and I'm probably sloppy, and I'd love it if I had training in
      rehearsing&mdash;I mean, the crankier the director was, the better I'd
      like it. If you didn't want to use me as an actor, I'd love to design the
      costumes. I'm crazy about fabrics&mdash;textures and colors and designs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She knew that he was trying to keep her from going, trying to indicate
      that he was something more than a person to whom one brought trousers for
      pressing. He besought:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some day I hope I can get away from this fool repairing, when I have the
      money saved up. I want to go East and work for some big dressmaker, and
      study art drawing, and become a high-class designer. Or do you think
      that's a kind of fiddlin' ambition for a fellow? I was brought up on a
      farm. And then monkeyin' round with silks! I don't know. What do you
      think? Myrtle Cass says you're awfully educated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am. Awfully. Tell me: Have the boys made fun of your ambition?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was seventy years old, and sexless, and more advisory than Vida
      Sherwin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, they have, at that. They've jollied me a good deal, here and
      Minneapolis both. They say dressmaking is ladies' work. (But I was willing
      to get drafted for the war! I tried to get in. But they rejected me. But I
      did try! ) I thought some of working up in a gents' furnishings store, and
      I had a chance to travel on the road for a clothing house, but somehow&mdash;I
      hate this tailoring, but I can't seem to get enthusiastic about
      salesmanship. I keep thinking about a room in gray oatmeal paper with
      prints in very narrow gold frames&mdash;or would it be better in white
      enamel paneling?&mdash;but anyway, it looks out on Fifth Avenue, and I'm
      designing a sumptuous&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He made it &ldquo;sump-too-ous&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;robe
      of linden green chiffon over cloth of gold! You know&mdash;tileul. It's
      elegant. . . . What do you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not? What do you care for the opinion of city rowdies, or a lot of
      farm boys? But you mustn't, you really mustn't, let casual strangers like
      me have a chance to judge you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;You aren't a stranger, one way. Myrtle Cass&mdash;Miss
      Cass, should say&mdash;she's spoken about you so often. I wanted to call
      on you&mdash;and the doctor&mdash;but I didn't quite have the nerve. One
      evening I walked past your house, but you and your husband were talking on
      the porch, and you looked so chummy and happy I didn't dare butt in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Maternally, &ldquo;I think it's extremely nice of you to want to be trained in&mdash;in
      enunciation by a stage-director. Perhaps I could help you. I'm a
      thoroughly sound and uninspired schoolma'am by instinct; quite hopelessly
      mature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you aren't EITHER!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was not very successful at accepting his fervor with the air of amused
      woman of the world, but she sounded reasonably impersonal: &ldquo;Thank you.
      Shall we see if we really can get up a new dramatic club? I'll tell you:
      Come to the house this evening, about eight. I'll ask Miss Mullins to come
      over, and we'll talk about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has absolutely no sense of humor. Less than Will. But hasn't he&mdash;&mdash;-What
      is a 'sense of humor'? Isn't the thing he lacks the back-slapping jocosity
      that passes for humor here? Anyway&mdash;&mdash;Poor lamb, coaxing me to
      stay and play with him! Poor lonely lamb! If he could be free from Nat
      Hickses, from people who say 'dandy' and 'bum,' would he develop?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder if Whitman didn't use Brooklyn back-street slang, as a boy?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Not Whitman. He's Keats&mdash;sensitive to silken things.
      'Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes as are the tiger-moth's
      deep-damask'd wings.' Keats, here! A bewildered spirit fallen on Main
      Street. And Main Street laughs till it aches, giggles till the spirit
      doubts his own self and tries to give up the use of wings for the correct
      uses of a 'gents' furnishings store.' Gopher Prairie with its celebrated
      eleven miles of cement walk. . . . I wonder how much of the cement is made
      out of the tombstones of John Keatses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was cordial to Fern Mullins, teased her, told her he was a
      &ldquo;great hand for running off with pretty school-teachers,&rdquo; and promised
      that if the school-board should object to her dancing, he would &ldquo;bat 'em
      one over the head and tell 'em how lucky they were to get a girl with some
      go to her, for once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But to Erik Valborg he was not cordial. He shook hands loosely, and said,
      &ldquo;H' are yuh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nat Hicks was socially acceptable; he had been here for years, and owned
      his shop; but this person was merely Nat's workman, and the town's
      principle of perfect democracy was not meant to be applied
      indiscriminately.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conference on a dramatic club theoretically included Kennicott, but he
      sat back, patting yawns, conscious of Fern's ankles, smiling amiably on
      the children at their sport.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fern wanted to tell her grievances; Carol was sulky every time she thought
      of &ldquo;The Girl from Kankakee&rdquo;; it was Erik who made suggestions. He had read
      with astounding breadth, and astounding lack of judgment. His voice was
      sensitive to liquids, but he overused the word &ldquo;glorious.&rdquo; He
      mispronounced a tenth of the words he had from books, but he knew it. He
      was insistent, but he was shy.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he demanded, &ldquo;I'd like to stage 'Suppressed Desires,' by Cook and
      Miss Glaspell,&rdquo; Carol ceased to be patronizing. He was not the yearner: he
      was the artist, sure of his vision. &ldquo;I'd make it simple. Use a big window
      at the back, with a cyclorama of a blue that would simply hit you in the
      eye, and just one tree-branch, to suggest a park below. Put the breakfast
      table on a dais. Let the colors be kind of arty and tea-roomy&mdash;orange
      chairs, and orange and blue table, and blue Japanese breakfast set, and
      some place, one big flat smear of black&mdash;bang! Oh. Another play I
      wish we could do is Tennyson Jesse's 'The Black Mask.' I've never seen it
      but&mdash;&mdash;Glorious ending, where this woman looks at the man with
      his face all blown away, and she just gives one horrible scream.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God, is that your idea of a glorious ending?&rdquo; bayed Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That sounds fierce! I do love artistic things, but not the horrible
      ones,&rdquo; moaned Fern Mullins.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik was bewildered; glanced at Carol. She nodded loyally.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the end of the conference they had decided nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX
    </h2>
    <h3>
      SHE had walked up the railroad track with Hugh, this Sunday afternoon.
    </h3>
    <p>
      She saw Erik Valborg coming, in an ancient highwater suit, tramping
      sullenly and alone, striking at the rails with a stick. For a second she
      unreasoningly wanted to avoid him, but she kept on, and she serenely
      talked about God, whose voice, Hugh asserted, made the humming in the
      telegraph wires. Erik stared, straightened. They greeted each other with
      &ldquo;Hello.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hugh, say how-do-you-do to Mr. Valborg.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear me, he's got a button unbuttoned,&rdquo; worried Erik, kneeling. Carol
      frowned, then noted the strength with which he swung the baby in the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I walk along a piece with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm tired. Let's rest on those ties. Then I must be trotting back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat on a heap of discarded railroad ties, oak logs spotted with
      cinnamon-colored dry-rot and marked with metallic brown streaks where iron
      plates had rested. Hugh learned that the pile was the hiding-place of
      Injuns; he went gunning for them while the elders talked of uninteresting
      things.
    </p>
    <p>
      The telegraph wires thrummed, thrummed, thrummed above them; the rails
      were glaring hard lines; the goldenrod smelled dusty. Across the track was
      a pasture of dwarf clover and sparse lawn cut by earthy cow-paths; beyond
      its placid narrow green, the rough immensity of new stubble, jagged with
      wheat-stacks like huge pineapples.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik talked of books; flamed like a recent convert to any faith. He
      exhibited as many titles and authors as possible, halting only to appeal,
      &ldquo;Have you read his last book? Don't you think he's a terribly strong
      writer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was dizzy. But when he insisted, &ldquo;You've been a librarian; tell me; do
      I read too much fiction?&rdquo; she advised him loftily, rather discursively. He
      had, she indicated, never studied. He had skipped from one emotion to
      another. Especially&mdash;she hesitated, then flung it at him&mdash;he
      must not guess at pronunciations; he must endure the nuisance of stopping
      to reach for the dictionary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm talking like a cranky teacher,&rdquo; she sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! And I will study! Read the damned dictionary right through.&rdquo; He
      crossed his legs and bent over, clutching his ankle with both hands. &ldquo;I
      know what you mean. I've been rushing from picture to picture, like a kid
      let loose in an art gallery for the first time. You see, it's so awful
      recent that I've found there was a world&mdash;well, a world where
      beautiful things counted. I was on the farm till I was nineteen. Dad is a
      good farmer, but nothing else. Do you know why he first sent me off to
      learn tailoring? I wanted to study drawing, and he had a cousin that'd
      made a lot of money tailoring out in Dakota, and he said tailoring was a
      lot like drawing, so he sent me down to a punk hole called Curlew, to work
      in a tailor shop. Up to that time I'd only had three months' schooling a
      year&mdash;walked to school two miles, through snow up to my knees&mdash;and
      Dad never would stand for my having a single book except schoolbooks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never read a novel till I got 'Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall' out of
      the library at Curlew. I thought it was the loveliest thing in the world!
      Next I read 'Barriers Burned Away' and then Pope's translation of Homer.
      Some combination, all right! When I went to Minneapolis, just two years
      ago, I guess I'd read pretty much everything in that Curlew library, but
      I'd never heard of Rossetti or John Sargent or Balzac or Brahms. But&mdash;&mdash;Yump,
      I'll study. Look here! Shall I get out of this tailoring, this pressing
      and repairing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see why a surgeon should spend very much time cobbling shoes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what if I find I can't really draw and design? After fussing around
      in New York or Chicago, I'd feel like a fool if I had to go back to work
      in a gents' furnishings store!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please say 'haberdashery.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haberdashery? All right. I'll remember.&rdquo; He shrugged and spread his
      fingers wide.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was humbled by his humility; she put away in her mind, to take out and
      worry over later, a speculation as to whether it was not she who was
      naive. She urged, &ldquo;What if you do have to go back? Most of us do! We can't
      all be artists&mdash;myself, for instance. We have to darn socks, and yet
      we're not content to think of nothing but socks and darning-cotton. I'd
      demand all I could get&mdash;whether I finally settled down to designing
      frocks or building temples or pressing pants. What if you do drop back?
      You'll have had the adventure. Don't be too meek toward life! Go! You're
      young, you're unmarried. Try everything! Don't listen to Nat Hicks and Sam
      Clark and be a 'steady young man'&mdash;in order to help them make money.
      You're still a blessed innocent. Go and play till the Good People capture
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don't just want to play. I want to make something beautiful. God!
      And I don't know enough. Do you get it? Do you understand? Nobody else
      ever has! Do you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so&mdash;&mdash;But here's what bothers me: I like fabrics; dinky
      things like that; little drawings and elegant words. But look over there
      at those fields. Big! New! Don't it seem kind of a shame to leave this and
      go back to the East and Europe, and do what all those people have been
      doing so long? Being careful about words, when there's millions of bushels
      off wheat here! Reading this fellow Pater, when I've helped Dad to clear
      fields!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's good to clear fields. But it's not for you. It's one of our favorite
      American myths that broad plains necessarily make broad minds, and high
      mountains make high purpose. I thought that myself, when I first came to
      the prairie. 'Big&mdash;new.' Oh, I don't want to deny the prairie future.
      It will be magnificent. But equally I'm hanged if I want to be bullied by
      it, go to war on behalf of Main Street, be bullied and BULLIED by the
      faith that the future is already here in the present, and that all of us
      must stay and worship wheat-stacks and insist that this is 'God's Country'&mdash;and
      never, of course, do anything original or gay-colored that would help to
      make that future! Anyway, you don't belong here. Sam Clark and Nat Hicks,
      that's what our big newness has produced. Go! Before it's too late, as it
      has been for&mdash;for some of us. Young man, go East and grow up with the
      revolution! Then perhaps you may come back and tell Sam and Nat and me
      what to do with the land we've been clearing&mdash;if we'll listen&mdash;if
      we don't lynch you first!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her reverently. She could hear him saying,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've always wanted to know a woman who would talk to me like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hearing was faulty. He was saying nothing of the sort. He was saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why aren't you happy with your husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doesn't care for the 'blessed innocent' part of you, does he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Erik, you mustn't&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First you tell me to go and be free, and then you say that I 'mustn't'!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. But you mustn't&mdash;&mdash;You must be more impersonal!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glowered at her like a downy young owl. She wasn't sure but she thought
      that he muttered, &ldquo;I'm damned if I will.&rdquo; She considered with wholesome
      fear the perils of meddling with other people's destinies, and she said
      timidly, &ldquo;Hadn't we better start back now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He mused, &ldquo;You're younger than I am. Your lips are for songs about rivers
      in the morning and lakes at twilight. I don't see how anybody could ever
      hurt you. . . . Yes. We better go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He trudged beside her, his eyes averted. Hugh experimentally took his
      thumb. He looked down at the baby seriously. He burst out, &ldquo;All right.
      I'll do it. I'll stay here one year. Save. Not spend so much money on
      clothes. And then I'll go East, to art-school. Work on the side-tailor
      shop, dressmaker's. I'll learn what I'm good for: designing clothes,
      stage-settings, illustrating, or selling collars to fat men. All settled.&rdquo;
       He peered at her, unsmiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you stand it here in town for a year?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With you to look at?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! I mean: Don't the people here think you're an odd bird? (They do
      me, I assure you!)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. I never notice much. Oh, they do kid me about not being in
      the army&mdash;especially the old warhorses, the old men that aren't going
      themselves. And this Bogart boy. And Mr. Hicks's son&mdash;he's a horrible
      brat. But probably he's licensed to say what he thinks about his father's
      hired man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's beastly!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were in town. They passed Aunt Bessie's house. Aunt Bessie and Mrs.
      Bogart were at the window, and Carol saw that they were staring so
      intently that they answered her wave only with the stiffly raised hands of
      automatons. In the next block Mrs. Dr. Westlake was gaping from her porch.
      Carol said with an embarrassed quaver:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to run in and see Mrs. Westlake. I'll say good-by here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She avoided his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Westlake was affable. Carol felt that she was expected to explain;
      and while she was mentally asserting that she'd be hanged if she'd
      explain, she was explaining:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hugh captured that Valborg boy up the track. They became such good
      friends. And I talked to him for a while. I'd heard he was eccentric, but
      really, I found him quite intelligent. Crude, but he reads&mdash;reads
      almost the way Dr. Westlake does.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's fine. Why does he stick here in town? What's this I hear about his
      being interested in Myrtle Cass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Is he? I'm sure he isn't! He said he was quite lonely!
      Besides, Myrtle is a babe in arms!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-one if she's a day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;Is the doctor going to do any hunting this fall?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      The need of explaining Erik dragged her back into doubting. For all his
      ardent reading, and his ardent life, was he anything but a small-town
      youth bred on an illiberal farm and in cheap tailor shops? He had rough
      hands. She had been attracted only by hands that were fine and suave, like
      those of her father. Delicate hands and resolute purpose. But this boy&mdash;powerful
      seamed hands and flabby will.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not appealing weakness like his, but sane strength that will animate
      the Gopher Prairies. Only&mdash;&mdash;Does that mean anything? Or am I
      echoing Vida? The world has always let 'strong' statesmen and soldiers&mdash;the
      men with strong voices&mdash;take control, and what have the thundering
      boobies done? What is 'strength'?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This classifying of people! I suppose tailors differ as much as burglars
      or kings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Erik frightened me when he turned on me. Of course he didn't mean
      anything, but I mustn't let him be so personal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amazing impertinence!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he didn't mean to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His hands are FIRM. I wonder if sculptors don't have thick hands, too?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course if there really is anything I can do to HELP the boy&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though I despise these people who interfere. He must be independent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She wasn't altogether pleased, the week after, when Erik was independent
      and, without asking for her inspiration, planned the tennis tournament. It
      proved that he had learned to play in Minneapolis; that, next to Juanita
      Haydock, he had the best serve in town. Tennis was well spoken of in
      Gopher Prairie and almost never played. There were three courts: one
      belonging to Harry Haydock, one to the cottages at the lake, and one, a
      rough field on the outskirts, laid out by a defunct tennis association.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik had been seen in flannels and an imitation panama hat, playing on the
      abandoned court with Willis Woodford, the clerk in Stowbody's bank.
      Suddenly he was going about proposing the reorganization of the tennis
      association, and writing names in a fifteen-cent note-book bought for the
      purpose at Dyer's. When he came to Carol he was so excited over being an
      organizer that he did not stop to talk of himself and Aubrey Beardsley for
      more than ten minutes. He begged, &ldquo;Will you get some of the folks to come
      in?&rdquo; and she nodded agreeably.
    </p>
    <p>
      He proposed an informal exhibition match to advertise the association; he
      suggested that Carol and himself, the Haydocks, the Woodfords, and the
      Dillons play doubles, and that the association be formed from the gathered
      enthusiasts. He had asked Harry Haydock to be tentative president. Harry,
      he reported, had promised, &ldquo;All right. You bet. But you go ahead and
      arrange things, and I'll O.K. 'em.&rdquo; Erik planned that the match should be
      held Saturday afternoon, on the old public court at the edge of town. He
      was happy in being, for the first time, part of Gopher Prairie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through the week Carol heard how select an attendance there was to be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott growled that he didn't care to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he any objections to her playing with Erik?
    </p>
    <p>
      No; sure not; she needed the exercise. Carol went to the match early. The
      court was in a meadow out on the New Antonia road. Only Erik was there. He
      was dashing about with a rake, trying to make the court somewhat less like
      a plowed field. He admitted that he had stage fright at the thought of the
      coming horde. Willis and Mrs. Woodford arrived, Willis in home-made
      knickers and black sneakers through at the toe; then Dr. and Mrs. Harvey
      Dillon, people as harmless and grateful as the Woodfords.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was embarrassed and excessively agreeable, like the bishop's lady
      trying not to feel out of place at a Baptist bazaar.
    </p>
    <p>
      They waited.
    </p>
    <p>
      The match was scheduled for three. As spectators there assembled one
      youthful grocery clerk, stopping his Ford delivery wagon to stare from the
      seat, and one solemn small boy, tugging a smaller sister who had a
      careless nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder where the Haydocks are? They ought to show up, at least,&rdquo; said
      Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol smiled confidently at him, and peered down the empty road toward
      town. Only heat-waves and dust and dusty weeds.
    </p>
    <p>
      At half-past three no one had come, and the grocery boy reluctantly got
      out, cranked his Ford, glared at them in a disillusioned manner, and
      rattled away. The small boy and his sister ate grass and sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The players pretended to be exhilarated by practising service, but they
      startled at each dust-cloud from a motor car. None of the cars turned into
      the meadow-none till a quarter to four, when Kennicott drove in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol's heart swelled. &ldquo;How loyal he is! Depend on him! He'd come, if
      nobody else did. Even though he doesn't care for the game. The old
      darling!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott did not alight. He called out, &ldquo;Carrie! Harry Haydock 'phoned me
      that they've decided to hold the tennis matches, or whatever you call 'em,
      down at the cottages at the lake, instead of here. The bunch are down
      there now: Haydocks and Dyers and Clarks and everybody. Harry wanted to
      know if I'd bring you down. I guess I can take the time&mdash;come right
      back after supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before Carol could sum it all up, Erik stammered, &ldquo;Why, Haydock didn't say
      anything to me about the change. Of course he's the president, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott looked at him heavily, and grunted, &ldquo;I don't know a thing about
      it. . . . Coming, Carrie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not! The match was to be here, and it will be here! You can tell
      Harry Haydock that he's beastly rude!&rdquo; She rallied the five who had been
      left out, who would always be left out. &ldquo;Come on! We'll toss to see which
      four of us play the Only and Original First Annual Tennis Tournament of
      Forest Hills, Del Monte, and Gopher Prairie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't know as I blame you,&rdquo; said Kennicott. &ldquo;Well have supper at home
      then?&rdquo; He drove off.
    </p>
    <p>
      She hated him for his composure. He had ruined her defiance. She felt much
      less like Susan B. Anthony as she turned to her huddled followers.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dillon and Willis Woodford lost the toss. The others played out the
      game, slowly, painfully, stumbling on the rough earth, muffing the easiest
      shots, watched only by the small boy and his sniveling sister. Beyond the
      court stretched the eternal stubble-fields. The four marionettes,
      awkwardly going through exercises, insignificant in the hot sweep of
      contemptuous land, were not heroic; their voices did not ring out in the
      score, but sounded apologetic; and when the game was over they glanced
      about as though they were waiting to be laughed at.
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked home. Carol took Erik's arm. Through her thin linen sleeve she
      could feel the crumply warmth of his familiar brown jersey coat. She
      observed that there were purple and red gold threads interwoven with the
      brown. She remembered the first time she had seen it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their talk was nothing but improvisations on the theme: &ldquo;I never did like
      this Haydock. He just considers his own convenience.&rdquo; Ahead of them, the
      Dillons and Woodfords spoke of the weather and B. J. Gougerling's new
      bungalow. No one referred to their tennis tournament. At her gate Carol
      shook hands firmly with Erik and smiled at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next morning, Sunday morning, when Carol was on the porch, the Haydocks
      drove up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We didn't mean to be rude to you, dearie!&rdquo; implored Juanita. &ldquo;I wouldn't
      have you think that for anything. We planned that Will and you should come
      down and have supper at our cottage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I'm sure you didn't mean to be.&rdquo; Carol was super-neighborly. &ldquo;But I
      do think you ought to apologize to poor Erik Valborg. He was terribly
      hurt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh. Valborg. I don't care so much what he thinks,&rdquo; objected Harry. &ldquo;He's
      nothing but a conceited buttinsky. Juanita and I kind of figured he was
      trying to run this tennis thing too darn much anyway.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you asked him to make arrangements.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, but I don't like him. Good Lord, you couldn't hurt his feelings!
      He dresses up like a chorus man&mdash;and, by golly, he looks like one!&mdash;but
      he's nothing but a Swede farm boy, and these foreigners, they all got
      hides like a covey of rhinoceroses .&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he IS hurt!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;I don't suppose I ought to have gone off half-cocked,
      and not jollied him along. I'll give him a cigar. He'll&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Juanita had been licking her lips and staring at Carol. She interrupted
      her husband, &ldquo;Yes, I do think Harry ought to fix it up with him. You LIKE
      him, DON'T you, Carol??&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Over and through Carol ran a frightened cautiousness. &ldquo;Like him? I haven't
      an í-dea. He seems to be a very decent young man. I just felt that when
      he'd worked so hard on the plans for the match, it was a shame not to be
      nice to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe there's something to that,&rdquo; mumbled Harry; then, at sight of
      Kennicott coming round the corner tugging the red garden hose by its brass
      nozzle, he roared in relief, &ldquo;What d' you think you're trying to do, doc?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Kennicott explained in detail all that he thought he was trying to
      do, while he rubbed his chin and gravely stated, &ldquo;Struck me the grass was
      looking kind of brown in patches&mdash;didn't know but what I'd give it a
      sprinkling,&rdquo; and while Harry agreed that this was an excellent idea,
      Juanita made friendly noises and, behind the gilt screen of an
      affectionate smile, watched Carol's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She wanted to see Erik. She wanted some one to play with! There wasn't
      even so dignified and sound an excuse as having Kennicott's trousers
      pressed; when she inspected them, all three pairs looked discouragingly
      neat. She probably would not have ventured on it had she not spied Nat
      Hicks in the pool-parlor, being witty over bottle-pool. Erik was alone!
      She fluttered toward the tailor shop, dashed into its slovenly heat with
      the comic fastidiousness of a humming bird dipping into a dry tiger-lily.
      It was after she had entered that she found an excuse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik was in the back room, cross-legged on a long table, sewing a vest.
      But he looked as though he were doing this eccentric thing to amuse
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hello. I wonder if you couldn't plan a sports-suit for me?&rdquo; she said
      breathlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stared at her; he protested, &ldquo;No, I won't! God! I'm not going to be a
      tailor with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Erik!&rdquo; she said, like a mildly shocked mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      It occurred to her that she did not need a suit, and that the order might
      have been hard to explain to Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      He swung down from the table. &ldquo;I want to show you something.&rdquo; He rummaged
      in the roll-top desk on which Nat Hicks kept bills, buttons, calendars,
      buckles, thread-channeled wax, shotgun shells, samples of brocade for
      &ldquo;fancy vests,&rdquo; fishing-reels, pornographic post-cards, shreds of buckram
      lining. He pulled out a blurred sheet of Bristol board and anxiously gave
      it to her. It was a sketch for a frock. It was not well drawn; it was too
      finicking; the pillars in the background were grotesquely squat. But the
      frock had an original back, very low, with a central triangular section
      from the waist to a string of jet beads at the neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's stunning. But how it would shock Mrs. Clark!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, wouldn't it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must let yourself go more when you're drawing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't know if I can. I've started kind of late. But listen! What do you
      think I've done this two weeks? I've read almost clear through a Latin
      grammar, and about twenty pages of Caesar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Splendid! You are lucky. You haven't a teacher to make you artificial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're my teacher!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a dangerous edge of personality to his voice. She was offended
      and agitated. She turned her shoulder on him, stared through the back
      window, studying this typical center of a typical Main Street block, a
      vista hidden from casual strollers. The backs of the chief establishments
      in town surrounded a quadrangle neglected, dirty, and incomparably dismal.
      From the front, Howland &amp; Gould's grocery was smug enough, but
      attached to the rear was a lean-to of storm streaked pine lumber with a
      sanded tar roof&mdash;a staggering doubtful shed behind which was a heap
      of ashes, splintered packing-boxes, shreds of excelsior, crumpled
      straw-board, broken olive-bottles, rotten fruit, and utterly disintegrated
      vegetables: orange carrots turning black, and potatoes with ulcers. The
      rear of the Bon Ton Store was grim with blistered black-painted iron
      shutters, under them a pile of once glossy red shirt-boxes, now a pulp
      from recent rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      As seen from Main Street, Oleson &amp; McGuire's Meat Market had a
      sanitary and virtuous expression with its new tile counter, fresh sawdust
      on the floor, and a hanging veal cut in rosettes. But she now viewed a
      back room with a homemade refrigerator of yellow smeared with black
      grease. A man in an apron spotted with dry blood was hoisting out a hard
      slab of meat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind Billy's Lunch, the cook, in an apron which must long ago have been
      white, smoked a pipe and spat at the pest of sticky flies. In the center
      of the block, by itself, was the stable for the three horses of the
      drayman, and beside it a pile of manure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rear of Ezra Stowbody's bank was whitewashed, and back of it was a
      concrete walk and a three-foot square of grass, but the window was barred,
      and behind the bars she saw Willis Woodford cramped over figures in
      pompous books. He raised his head, jerkily rubbed his eyes, and went back
      to the eternity of figures.
    </p>
    <p>
      The backs of the other shops were an impressionistic picture of dirty
      grays, drained browns, writhing heaps of refuse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine is a back-yard romance&mdash;with a journeyman tailor!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was saved from self-pity as she began to think through Erik's mind.
      She turned to him with an indignant, &ldquo;It's disgusting that this is all you
      have to look at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He considered it. &ldquo;Outside there? I don't notice much. I'm learning to
      look inside. Not awful easy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. . . . I must be hurrying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As she walked home&mdash;without hurrying&mdash;she remembered her father
      saying to a serious ten-year-old Carol, &ldquo;Lady, only a fool thinks he's
      superior to beautiful bindings, but only a double-distilled fool reads
      nothing but bindings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was startled by the return of her father, startled by a sudden
      conviction that in this flaxen boy she had found the gray reticent judge
      who was divine love, perfect under-standing. She debated it, furiously
      denied it, reaffirmed it, ridiculed it. Of one thing she was unhappily
      certain: there was nothing of the beloved father image in Will Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She wondered why she sang so often, and why she found so many pleasant
      things&mdash;lamplight seen though trees on a cool evening, sunshine on
      brown wood, morning sparrows, black sloping roofs turned to plates of
      silver by moonlight. Pleasant things, small friendly things, and pleasant
      places&mdash;a field of goldenrod, a pasture by the creek&mdash;and
      suddenly a wealth of pleasant people. Vida was lenient to Carol at the
      surgical-dressing class; Mrs. Dave Dyer flattered her with questions about
      her health, baby, cook, and opinions on the war.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Dyer seemed not to share the town's prejudice against Erik. &ldquo;He's a
      nice-looking fellow; we must have him go on one of our picnics some time.&rdquo;
       Unexpectedly, Dave Dyer also liked him. The tight-fisted little farceur
      had a confused reverence for anything that seemed to him refined or
      clever. He answered Harry Haydock's sneers, &ldquo;That's all right now!
      Elizabeth may doll himself up too much, but he's smart, and don't you
      forget it! I was asking round trying to find out where this Ukraine is,
      and darn if he didn't tell me. What's the matter with his talking so
      polite? Hell's bells, Harry, no harm in being polite. There's some regular
      he-men that are just as polite as women, prett' near.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol found herself going about rejoicing, &ldquo;How neighborly the town is!&rdquo;
       She drew up with a dismayed &ldquo;Am I falling in love with this boy? That's
      ridiculous! I'm merely interested in him. I like to think of helping him
      to succeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as she dusted the living-room, mended a collar-band, bathed Hugh, she
      was picturing herself and a young artistan Apollo nameless and evasive&mdash;building
      a house in the Berkshires or in Virginia; exuberantly buying a chair with
      his first check; reading poetry together, and frequently being earnest
      over valuable statistics about labor; tumbling out of bed early for a
      Sunday walk, and chattering (where Kennicott would have yawned) over bread
      and butter by a lake. Hugh was in her pictures, and he adored the young
      artist, who made castles of chairs and rugs for him. Beyond these
      playtimes she saw the &ldquo;things I could do for Erik&rdquo;&mdash;and she admitted
      that Erik did partly make up the image of her altogether perfect artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      In panic she insisted on being attentive to Kennicott, when he wanted to
      be left alone to read the newspaper.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      She needed new clothes. Kennicott had promised, &ldquo;We'll have a good trip
      down to the Cities in the fall, and take plenty of time for it, and you
      can get your new glad-rags then.&rdquo; But as she examined her wardrobe she
      flung her ancient black velvet frock on the floor and raged, &ldquo;They're
      disgraceful. Everything I have is falling to pieces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a new dressmaker and milliner, a Mrs. Swiftwaite. It was said
      that she was not altogether an elevating influence in the way she glanced
      at men; that she would as soon take away a legally appropriated husband as
      not; that if there WAS any Mr. Swiftwaite, &ldquo;it certainly was strange that
      nobody seemed to know anything about him!&rdquo; But she had made for Rita Gould
      an organdy frock and hat to match universally admitted to be &ldquo;too cunning
      for words,&rdquo; and the matrons went cautiously, with darting eyes and
      excessive politeness, to the rooms which Mrs. Swiftwaite had taken in the
      old Luke Dawson house, on Floral Avenue.
    </p>
    <p>
      With none of the spiritual preparation which normally precedes the buying
      of new clothes in Gopher Prairie, Carol marched into Mrs. Swiftwaite's,
      and demanded, &ldquo;I want to see a hat, and possibly a blouse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the dingy old front parlor which she had tried to make smart with a
      pier glass, covers from fashion magazines, anemic French prints, Mrs.
      Swiftwaite moved smoothly among the dress-dummies and hat-rests, spoke
      smoothly as she took up a small black and red turban. &ldquo;I am sure the lady
      will find this extremely attractive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's dreadfully tabby and small-towny,&rdquo; thought Carol, while she soothed,
      &ldquo;I don't believe it quite goes with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the choicest thing I have, and I'm sure you'll find it suits you
      beautifully. It has a great deal of chic. Please try it on,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Swiftwaite, more smoothly than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol studied the woman. She was as imitative as a glass diamond. She was
      the more rustic in her effort to appear urban. She wore a severe
      high-collared blouse with a row of small black buttons, which was becoming
      to her low-breasted slim neatness, but her skirt was hysterically
      checkered, her cheeks were too highly rouged, her lips too sharply
      penciled. She was magnificently a specimen of the illiterate divorcee of
      forty made up to look thirty, clever, and alluring.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was trying on the hat Carol felt very condescending. She took it
      off, shook her head, explained with the kind smile for inferiors, &ldquo;I'm
      afraid it won't do, though it's unusually nice for so small a town as
      this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's really absolutely New-Yorkish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, I know my New York styles. I lived in New York for years,
      besides almost a year in Akron!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did?&rdquo; Carol was polite, and edged away, and went home unhappily. She
      was wondering whether her own airs were as laughable as Mrs. Swiftwaite's.
      She put on the eye-glasses which Kennicott had recently given to her for
      reading, and looked over a grocery bill. She went hastily up to her room,
      to her mirror. She was in a mood of self-depreciation. Accurately or not,
      this was the picture she saw in the mirror:
    </p>
    <p>
      Neat rimless eye-glasses. Black hair clumsily tucked under a mauve straw
      hat which would have suited a spinster. Cheeks clear, bloodless. Thin
      nose. Gentle mouth and chin. A modest voile blouse with an edging of lace
      at the neck. A virginal sweetness and timorousness&mdash;no flare of
      gaiety, no suggestion of cities, music, quick laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have become a small-town woman. Absolute. Typical. Modest and moral and
      safe. Protected from life. GENTEEL! The Village Virus&mdash;the village
      virtuousness. My hair&mdash;just scrambled together. What can Erik see in
      that wedded spinster there? He does like me! Because I'm the only woman
      who's decent to him! How long before he'll wake up to me? . . . I've waked
      up to myself. . . . Am I as old as&mdash;as old as I am?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not really old. Become careless. Let myself look tabby.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to chuck every stitch I own. Black hair and pale cheeks&mdash;they'd
      go with a Spanish dancer's costume&mdash;rose behind my ear, scarlet
      mantilla over one shoulder, the other bare.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seized the rouge sponge, daubed her cheeks, scratched at her lips with
      the vermilion pencil until they stung, tore open her collar. She posed
      with her thin arms in the attitude of the fandango. She dropped them
      sharply. She shook her head. &ldquo;My heart doesn't dance,&rdquo; she said. She
      flushed as she fastened her blouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At least I'm much more graceful than Fern Mullins. Heavens! When I came
      here from the Cities, girls imitated me. Now I'm trying to imitate a city
      girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX
    </h2>
    <p>
      FERN Mullins rushed into the house on a Saturday morning early in
      September and shrieked at Carol, &ldquo;School starts next Tuesday. I've got to
      have one more spree before I'm arrested. Let's get up a picnic down the
      lake for this afternoon. Won't you come, Mrs. Kennicott, and the doctor?
      Cy Bogart wants to go&mdash;he's a brat but he's lively.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think the doctor can go,&rdquo; sedately. &ldquo;He said something about
      having to make a country call this afternoon. But I'd love to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's dandy! Who can we get?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Dyer might be chaperon. She's been so nice. And maybe Dave, if he
      could get away from the store.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How about Erik Valborg? I think he's got lots more style than these town
      boys. You like him all right, don't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the picnic of Carol, Fern, Erik, Cy Bogart, and the Dyers was not only
      moral but inevitable.
    </p>
    <p>
      They drove to the birch grove on the south shore of Lake Minniemashie.
      Dave Dyer was his most clownish self. He yelped, jigged, wore Carol's hat,
      dropped an ant down Fern's back, and when they went swimming (the women
      modestly changing in the car with the side curtains up, the men undressing
      behind the bushes, constantly repeating, &ldquo;Gee, hope we don't run into
      poison ivy&rdquo;), Dave splashed water on them and dived to clutch his wife's
      ankle. He infected the others. Erik gave an imitation of the Greek dancers
      he had seen in vaudeville, and when they sat down to picnic supper spread
      on a lap-robe on the grass, Cy climbed a tree to throw acorns at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Carol could not frolic.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had made herself young, with parted hair, sailor blouse and large blue
      bow, white canvas shoes and short linen skirt. Her mirror had asserted
      that she looked exactly as she had in college, that her throat was smooth,
      her collar-bone not very noticeable. But she was under restraint. When
      they swam she enjoyed the freshness of the water but she was irritated by
      Cy's tricks, by Dave's excessive good spirits. She admired Erik's dance;
      he could never betray bad taste, as Cy did, and Dave. She waited for him
      to come to her. He did not come. By his joyousness he had apparently
      endeared himself to the Dyers. Maud watched him and, after supper, cried
      to him, &ldquo;Come sit down beside me, bad boy!&rdquo; Carol winced at his
      willingness to be a bad boy and come and sit, at his enjoyment of a not
      very stimulating game in which Maud, Dave, and Cy snatched slices of cold
      tongue from one another's plates. Maud, it seemed, was slightly dizzy from
      the swim. She remarked publicly, &ldquo;Dr. Kennicott has helped me so much by
      putting me on a diet,&rdquo; but it was to Erik alone that she gave the complete
      version of her peculiarity in being so sensitive, so easily hurt by the
      slightest cross word, that she simply had to have nice cheery friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik was nice and cheery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol assured herself, &ldquo;Whatever faults I may have, I certainly couldn't
      ever be jealous. I do like Maud; she's always so pleasant. But I wonder if
      she isn't just a bit fond of fishing for men's sympathy? Playing with
      Erik, and her married&mdash;&mdash;Well&mdash;&mdash;But she looks at him
      in that languishing, swooning, mid-Victorian way. Disgusting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Cy Bogart lay between the roots of a big birch, smoking his pipe and
      teasing Fern, assuring her that a week from now, when he was again a
      high-school boy and she his teacher, he'd wink at her in class. Maud Dyer
      wanted Erik to &ldquo;come down to the beach to see the darling little minnies.&rdquo;
       Carol was left to Dave, who tried to entertain her with humorous accounts
      of Ella Stowbody's fondness for chocolate peppermints. She watched Maud
      Dyer put her hand on Erik's shoulder to steady herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Disgusting!&rdquo; she thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cy Bogart covered Fern's nervous hand with his red paw, and when she
      bounced with half-anger and shrieked, &ldquo;Let go, I tell you!&rdquo; he grinned and
      waved his pipe&mdash;a gangling twenty-year-old satyr.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Disgusting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Maud and Erik returned and the grouping shifted, Erik muttered at
      Carol, &ldquo;There's a boat on shore. Let's skip off and have a row.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will they think?&rdquo; she worried. She saw Maud Dyer peer at Erik with
      moist possessive eyes. &ldquo;Yes! Let's!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She cried to the party, with the canonical amount of sprightliness,
      &ldquo;Good-by, everybody. We'll wireless you from China.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the rhythmic oars plopped and creaked, as she floated on an unreality
      of delicate gray over which the sunset was poured out thin, the irritation
      of Cy and Maud slipped away. Erik smiled at her proudly. She considered
      him&mdash;coatless, in white thin shirt. She was conscious of his male
      differentness, of his flat masculine sides, his thin thighs, his easy
      rowing. They talked of the library, of the movies. He hummed and she
      softly sang &ldquo;Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.&rdquo; A breeze shivered across the agate
      lake. The wrinkled water was like armor damascened and polished. The
      breeze flowed round the boat in a chill current. Carol drew the collar of
      her middy blouse over her bare throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Getting cold. Afraid we'll have to go back,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's not go back to them yet. They'll be cutting up. Let's keep along
      the shore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you enjoy the 'cutting up!' Maud and you had a beautiful time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why! We just walked on the shore and talked about fishing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was relieved, and apologetic to her friend Maud. &ldquo;Of course. I was
      joking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you! Let's land here and sit on the shore&mdash;that bunch of
      hazel-brush will shelter us from the wind&mdash;and watch the sunset. It's
      like melted lead. Just a short while! We don't want to go back and listen
      to them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She said nothing while he sped ashore. The keel
      clashed on the stones. He stood on the forward seat, holding out his hand.
      They were alone, in the ripple-lapping silence. She rose slowly, slowly
      stepped over the water in the bottom of the old boat. She took his hand
      confidently. Unspeaking they sat on a bleached log, in a russet twilight
      which hinted of autumn. Linden leaves fluttered about them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish&mdash;&mdash;Are you cold now?&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little.&rdquo; She shivered. But it was not with cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish we could curl up in the leaves there, covered all up, and lie
      looking out at the dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish we could.&rdquo; As though it was comfortably understood that he did not
      mean to be taken seriously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like what all the poets say&mdash;brown nymph and faun.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I can't be a nymph any more. Too old&mdash;&mdash;Erik, am I old? Am
      I faded and small-towny?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you're the youngest&mdash;&mdash;Your eyes are like a girl's.
      They're so&mdash;well, I mean, like you believed everything. Even if you
      do teach me, I feel a thousand years older than you, instead of maybe a
      year younger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four or five years younger!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anyway, your eyes are so innocent and your cheeks so soft&mdash;&mdash;Damn
      it, it makes me want to cry, somehow, you're so defenseless; and I want to
      protect you and&mdash;&mdash;There's nothing to protect you against!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I young? Am I? Honestly? Truly?&rdquo; She betrayed for a moment the
      childish, mock-imploring tone that comes into the voice of the most
      serious woman when an agreeable man treats her as a girl; the childish
      tone and childish pursed-up lips and shy lift of the cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're dear to believe it, Will&mdash;ERIK!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you play with me? A lot?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you really like to curl in the leaves and watch the stars swing by
      overhead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it's rather better to be sitting here!&rdquo; He twined his fingers
      with hers. &ldquo;And Erik, we must go back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's somewhat late to outline all the history of social custom!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. We must. Are you glad we ran away though?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She was quiet, perfectly simple. But she rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      He circled her waist with a brusque arm. She did not resist. She did not
      care. He was neither a peasant tailor, a potential artist, a social
      complication, nor a peril. He was himself, and in him, in the personality
      flowing from him, she was unreasoningly content. In his nearness she
      caught a new view of his head; the last light brought out the planes of
      his neck, his flat ruddied cheeks, the side of his nose, the depression of
      his temples. Not as coy or uneasy lovers but as companions they walked to
      the boat, and he lifted her up on the prow.
    </p>
    <p>
      She began to talk intently, as he rowed: &ldquo;Erik, you've got to work! You
      ought to be a personage. You're robbed of your kingdom. Fight for it! Take
      one of these correspondence courses in drawing&mdash;they mayn't be any
      good in themselves, but they'll make you try to draw and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As they reached the picnic ground she perceived that it was dark, that
      they had been gone for a long time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will they say?&rdquo; she wondered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The others greeted them with the inevitable storm of humor and slight
      vexation: &ldquo;Where the deuce do you think you've been?&rdquo; &ldquo;You're a fine pair,
      you are!&rdquo; Erik and Carol looked self-conscious; failed in their effort to
      be witty. All the way home Carol was embarrassed. Once Cy winked at her.
      That Cy, the Peeping Tom of the garage-loft, should consider her a
      fellow-sinner&mdash;&mdash;She was furious and frightened and exultant by
      turns, and in all her moods certain that Kennicott would read her
      adventuring in her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She came into the house awkwardly defiant.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her husband, half asleep under the lamp, greeted her, &ldquo;Well, well, have
      nice time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could not answer. He looked at her. But his look did not sharpen. He
      began to wind his watch, yawning the old &ldquo;Welllllll, guess it's about time
      to turn in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was all. Yet she was not glad. She was almost disappointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart called next day. She had a hen-like, crumb-pecking, diligent
      appearance. Her smile was too innocent. The pecking started instantly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cy says you had lots of fun at the picnic yesterday. Did you enjoy it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes. I raced Cy at swimming. He beat me badly. He's so strong, isn't
      he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor boy, just crazy to get into the war, too, but&mdash;&mdash;This Erik
      Valborg was along, wa'n't he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think he's an awful handsome fellow, and they say he's smart. Do you
      like him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He seems very polite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cy says you and him had a lovely boat-ride. My, that must have been
      pleasant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, except that I couldn't get Mr. Valborg to say a word. I wanted to
      ask him about the suit Mr. Hicks is making for my husband. But he insisted
      on singing. Still, it was restful, floating around on the water and
      singing. So happy and innocent. Don't you think it's a shame, Mrs. Bogart,
      that people in this town don't do more nice clean things like that,
      instead of all this horrible gossiping?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. . . . Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart sounded vacant. Her bonnet was awry; she was incomparably
      dowdy. Carol stared at her, felt contemptuous, ready at last to rebel
      against the trap, and as the rusty goodwife fished again, &ldquo;Plannin' some
      more picnics?&rdquo; she flung out, &ldquo;I haven't the slightest idea! Oh. Is that
      Hugh crying? I must run up to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But up-stairs she remembered that Mrs. Bogart had seen her walking with
      Erik from the railroad track into town, and she was chilly with
      disquietude.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the Jolly Seventeen, two days after, she was effusive to Maud Dyer, to
      Juanita Haydock. She fancied that every one was watching her, but she
      could not be sure, and in rare strong moments she did not care. She could
      rebel against the town's prying now that she had something, however
      indistinct, for which to rebel.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a passionate escape there must be not only a place from which to flee
      but a place to which to flee. She had known that she would gladly leave
      Gopher Prairie, leave Main Street and all that it signified, but she had
      had no destination. She had one now. That destination was not Erik Valborg
      and the love of Erik. She continued to assure herself that she wasn't in
      love with him but merely &ldquo;fond of him, and interested in his success.&rdquo; Yet
      in him she had discovered both her need of youth and the fact that youth
      would welcome her. It was not Erik to whom she must escape, but universal
      and joyous youth, in class-rooms, in studios, in offices, in meetings to
      protest against Things in General. . . . But universal and joyous youth
      rather resembled Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      All week she thought of things she wished to say to him. High, improving
      things. She began to admit that she was lonely without him. Then she was
      afraid.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at the Baptist church supper, a week after the picnic, that she saw
      him again. She had gone with Kennicott and Aunt Bessie to the supper,
      which was spread on oilcloth-covered and trestle-supported tables in the
      church basement. Erik was helping Myrtle Cass to fill coffee cups for the
      waitresses. The congregation had doffed their piety. Children tumbled
      under the tables, and Deacon Pierson greeted the women with a rolling,
      &ldquo;Where's Brother Jones, sister, where's Brother Jones? Not going to be
      with us tonight? Well, you tell Sister Perry to hand you a plate, and make
      'em give you enough oyster pie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Erik shared in the cheerfulness. He laughed with Myrtle, jogged her elbow
      when she was filling cups, made deep mock bows to the waitresses as they
      came up for coffee. Myrtle was enchanted by his humor. From the other end
      of the room, a matron among matrons, Carol observed Myrtle, and hated her,
      and caught herself at it. &ldquo;To be jealous of a wooden-faced village girl!&rdquo;
       But she kept it up. She detested Erik; gloated over his gaucheries&mdash;his
      &ldquo;breaks,&rdquo; she called them. When he was too expressive, too much like a
      Russian dancer, in saluting Deacon Pierson, Carol had the ecstasy of pain
      in seeing the deacon's sneer. When, trying to talk to three girls at once,
      he dropped a cup and effeminately wailed, &ldquo;Oh dear!&rdquo; she sympathized with&mdash;and
      ached over&mdash;the insulting secret glances of the girls.
    </p>
    <p>
      From meanly hating him she rose to compassion as she saw that his eyes
      begged every one to like him. She perceived how inaccurate her judgments
      could be. At the picnic she had fancied that Maud Dyer looked upon Erik
      too sentimentally, and she had snarled, &ldquo;I hate these married women who
      cheapen themselves and feed on boys.&rdquo; But at the supper Maud was one of
      the waitresses; she bustled with platters of cake, she was pleasant to old
      women; and to Erik she gave no attention at all. Indeed, when she had her
      own supper, she joined the Kennicotts, and how ludicrous it was to suppose
      that Maud was a gourmet of emotions Carol saw in the fact that she talked
      not to one of the town beaux but to the safe Kennicott himself!
    </p>
    <p>
      When Carol glanced at Erik again she discovered that Mrs. Bogart had an
      eye on her. It was a shock to know that at last there was something which
      could make her afraid of Mrs. Bogart's spying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I doing? Am I in love with Erik? Unfaithful? I? I want youth but
      I don't want him&mdash;I mean, I don't want youth&mdash;enough to break up
      my life. I must get out of this. Quick.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said to Kennicott on their way home, &ldquo;Will! I want to run away for a
      few days. Wouldn't you like to skip down to Chicago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still be pretty hot there. No fun in a big city till winter. What do you
      want to go for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;People! To occupy my mind. I want stimulus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stimulus?&rdquo; He spoke good-naturedly. &ldquo;Who's been feeding you meat? You got
      that 'stimulus' out of one of these fool stories about wives that don't
      know when they're well off. Stimulus! Seriously, though, to cut out the
      jollying, I can't get away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why don't I run off by myself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;'Tisn't the money, you understand. But what about Hugh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave him with Aunt Bessie. It would be just for a few days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think much of this business of leaving kids around. Bad for 'em.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you don't think&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell you: I think we better stay put till after the war. Then we'll
      have a dandy long trip. No, I don't think you better plan much about going
      away now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So she was thrown at Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She awoke at ebb-time, at three of the morning, woke sharply and fully;
      and sharply and coldly as her father pronouncing sentence on a cruel
      swindler she gave judgment:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pitiful and tawdry love-affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No splendor, no defiance. A self-deceived little woman whispering in
      corners with a pretentious little man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, he is not. He is fine. Aspiring. It's not his fault. His eyes are
      sweet when he looks at me. Sweet, so sweet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pitied herself that her romance should be pitiful; she sighed that in
      this colorless hour, to this austere self, it should seem tawdry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, in a very great desire of rebellion and unleashing of all her
      hatreds, &ldquo;The pettier and more tawdry it is, the more blame to Main
      Street. It shows how much I've been longing to escape. Any way out! Any
      humility so long as I can flee. Main Street has done this to me. I came
      here eager for nobilities, ready for work, and now&mdash;&mdash;Any way
      out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came trusting them. They beat me with rods of dullness. They don't
      know, they don't understand how agonizing their complacent dullness is.
      Like ants and August sun on a wound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tawdry! Pitiful! Carol&mdash;the clean girl that used to walk so fast!&mdash;sneaking
      and tittering in dark corners, being sentimental and jealous at church
      suppers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At breakfast-time her agonies were night-blurred, and persisted only as a
      nervous irresolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Few of the aristocrats of the Jolly Seventeen attended the humble
      folk-meets of the Baptist and Methodist church suppers, where the Willis
      Woodfords, the Dillons, the Champ Perrys, Oleson the butcher, Brad Bemis
      the tinsmith, and Deacon Pierson found release from loneliness. But all of
      the smart set went to the lawn-festivals of the Episcopal Church, and were
      reprovingly polite to outsiders.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Harry Haydocks gave the last lawn-festival of the season; a splendor
      of Japanese lanterns and card-tables and chicken patties and Neapolitan
      ice-cream. Erik was no longer entirely an outsider. He was eating his
      ice-cream with a group of the people most solidly &ldquo;in&rdquo;&mdash;the Dyers,
      Myrtle Cass, Guy Pollock, the Jackson Elders. The Haydocks themselves kept
      aloof, but the others tolerated him. He would never, Carol fancied, be one
      of the town pillars, because he was not orthodox in hunting and motoring
      and poker. But he was winning approbation by his liveliness, his gaiety&mdash;the
      qualities least important in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the group summoned Carol she made several very well-taken points in
      regard to the weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      Myrtle cried to Erik, &ldquo;Come on! We don't belong with these old folks. I
      want to make you 'quainted with the jolliest girl, she comes from Wakamin,
      she's staying with Mary Howland.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol saw him being profuse to the guest from Wakamin. She saw him
      confidentially strolling with Myrtle. She burst out to Mrs. Westlake,
      &ldquo;Valborg and Myrtle seem to have quite a crush on each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Westlake glanced at her curiously before she mumbled, &ldquo;Yes, don't
      they.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm mad, to talk this way,&rdquo; Carol worried.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had regained a feeling of social virtue by telling Juanita Haydock
      &ldquo;how darling her lawn looked with the Japanese lanterns&rdquo; when she saw that
      Erik was stalking her. Though he was merely ambling about with his hands
      in his pockets, though he did not peep at her, she knew that he was
      calling her. She sidled away from Juanita. Erik hastened to her. She
      nodded coolly (she was proud of her coolness).
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carol! I've got a wonderful chance! Don't know but what some ways it
      might be better than going East to take art. Myrtle Cass says&mdash;&mdash;I
      dropped in to say howdy to Myrtle last evening, and had quite a long talk
      with her father, and he said he was hunting for a fellow to go to work in
      the flour mill and learn the whole business, and maybe become general
      manager. I know something about wheat from my farming, and I worked a
      couple of months in the flour mill at Curlew when I got sick of tailoring.
      What do you think? You said any work was artistic if it was done by an
      artist. And flour is so important. What do you think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait! Wait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This sensitive boy would be very skilfully stamped into conformity by
      Lyman Cass and his sallow daughter; but did she detest the plan for this
      reason? &ldquo;I must be honest. I mustn't tamper with his future to please my
      vanity.&rdquo; But she had no sure vision. She turned on him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can I decide? It's up to you. Do you want to become a person like Lym
      Cass, or do you want to become a person like&mdash;yes, like me! Wait!
      Don't be flattering. Be honest. This is important.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. I am a person like you now! I mean, I want to rebel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. We're alike,&rdquo; gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only I'm not sure I can put through my schemes. I really can't draw much.
      I guess I have pretty fair taste in fabrics, but since I've known you I
      don't like to think about fussing with dress-designing. But as a miller,
      I'd have the means&mdash;books, piano, travel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going to be frank and beastly. Don't you realize that it isn't just
      because her papa needs a bright young man in the mill that Myrtle is
      amiable to you? Can't you understand what she'll do to you when she has
      you, when she sends you to church and makes you become respectable?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He glared at her. &ldquo;I don't know. I suppose so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are thoroughly unstable!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What if I am? Most fish out of water are! Don't talk like Mrs. Bogart!
      How can I be anything but 'unstable'&mdash;wandering from farm to tailor
      shop to books, no training, nothing but trying to make books talk to me!
      Probably I'll fail. Oh, I know it; probably I'm uneven. But I'm not
      unstable in thinking about this job in the mill&mdash;and Myrtle. I know
      what I want. I want you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please, please, oh, please!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do. I'm not a schoolboy any more. I want you. If I take Myrtle, it's to
      forget you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please, please!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's you that are unstable! You talk at things and play at things, but
      you're scared. Would I mind it if you and I went off to poverty, and I had
      to dig ditches? I would not! But you would. I think you would come to like
      me, but you won't admit it. I wouldn't have said this, but when you sneer
      at Myrtle and the mill&mdash;&mdash;If I'm not to have good sensible
      things like those, d' you think I'll be content with trying to become a
      damn dressmaker, after YOU? Are you fair? Are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I suppose not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like me? Do you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;&mdash;No! Please! I can't talk any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not here. Mrs. Haydock is looking at us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, nor anywhere. O Erik, I am fond of you, but I'm afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of Them! Of my rulers&mdash;Gopher Prairie. . . . My dear boy, we are
      talking very foolishly. I am a normal wife and a good mother, and you are&mdash;oh,
      a college freshman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do like me! I'm going to make you love me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him once, recklessly, and walked away with a serene gait
      that was a disordered flight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott grumbled on their way home, &ldquo;You and this Valborg fellow seem
      quite chummy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, we are. He's interested in Myrtle Cass, and I was telling him how
      nice she is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In her room she marveled, &ldquo;I have become a liar. I'm snarled with lies and
      foggy analyses and desires&mdash;I who was clear and sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She hurried into Kennicott's room, sat on the edge of his bed. He flapped
      a drowsy welcoming hand at her from the expanse of quilt and dented
      pillows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will, I really think I ought to trot off to St. Paul or Chicago or some
      place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought we settled all that, few nights ago! Wait till we can have a
      real trip.&rdquo; He shook himself out of his drowsiness. &ldquo;You might give me a
      good-night kiss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did&mdash;dutifully. He held her lips against his for an intolerable
      time. &ldquo;Don't you like the old man any more?&rdquo; he coaxed. He sat up and
      shyly fitted his palm about the slimness of her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course. I like you very much indeed.&rdquo; Even to herself it sounded flat.
      She longed to be able to throw into her voice the facile passion of a
      light woman. She patted his cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sighed, &ldquo;I'm sorry you're so tired. Seems like&mdash;&mdash;But of
      course you aren't very strong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. . . . Then you don't think&mdash;you're quite sure I ought to stay
      here in town?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you so! I certainly do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She crept back to her room, a small timorous figure in white.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't face Will down&mdash;demand the right. He'd be obstinate. And I
      can't even go off and earn my living again. Out of the habit of it. He's
      driving me&mdash;&mdash;I'm afraid of what he's driving me to. Afraid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That man in there, snoring in stale air, my husband? Could any ceremony
      make him my husband?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I don't want to hurt him. I want to love him. I can't, when I'm
      thinking of Erik. Am I too honest&mdash;a funny topsy-turvy honesty&mdash;the
      faithfulness of unfaith? I wish I had a more compartmental mind, like men.
      I'm too monogamous&mdash;toward Erik!&mdash;my child Erik, who needs me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is an illicit affair like a gambling debt&mdash;demands stricter honor
      than the legitimate debt of matrimony, because it's not legally enforced?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's nonsense! I don't care in the least for Erik! Not for any man. I
      want to be let alone, in a woman world&mdash;a world without Main Street,
      or politicians, or business men, or men with that sudden beastly hungry
      look, that glistening unfrank expression that wives know&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Erik were here, if he would just sit quiet and kind and talk, I could
      be still, I could go to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so tired. If I could sleep&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THEIR night came unheralded.
    </h3>
    <p>
      Kennicott was on a country call. It was cool but Carol huddled on the
      porch, rocking, meditating, rocking. The house was lonely and repellent,
      and though she sighed, &ldquo;I ought to go in and read&mdash;so many things to
      read&mdash;ought to go in,&rdquo; she remained. Suddenly Erik was coming,
      turning in, swinging open the screen door, touching her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Erik!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saw your husband driving out of town. Couldn't stand it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;You mustn't stay more than five minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Couldn't stand not seeing you. Every day, towards evening, felt I had to
      see you&mdash;pictured you so clear. I've been good though, staying away,
      haven't I!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you must go on being good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why must I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We better not stay here on the porch. The Howlands across the street are
      such window-peepers, and Mrs. Bogart&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did not look at him but she could divine his tremulousness as he
      stumbled indoors. A moment ago the night had been coldly empty; now it was
      incalculable, hot, treacherous. But it is women who are the calm realists
      once they discard the fetishes of the premarital hunt. Carol was serene as
      she murmured, &ldquo;Hungry? I have some little honey-colored cakes. You may
      have two, and then you must skip home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take me up and let me see Hugh asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't believe&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just a glimpse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She doubtfully led the way to the hallroom-nursery. Their heads close,
      Erik's curls pleasant as they touched her cheek, they looked in at the
      baby. Hugh was pink with slumber. He had burrowed into his pillow with
      such energy that it was almost smothering him. Beside it was a celluloid
      rhinoceros; tight in his hand a torn picture of Old King Cole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shhh!&rdquo; said Carol, quite automatically. She tiptoed in to pat the pillow.
      As she returned to Erik she had a friendly sense of his waiting for her.
      They smiled at each other. She did not think of Kennicott, the baby's
      father. What she did think was that some one rather like Erik, an older
      and surer Erik, ought to be Hugh's father. The three of them would play&mdash;incredible
      imaginative games.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carol! You've told me about your own room. Let me peep in at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you mustn't stay, not a second. We must go downstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you be good?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;R-reasonably!&rdquo; He was pale, large-eyed, serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've got to be more than reasonably good!&rdquo; She felt sensible and
      superior; she was energetic about pushing open the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had always seemed out of place there but Erik surprisingly
      harmonized with the spirit of the room as he stroked the books, glanced at
      the prints. He held out his hands. He came toward her. She was weak,
      betrayed to a warm softness. Her head was tilted back. Her eyes were
      closed. Her thoughts were formless but many-colored. She felt his kiss,
      diffident and reverent, on her eyelid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she knew that it was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      She shook herself. She sprang from him. &ldquo;Please!&rdquo; she said sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her unyielding.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am fond of you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don't spoil everything. Be my friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many thousands and millions of women must have said that! And now
      you! And it doesn't spoil everything. It glorifies everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear, I do think there's a tiny streak of fairy in you&mdash;whatever you
      do with it. Perhaps I'd have loved that once. But I won't. It's too late.
      But I'll keep a fondness for you. Impersonal&mdash;I will be impersonal!
      It needn't be just a thin talky fondness. You do need me, don't you? Only
      you and my son need me. I've wanted so to be wanted! Once I wanted love to
      be given to me. Now I'll be content if I can give. . . . Almost content!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We women, we like to do things for men. Poor men! We swoop on you when
      you're defenseless and fuss over you and insist on reforming you. But it's
      so pitifully deep in us. You'll be the one thing in which I haven't
      failed. Do something definite! Even if it's just selling cottons. Sell
      beautiful cottons&mdash;caravans from China&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carol! Stop! You do love me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not! It's just&mdash;&mdash;Can't you understand? Everything crushes
      in on me so, all the gaping dull people, and I look for a way out&mdash;&mdash;Please
      go. I can't stand any more. Please!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was gone. And she was not relieved by the quiet of the house. She was
      empty and the house was empty and she needed him. She wanted to go on
      talking, to get this threshed out, to build a sane friendship. She wavered
      down to the living-room, looked out of the bay-window. He was not to be
      seen. But Mrs. Westlake was. She was walking past, and in the light from
      the corner arc-lamp she quickly inspected the porch, the windows. Carol
      dropped the curtain, stood with movement and reflection paralyzed.
      Automatically, without reasoning, she mumbled, &ldquo;I will see him again soon
      and make him understand we must be friends. But&mdash;&mdash;The house is
      so empty. It echoes so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had seemed nervous and absent-minded through that supper-hour,
      two evenings after. He prowled about the living-room, then growled:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the dickens have you been saying to Ma Westlake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol's book rattled. &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you that Westlake and his wife were jealous of us, and here you
      been chumming up to them and&mdash;&mdash;From what Dave tells me, Ma
      Westlake has been going around town saying you told her that you hate Aunt
      Bessie, and that you fixed up your own room because I snore, and you said
      Bjornstam was too good for Bea, and then, just recent, that you were sore
      on the town because we don't all go down on our knees and beg this Valborg
      fellow to come take supper with us. God only knows what else she says you
      said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not true, any of it! I did like Mrs. Westlake, and I've called on
      her, and apparently she's gone and twisted everything I've said&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. Of course she would. Didn't I tell you she would? She's an old cat,
      like her pussyfooting, hand-holding husband. Lord, if I was sick, I'd
      rather have a faith-healer than Westlake, and she's another slice off the
      same bacon. What I can't understand though&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She waited, taut.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;is whatever possessed you to let her pump you, bright a
      girl as you are. I don't care what you told her&mdash;we all get peeved
      sometimes and want to blow off steam, that's natural&mdash;but if you
      wanted to keep it dark, why didn't you advertise it in the Dauntless, or
      get a megaphone and stand on top of the hotel and holler, or do anything
      besides spill it to her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. You told me. But she was so motherly. And I didn't have any woman&mdash;&mdash;Vida
      's become so married and proprietary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, next time you'll have better sense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He patted her head, flumped down behind his newspaper, said nothing more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Enemies leered through the windows, stole on her from the hall. She had no
      one save Erik. This kind good man Kennicott&mdash;he was an elder brother.
      It was Erik, her fellow outcast, to whom she wanted to run for sanctuary.
      Through her storm she was, to the eye, sitting quietly with her fingers
      between the pages of a baby-blue book on home-dressmaking. But her dismay
      at Mrs. Westlake's treachery had risen to active dread. What had the woman
      said of her and Erik? What did she know? What had she seen? Who else would
      join in the baying hunt? Who else had seen her with Erik? What had she to
      fear from the Dyers, Cy Bogart, Juanita, Aunt Bessie? What precisely had
      she answered to Mrs. Bogart's questioning?
    </p>
    <p>
      All next day she was too restless to stay home, yet as she walked the
      streets on fictitious errands she was afraid of every person she met. She
      waited for them to speak; waited with foreboding. She repeated, &ldquo;I mustn't
      ever see Erik again.&rdquo; But the words did not register. She had no ecstatic
      indulgence in the sense of guilt which is, to the women of Main Street,
      the surest escape from blank tediousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      At five, crumpled in a chair in the living-room, she started at the sound
      of the bell. Some one opened the door. She waited, uneasy. Vida Sherwin
      charged into the room. &ldquo;Here's the one person I can trust!&rdquo; Carol
      rejoiced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida was serious but affectionate. She bustled at Carol with, &ldquo;Oh, there
      you are, dearie, so glad t' find you in, sit down, want to talk to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol sat, obedient.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida fussily tugged over a large chair and launched out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been hearing vague rumors you were interested in this Erik Valborg.
      I knew you couldn't be guilty, and I'm surer than ever of it now. Here we
      are, as blooming as a daisy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How does a respectable matron look when she feels guilty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol sounded resentful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why&mdash;&mdash;Oh, it would show! Besides! I know that you, of all
      people, are the one that can appreciate Dr. Will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you been hearing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, really. I just heard Mrs. Bogart say she'd seen you and Valborg
      walking together a lot.&rdquo; Vida's chirping slackened. She looked at her
      nails. &ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;I suspect you do like Valborg. Oh, I don't mean
      in any wrong way. But you're young; you don't know what an innocent liking
      might drift into. You always pretend to be so sophisticated and all, but
      you're a baby. Just because you are so innocent, you don't know what evil
      thoughts may lurk in that fellow's brain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't suppose Valborg could actually think about making love to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her rather cheap sport ended abruptly as Vida cried, with contorted face,
      &ldquo;What do you know about the thoughts in hearts? You just play at reforming
      the world. You don't know what it means to suffer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There are two insults which no human being will endure: the assertion that
      he hasn't a sense of humor, and the doubly impertinent assertion that he
      has never known trouble. Carol said furiously, &ldquo;You think I don't suffer?
      You think I've always had an easy&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you don't. I'm going to tell you something I've never told a living
      soul, not even Ray.&rdquo; The dam of repressed imagination which Vida had
      builded for years, which now, with Raymie off at the wars, she was
      building again, gave way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was&mdash;I liked Will terribly well. One time at a party&mdash;oh,
      before he met you, of course&mdash;but we held hands, and we were so
      happy. But I didn't feel I was really suited to him. I let him go. Please
      don't think I still love him! I see now that Ray was predestined to be my
      mate. But because I liked him, I know how sincere and pure and noble Will
      is, and his thoughts never straying from the path of rectitude, and&mdash;&mdash;If
      I gave him up to you, at least you've got to appreciate him! We danced
      together and laughed so, and I gave him up, but&mdash;&mdash;This IS my
      affair! I'm NOT intruding! I see the whole thing as he does, because of
      all I've told you. Maybe it's shameless to bare my heart this way, but I
      do it for him&mdash;for him and you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol understood that Vida believed herself to have recited minutely and
      brazenly a story of intimate love; understood that, in alarm, she was
      trying to cover her shame as she struggled on, &ldquo;Liked him in the most
      honorable way&mdash;simply can't help it if I still see things through his
      eyes&mdash;&mdash;If I gave him up, I certainly am not beyond my rights in
      demanding that you take care to avoid even the appearance of evil and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
       She was weeping; an insignificant, flushed, ungracefully weeping woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol could not endure it. She ran to Vida, kissed her forehead, comforted
      her with a murmur of dove-like sounds, sought to reassure her with worn
      and hastily assembled gifts of words: &ldquo;Oh, I appreciate it so much,&rdquo; and
      &ldquo;You are so fine and splendid,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Let me assure you there isn't a thing
      to what you've heard,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Oh, indeed, I do know how sincere Will is, and
      as you say, so&mdash;so sincere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vida believed that she had explained many deep and devious matters. She
      came out of her hysteria like a sparrow shaking off rain-drops. She sat
      up, and took advantage of her victory:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't want to rub it in, but you can see for yourself now, this is all
      a result of your being so discontented and not appreciating the dear good
      people here. And another thing: People like you and me, who want to reform
      things, have to be particularly careful about appearances. Think how much
      better you can criticize conventional customs if you yourself live up to
      them, scrupulously. Then people can't say you're attacking them to excuse
      your own infractions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To Carol was given a sudden great philosophical understanding, an
      explanation of half the cautious reforms in history. &ldquo;Yes. I've heard that
      plea. It's a good one. It sets revolts aside to cool. It keeps strays in
      the flock. To word it differently: 'You must live up to the popular code
      if you believe in it; but if you don't believe in it, then you MUST live
      up to it!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think so at all,&rdquo; said Vida vaguely. She began to look hurt, and
      Carol let her be oracular.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Vida had done her a service; had made all agonizing seem so fatuous that
      she ceased writhing and saw that her whole problem was simple as mutton:
      she was interested in Erik's aspiration; interest gave her a hesitating
      fondness for him; and the future would take care of the event. . . . But
      at night, thinking in bed, she protested, &ldquo;I'm not a falsely accused
      innocent, though! If it were some one more resolute than Erik, a fighter,
      an artist with bearded surly lips&mdash;&mdash;They're only in books. Is
      that the real tragedy, that I never shall know tragedy, never find
      anything but blustery complications that turn out to be a farce?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one big enough or pitiful enough to sacrifice for. Tragedy in neat
      blouses; the eternal flame all nice and safe in a kerosene stove. Neither
      heroic faith nor heroic guilt. Peeping at love from behind lace curtains&mdash;on
      Main Street!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Aunt Bessie crept in next day, tried to pump her, tried to prime the pump
      by again hinting that Kennicott might have his own affairs. Carol snapped,
      &ldquo;Whatever I may do, I'll have you to understand that Will is only too
      safe!&rdquo; She wished afterward that she had not been so lofty. How much would
      Aunt Bessie make of &ldquo;Whatever I may do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Kennicott came home he poked at things, and hemmed, and brought out,
      &ldquo;Saw aunty, this afternoon. She said you weren't very polite to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol laughed. He looked at her in a puzzled way and fled to his
      newspaper.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She lay sleepless. She alternately considered ways of leaving Kennicott,
      and remembered his virtues, pitied his bewilderment in face of the subtle
      corroding sicknesses which he could not dose nor cut out. Didn't he
      perhaps need her more than did the book-solaced Erik? Suppose Will were to
      die, suddenly. Suppose she never again saw him at breakfast, silent but
      amiable, listening to her chatter. Suppose he never again played elephant
      for Hugh. Suppose&mdash;&mdash;A country call, a slippery road, his motor
      skidding, the edge of the road crumbling, the car turning turtle, Will
      pinned beneath, suffering, brought home maimed, looking at her with
      spaniel eyes&mdash;or waiting for her, calling for her, while she was in
      Chicago, knowing nothing of it. Suppose he were sued by some vicious
      shrieking woman for malpractice. He tried to get witnesses; Westlake
      spread lies; his friends doubted him; his self-confidence was so broken
      that it was horrible to see the indecision of the decisive man; he was
      convicted, handcuffed, taken on a train&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She ran to his room. At her nervous push the door swung sharply in, struck
      a chair. He awoke, gasped, then in a steady voice: &ldquo;What is it, dear?
      Anything wrong?&rdquo; She darted to him, fumbled for the familiar harsh bristly
      cheek. How well she knew it, every seam, and hardness of bone, and roll of
      fat! Yet when he sighed, &ldquo;This is a nice visit,&rdquo; and dropped his hand on
      her thin-covered shoulder, she said, too cheerily, &ldquo;I thought I heard you
      moaning. So silly of me. Good night, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not see Erik for a fortnight, save once at church and once when
      she went to the tailor shop to talk over the plans, contingencies, and
      strategy of Kennicott's annual campaign for getting a new suit. Nat Hicks
      was there, and he was not so deferential as he had been. With unnecessary
      jauntiness he chuckled, &ldquo;Some nice flannels, them samples, heh?&rdquo;
       Needlessly he touched her arm to call attention to the fashion-plates, and
      humorously he glanced from her to Erik. At home she wondered if the little
      beast might not be suggesting himself as a rival to Erik, but that abysmal
      bedragglement she would not consider.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw Juanita Haydock slowly walking past the house&mdash;as Mrs.
      Westlake had once walked past.
    </p>
    <p>
      She met Mrs. Westlake in Uncle Whittier's store, and before that alert
      stare forgot her determination to be rude, and was shakily cordial.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was sure that all the men on the street, even Guy Pollock and Sam
      Clark, leered at her in an interested hopeful way, as though she were a
      notorious divorcee. She felt as insecure as a shadowed criminal. She
      wished to see Erik, and wished that she had never seen him. She fancied
      that Kennicott was the only person in town who did not know all&mdash;know
      incomparably more than there was to know&mdash;about herself and Erik. She
      crouched in her chair as she imagined men talking of her, thick-voiced,
      obscene, in barber shops and the tobacco-stinking pool parlor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through early autumn Fern Mullins was the only person who broke the
      suspense. The frivolous teacher had come to accept Carol as of her own
      youth, and though school had begun she rushed in daily to suggest dances,
      welsh-rabbit parties.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fern begged her to go as chaperon to a barn-dance in the country, on a
      Saturday evening. Carol could not go. The next day, the storm crashed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      CAROL was on the back porch, tightening a bolt on the baby's go-cart, this
      Sunday afternoon. Through an open window of the Bogart house she heard a
      screeching, heard Mrs. Bogart's haggish voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo; . . . did too, and there's no use your denying it no you don't, you
      march yourself right straight out of the house . . . never in my life
      heard of such . . . never had nobody talk to me like . . . walk in the
      ways of sin and nastiness . . . leave your clothes here, and heaven knows
      that's more than you deserve . . . any of your lip or I'll call the
      policeman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice of the other interlocutor Carol did not catch, nor, though Mrs.
      Bogart was proclaiming that he was her confidant and present assistant,
      did she catch the voice of Mrs. Bogart's God.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another row with Cy,&rdquo; Carol inferred.
    </p>
    <p>
      She trundled the go-cart down the back steps and tentatively wheeled it
      across the yard, proud of her repairs. She heard steps on the sidewalk.
      She saw not Cy Bogart but Fern Mullins, carrying a suit-case, hurrying up
      the street with her head low. The widow, standing on the porch with
      buttery arms akimbo, yammered after the fleeing girl:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And don't you dare show your face on this block again. You can send the
      drayman for your trunk. My house has been contaminated long enough. Why
      the Lord should afflict me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fern was gone. The righteous widow glared, banged into the house, came out
      poking at her bonnet, marched away. By this time Carol was staring in a
      manner not visibly to be distinguished from the window-peeping of the rest
      of Gopher Prairie. She saw Mrs. Bogart enter the Howland house, then the
      Casses'. Not till suppertime did she reach the Kennicotts. The doctor
      answered her ring, and greeted her, &ldquo;Well, well? how's the good neighbor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good neighbor charged into the living-room, waving the most unctuous
      of black kid gloves and delightedly sputtering:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may well ask how I am! I really do wonder how I could go through the
      awful scenes of this day&mdash;and the impudence I took from that woman's
      tongue, that ought to be cut out&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whoa! Whoa! Hold up!&rdquo; roared Kennicott. &ldquo;Who's the hussy, Sister Bogart?
      Sit down and take it cool and tell us about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't sit down, I must hurry home, but I couldn't devote myself to my
      own selfish cares till I'd warned you, and heaven knows I don't expect any
      thanks for trying to warn the town against her, there's always so much
      evil in the world that folks simply won't see or appreciate your trying to
      safeguard them&mdash;&mdash;And forcing herself in here to get in with you
      and Carrie, many 's the time I've seen her doing it, and, thank heaven,
      she was found out in time before she could do any more harm, it simply
      breaks my heart and prostrates me to think what she may have done already,
      even if some of us that understand and know about things&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whoa-up! Who are you talking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's talking about Fern Mullins,&rdquo; Carol put in, not pleasantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was incredulous.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly am!&rdquo; flourished Mrs. Bogart, &ldquo;and good and thankful you may
      be that I found her out in time, before she could get YOU into something,
      Carol, because even if you are my neighbor and Will's wife and a cultured
      lady, let me tell you right now, Carol Kennicott, that you ain't always as
      respectful to&mdash;you ain't as reverent&mdash;you don't stick by the
      good old ways like they was laid down for us by God in the Bible, and
      while of course there ain't a bit of harm in having a good laugh, and I
      know there ain't any real wickedness in you, yet just the same you don't
      fear God and hate the transgressors of his commandments like you ought to,
      and you may be thankful I found out this serpent I nourished in my bosom&mdash;and
      oh yes! oh yes indeed! my lady must have two eggs every morning for
      breakfast, and eggs sixty cents a dozen, and wa'n't satisfied with one,
      like most folks&mdash;what did she care how much they cost or if a person
      couldn't make hardly nothing on her board and room, in fact I just took
      her in out of charity and I might have known from the kind of stockings
      and clothes that she sneaked into my house in her trunk&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before they got her story she had five more minutes of obscene wallowing.
      The gutter comedy turned into high tragedy, with Nemesis in black kid
      gloves. The actual story was simple, depressing, and unimportant. As to
      details Mrs. Bogart was indefinite, and angry that she should be
      questioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fern Mullins and Cy had, the evening before, driven alone to a barn-dance
      in the country. (Carol brought out the admission that Fern had tried to
      get a chaperon.) At the dance Cy had kissed Fern&mdash;she confessed that.
      Cy had obtained a pint of whisky; he said that he didn't remember where he
      had got it; Mrs. Bogart implied that Fern had given it to him; Fern
      herself insisted that he had stolen it from a farmer's overcoat&mdash;which,
      Mrs. Bogart raged, was obviously a lie. He had become soggily drunk. Fern
      had driven him home; deposited him, retching and wabbling, on the Bogart
      porch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never before had her boy been drunk, shrieked Mrs. Bogart. When Kennicott
      grunted, she owned, &ldquo;Well, maybe once or twice I've smelled licker on his
      breath.&rdquo; She also, with an air of being only too scrupulously exact,
      granted that sometimes he did not come home till morning. But he couldn't
      ever have been drunk, for he always had the best excuses: the other boys
      had tempted him to go down the lake spearing pickerel by torchlight, or he
      had been out in a &ldquo;machine that ran out of gas.&rdquo; Anyway, never before had
      her boy fallen into the hands of a &ldquo;designing woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you suppose Miss Mullins could design to do with him?&rdquo; insisted
      Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart was puzzled, gave it up, went on. This morning, when she had
      faced both of them, Cy had manfully confessed that all of the blame was on
      Fern, because the teacher&mdash;his own teacher&mdash;had dared him to
      take a drink. Fern had tried to deny it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; gabbled Mrs. Bogart, &ldquo;then that woman had the impudence to say to
      me, 'What purpose could I have in wanting the filthy pup to get drunk?'
      That's just what she called him&mdash;pup. 'I'll have no such nasty
      language in my house,' I says, 'and you pretending and pulling the wool
      over people's eyes and making them think you're educated and fit to be a
      teacher and look out for young people's morals&mdash;you're worse 'n any
      street-walker!' I says. I let her have it good. I wa'n't going to flinch
      from my bounden duty and let her think that decent folks had to stand for
      her vile talk. 'Purpose?' I says, 'Purpose? I'll tell you what purpose you
      had! Ain't I seen you making up to everything in pants that'd waste time
      and pay attention to your impert'nence? Ain't I seen you showing off your
      legs with them short skirts of yours, trying to make out like you was so
      girlish and la-de-da, running along the street?'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was very sick at this version of Fern's eager youth, but she was
      sicker as Mrs. Bogart hinted that no one could tell what had happened
      between Fern and Cy before the drive home. Without exactly describing the
      scene, by her power of lustful imagination the woman suggested dark
      country places apart from the lanterns and rude fiddling and banging
      dance-steps in the barn, then madness and harsh hateful conquest. Carol
      was too sick to interrupt. It was Kennicott who cried, &ldquo;Oh, for God's sake
      quit it! You haven't any idea what happened. You haven't given us a single
      proof yet that Fern is anything but a rattle-brained youngster.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't, eh? Well, what do you say to this? I come straight out and I
      says to her, 'Did you or did you not taste the whisky Cy had?' and she
      says, 'I think I did take one sip&mdash;Cy made me,' she said. She owned
      up to that much, so you can imagine&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does that prove her a prostitute?&rdquo; asked Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carrie! Don't you never use a word like that again!&rdquo; wailed the outraged
      Puritan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, does it prove her to be a bad woman, that she took a taste of
      whisky? I've done it myself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's different. Not that I approve your doing it. What do the
      Scriptures tell us? 'Strong drink is a mocker'! But that's entirely
      different from a teacher drinking with one of her own pupils.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it does sound bad. Fern was silly, undoubtedly. But as a matter of
      fact she's only a year or two older than Cy and probably a good many years
      younger in experience of vice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's&mdash;not&mdash;true! She is plenty old enough to corrupt him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The job of corrupting Cy was done by your sinless town, five years ago!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Bogart did not rage in return. Suddenly she was hopeless. Her head
      drooped. She patted her black kid gloves, picked at a thread of her faded
      brown skirt, and sighed, &ldquo;He's a good boy, and awful affectionate if you
      treat him right. Some thinks he's terrible wild, but that's because he's
      young. And he's so brave and truthful&mdash;why, he was one of the first
      in town that wanted to enlist for the war, and I had to speak real sharp
      to him to keep him from running away. I didn't want him to get into no bad
      influences round these camps&mdash;and then,&rdquo; Mrs. Bogart rose from her
      pitifulness, recovered her pace, &ldquo;then I go and bring into my own house a
      woman that's worse, when all's said and done, than any bad woman he could
      have met. You say this Mullins woman is too young and inexperienced to
      corrupt Cy. Well then, she's too young and inexperienced to teach him,
      too, one or t'other, you can't have your cake and eat it! So it don't make
      no difference which reason they fire her for, and that's practically
      almost what I said to the school-board.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you been telling this story to the members of the school-board?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly have! Every one of 'em! And their wives I says to them,
      ''Tain't my affair to decide what you should or should not do with your
      teachers,' I says, 'and I ain't presuming to dictate in any way, shape,
      manner, or form. I just want to know,' I says, 'whether you're going to go
      on record as keeping here in our schools, among a lot of innocent boys and
      girls, a woman that drinks, smokes, curses, uses bad language, and does
      such dreadful things as I wouldn't lay tongue to but you know what I
      mean,' I says, 'and if so, I'll just see to it that the town learns about
      it.' And that's what I told Professor Mott, too, being superintendent&mdash;and
      he's a righteous man, not going autoing on the Sabbath like the
      school-board members. And the professor as much as admitted he was
      suspicious of the Mullins woman himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was less shocked and much less frightened than Carol, and more
      articulate in his description of Mrs. Bogart, when she had gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maud Dyer telephoned to Carol and, after a rather improbable question
      about cooking lima beans with bacon, demanded, &ldquo;Have you heard the scandal
      about this Miss Mullins and Cy Bogart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sure it's a lie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, probably is.&rdquo; Maud's manner indicated that the falsity of the story
      was an insignificant flaw in its general delightfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol crept to her room, sat with hands curled tight together as she
      listened to a plague of voices. She could hear the town yelping with it,
      every soul of them, gleeful at new details, panting to win importance by
      having details of their own to add. How well they would make up for what
      they had been afraid to do by imagining it in another! They who had not
      been entirely afraid (but merely careful and sneaky), all the barber-shop
      roues and millinery-parlor mondaines, how archly they were giggling (this
      second&mdash;she could hear them at it); with what self-commendation they
      were cackling their suavest wit: &ldquo;You can't tell ME she ain't a gay bird;
      I'm wise!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And not one man in town to carry out their pioneer tradition of superb and
      contemptuous cursing, not one to verify the myth that their &ldquo;rough
      chivalry&rdquo; and &ldquo;rugged virtues&rdquo; were more generous than the petty
      scandal-picking of older lands, not one dramatic frontiersman to thunder,
      with fantastic and fictional oaths, &ldquo;What are you hinting at? What are you
      snickering at? What facts have you? What are these unheard-of sins you
      condemn so much&mdash;and like so well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one to say it. Not Kennicott nor Guy Pollock nor Champ Perry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik? Possibly. He would sputter uneasy protest.
    </p>
    <p>
      She suddenly wondered what subterranean connection her interest in Erik
      had with this affair. Wasn't it because they had been prevented by her
      caste from bounding on her own trail that they were howling at Fern?
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Before supper she found, by half a dozen telephone calls, that Fern had
      fled to the Minniemashie House. She hastened there, trying not to be
      self-conscious about the people who looked at her on the street. The clerk
      said indifferently that he &ldquo;guessed&rdquo; Miss Mullins was up in Room 37, and
      left Carol to find the way. She hunted along the stale-smelling corridors
      with their wallpaper of cerise daisies and poison-green rosettes, streaked
      in white spots from spilled water, their frayed red and yellow matting,
      and rows of pine doors painted a sickly blue. She could not find the
      number. In the darkness at the end of a corridor she had to feel the
      aluminum figures on the door-panels. She was startled once by a man's
      voice: &ldquo;Yep? Whadyuh want?&rdquo; and fled. When she reached the right door she
      stood listening. She made out a long sobbing. There was no answer till her
      third knock; then an alarmed &ldquo;Who is it? Go away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her hatred of the town turned resolute as she pushed open the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yesterday she had seen Fern Mullins in boots and tweed skirt and
      canary-yellow sweater, fleet and self-possessed. Now she lay across the
      bed, in crumpled lavender cotton and shabby pumps, very feminine, utterly
      cowed. She lifted her head in stupid terror. Her hair was in tousled
      strings and her face was sallow, creased. Her eyes were a blur from
      weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't! I didn't!&rdquo; was all she would say at first, and she repeated it
      while Carol kissed her cheek, stroked her hair, bathed her forehead. She
      rested then, while Carol looked about the room&mdash;the welcome to
      strangers, the sanctuary of hospitable Main Street, the lucrative property
      of Kennicott's friend, Jackson Elder. It smelled of old linen and decaying
      carpet and ancient tobacco smoke. The bed was rickety, with a thin knotty
      mattress; the sand-colored walls were scratched and gouged; in every
      corner, under everything, were fluffy dust and cigar ashes; on the tilted
      wash-stand was a nicked and squatty pitcher; the only chair was a grim
      straight object of spotty varnish; but there was an altogether splendid
      gilt and rose cuspidor.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not try to draw out Fern's story; Fern insisted on telling it.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had gone to the party, not quite liking Cy but willing to endure him
      for the sake of dancing, of escaping from Mrs. Bogart's flow of moral
      comments, of relaxing after the first strained weeks of teaching. Cy
      &ldquo;promised to be good.&rdquo; He was, on the way out. There were a few workmen
      from Gopher Prairie at the dance, with many young farm-people. Half a
      dozen squatters from a degenerate colony in a brush-hidden hollow,
      planters of potatoes, suspected thieves, came in noisily drunk. They all
      pounded the floor of the barn in old-fashioned square dances, swinging
      their partners, skipping, laughing, under the incantations of Del Snafflin
      the barber, who fiddled and called the figures. Cy had two drinks from
      pocket-flasks. Fern saw him fumbling among the overcoats piled on the
      feedbox at the far end of the barn; soon after she heard a farmer
      declaring that some one had stolen his bottle. She taxed Cy with the
      theft; he chuckled, &ldquo;Oh, it's just a joke; I'm going to give it back.&rdquo; He
      demanded that she take a drink. Unless she did, he wouldn't return the
      bottle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I just brushed my lips with it, and gave it back to him,&rdquo; moaned Fern.
      She sat up, glared at Carol. &ldquo;Did you ever take a drink?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have. A few. I'd love to have one right now! This contact with
      righteousness has about done me up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fern could laugh then. &ldquo;So would I! I don't suppose I've had five drinks
      in my life, but if I meet just one more Bogart and Son&mdash;&mdash;Well,
      I didn't really touch that bottle&mdash;horrible raw whisky&mdash;though
      I'd have loved some wine. I felt so jolly. The barn was almost like a
      stage scene&mdash;the high rafters, and the dark stalls, and tin lanterns
      swinging, and a silage-cutter up at the end like some mysterious kind of
      machine. And I'd been having lots of fun dancing with the nicest young
      farmer, so strong and nice, and awfully intelligent. But I got uneasy when
      I saw how Cy was. So I doubt if I touched two drops of the beastly stuff.
      Do you suppose God is punishing me for even wanting wine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, Mrs. Bogart's god may be&mdash;Main Street's god. But all the
      courageous intelligent people are fighting him . . . though he slay us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fern danced again with the young farmer; she forgot Cy while she was
      talking with a girl who had taken the University agricultural course. Cy
      could not have returned the bottle; he came staggering toward her&mdash;taking
      time to make himself offensive to every girl on the way and to dance a
      jig. She insisted on their returning. Cy went with her, chuckling and
      jigging. He kissed her, outside the door. . . . &ldquo;And to think I used to
      think it was interesting to have men kiss you at a dance!&rdquo;. . . She
      ignored the kiss, in the need of getting him home before he started a
      fight. A farmer helped her harness the buggy, while Cy snored in the seat.
      He awoke before they set out; all the way home he alternately slept and
      tried to make love to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm almost as strong as he is. I managed to keep him away while I drove&mdash;such
      a rickety buggy. I didn't feel like a girl; I felt like a scrubwoman&mdash;no,
      I guess I was too scared to have any feelings at all. It was terribly
      dark. I got home, somehow. But it was hard, the time I had to get out, and
      it was quite muddy, to read a sign-post&mdash;I lit matches that I took
      from Cy's coat pocket, and he followed me&mdash;he fell off the buggy step
      into the mud, and got up and tried to make love to me, and&mdash;&mdash;I
      was scared. But I hit him. Quite hard. And got in, and so he ran after the
      buggy, crying like a baby, and I let him in again, and right away again he
      was trying&mdash;&mdash;But no matter. I got him home. Up on the porch.
      Mrs. Bogart was waiting up. . . .
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, it was funny; all the time she was&mdash;oh, talking to me&mdash;and
      Cy was being terribly sick&mdash;I just kept thinking, 'I've still got to
      drive the buggy down to the livery stable. I wonder if the livery man will
      be awake?' But I got through somehow. I took the buggy down to the stable,
      and got to my room. I locked my door, but Mrs. Bogart kept saying things,
      outside the door. Stood out there saying things about me, dreadful things,
      and rattling the knob. And all the while I could hear Cy in the back
      yard-being sick. I don't think I'll ever marry any man. And then today&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She drove me right out of the house. She wouldn't listen to me, all
      morning. Just to Cy. I suppose he's over his headache now. Even at
      breakfast he thought the whole thing was a grand joke. I suppose right
      this minute he's going around town boasting about his 'conquest.' You
      understand&mdash;oh, DON'T you understand? I DID keep him away! But I
      don't see how I can face my school. They say country towns are fine for
      bringing up boys in, but&mdash;&mdash;I can't believe this is me, lying
      here and saying this. I don't BELIEVE what happened last night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh. This was curious: When I took off my dress last night&mdash;it was a
      darling dress, I loved it so, but of course the mud had spoiled it. I
      cried over it and&mdash;&mdash;No matter. But my white silk stockings were
      all torn, and the strange thing is, I don't know whether I caught my legs
      in the briers when I got out to look at the sign-post, or whether Cy
      scratched me when I was fighting him off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Sam Clark was president of the school-board. When Carol told him Fern's
      story Sam looked sympathetic and neighborly, and Mrs. Clark sat by cooing,
      &ldquo;Oh, isn't that too bad.&rdquo; Carol was interrupted only when Mrs. Clark
      begged, &ldquo;Dear, don't speak so bitter about 'pious' people. There's lots of
      sincere practising Christians that are real tolerant. Like the Champ
      Perrys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I know. Unfortunately there are enough kindly people in the churches
      to keep them going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Carol had finished, Mrs. Clark breathed, &ldquo;Poor girl; I don't doubt
      her story a bit,&rdquo; and Sam rumbled, &ldquo;Yuh, sure. Miss Mullins is young and
      reckless, but everybody in town, except Ma Bogart, knows what Cy is. But
      Miss Mullins was a fool to go with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not wicked enough to pay for it with disgrace?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Sam avoided verdicts, clung to the entrancing
      horrors of the story. &ldquo;Ma Bogart cussed her out all morning, did she?
      Jumped her neck, eh? Ma certainly is one hell-cat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you know how she is; so vicious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no, her best style ain't her viciousness. What she pulls in our store
      is to come in smiling with Christian Fortitude and keep a clerk busy for
      one hour while she picks out half a dozen fourpenny nails. I remember one
      time&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sam!&rdquo; Carol was uneasy. &ldquo;You'll fight for Fern, won't you? When Mrs.
      Bogart came to see you did she make definite charges?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, you might say she did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the school-board won't act on them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess we'll more or less have to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you'll exonerate Fern?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll do what I can for the girl personally, but you know what the board
      is. There's Reverend Zitterel; Sister Bogart about half runs his church,
      so of course he'll take her say-so; and Ezra Stowbody, as a banker he has
      to be all hell for morality and purity. Might 's well admit it, Carrie;
      I'm afraid there'll be a majority of the board against her. Not that any
      of us would believe a word Cy said, not if he swore it on a stack of
      Bibles, but still, after all this gossip, Miss Mullins wouldn't hardly be
      the party to chaperon our basket-ball team when it went out of town to
      play other high schools, would she!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps not, but couldn't some one else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that's one of the things she was hired for.&rdquo; Sam sounded stubborn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you realize that this isn't just a matter of a job, and hiring and
      firing; that it's actually sending a splendid girl out with a beastly
      stain on her, giving all the other Bogarts in the world a chance at her?
      That's what will happen if you discharge her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sam moved uncomfortably, looked at his wife, scratched his head, sighed,
      said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't you fight for her on the board? If you lose, won't you, and whoever
      agrees with you, make a minority report?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No reports made in a case like this. Our rule is to just decide the thing
      and announce the final decision, whether it's unanimous or not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rules! Against a girl's future! Dear God! Rules of a school-board! Sam!
      Won't you stand by Fern, and threaten to resign from the board if they try
      to discharge her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rather testy, tired of so many subtleties, he complained, &ldquo;Well, I'll do
      what I can, but I'll have to wait till the board meets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And &ldquo;I'll do what I can,&rdquo; together with the secret admission &ldquo;Of course
      you and I know what Ma Bogart is,&rdquo; was all Carol could get from
      Superintendent George Edwin Mott, Ezra Stowbody, the Reverend Mr. Zitterel
      or any other member of the school-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afterward she wondered whether Mr. Zitterel could have been referring to
      herself when he observed, &ldquo;There's too much license in high places in this
      town, though, and the wages of sin is death&mdash;or anyway, bein' fired.&rdquo;
       The holy leer with which the priest said it remained in her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was at the hotel before eight next morning. Fern longed to go to
      school, to face the tittering, but she was too shaky. Carol read to her
      all day and, by reassuring her, convinced her own self that the
      school-board would be just. She was less sure of it that evening when, at
      the motion pictures, she heard Mrs. Gougerling exclaim to Mrs. Howland,
      &ldquo;She may be so innocent and all, and I suppose she probably is, but still,
      if she drank a whole bottle of whisky at that dance, the way everybody
      says she did, she may have forgotten she was so innocent! Hee, hee, hee!&rdquo;
       Maud Dyer, leaning back from her seat, put in, &ldquo;That's what I've said all
      along. I don't want to roast anybody, but have you noticed the way she
      looks at men?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When will they have me on the scaffold?&rdquo; Carol speculated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nat Hicks stopped the Kennicotts on their way home. Carol hated him for
      his manner of assuming that they two had a mysterious understanding.
      Without quite winking he seemed to wink at her as he gurgled, &ldquo;What do you
      folks think about this Mullins woman? I'm not strait-laced, but I tell you
      we got to have decent women in our schools. D' you know what I heard? They
      say whatever she may of done afterwards, this Mullins dame took two quarts
      of whisky to the dance with her, and got stewed before Cy did! Some tank,
      that wren! Ha, ha, ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rats, I don't believe it,&rdquo; Kennicott muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He got Carol away before she was able to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw Erik passing the house, late, alone, and she stared after him,
      longing for the lively bitterness of the things he would say about the
      town. Kennicott had nothing for her but &ldquo;Oh, course, ev'body likes a juicy
      story, but they don't intend to be mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went up to bed proving to herself that the members of the school-board
      were superior men.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Tuesday afternoon before she learned that the board had met at ten
      in the morning and voted to &ldquo;accept Miss Fern Mullins's resignation.&rdquo; Sam
      Clark telephoned the news to her. &ldquo;We're not making any charges. We're
      just letting her resign. Would you like to drop over to the hotel and ask
      her to write the resignation, now we've accepted it? Glad I could get the
      board to put it that way. It's thanks to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But can't you see that the town will take this as proof of the charges?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're&mdash;not&mdash;making&mdash;no&mdash;charges&mdash;whatever!&rdquo; Sam
      was obviously finding it hard to be patient.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fern left town that evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol went with her to the train. The two girls elbowed through a silent
      lip-licking crowd. Carol tried to stare them down but in face of the
      impishness of the boys and the bovine gaping of the men, she was
      embarrassed. Fern did not glance at them. Carol felt her arm tremble,
      though she was tearless, listless, plodding. She squeezed Carol's hand,
      said something unintelligible, stumbled up into the vestibule.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol remembered that Miles Bjornstam had also taken a train. What would
      be the scene at the station when she herself took departure?
    </p>
    <p>
      She walked up-town behind two strangers.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of them was giggling, &ldquo;See that good-looking wench that got on here?
      The swell kid with the small black hat? She's some charmer! I was here
      yesterday, before my jump to Ojibway Falls, and I heard all about her.
      Seems she was a teacher, but she certainly was a high-roller&mdash;O boy!&mdash;high,
      wide, and fancy! Her and couple of other skirts bought a whole case of
      whisky and went on a tear, and one night, darned if this bunch of
      cradle-robbers didn't get hold of some young kids, just small boys, and
      they all got lit up like a White Way, and went out to a roughneck dance,
      and they say&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The narrator turned, saw a woman near and, not being a common person nor a
      coarse workman but a clever salesman and a householder, lowered his voice
      for the rest of the tale. During it the other man laughed hoarsely.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol turned off on a side-street.
    </p>
    <p>
      She passed Cy Bogart. He was humorously narrating some achievement to a
      group which included Nat Hicks, Del Snafflin, Bert Tybee the bartender,
      and A. Tennyson O'Hearn the shyster lawyer. They were men far older than
      Cy but they accepted him as one of their own, and encouraged him to go on.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a week before she received from Fern a letter of which this was a
      part:
    </p>
    <p>
      . . . &amp; of course my family did not really believe the story but as
      they were sure I must have done something wrong they just lectured me
      generally, in fact jawed me till I have gone to live at a boarding house.
      The teachers' agencies must know the story, man at one almost slammed the
      door in my face when I went to ask about a job, &amp; at another the woman
      in charge was beastly. Don't know what I will do. Don't seem to feel very
      well. May marry a fellow that's in love with me but he's so stupid that he
      makes me SCREAM.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dear Mrs. Kennicott you were the only one that believed me. I guess it's a
      joke on me, I was such a simp, I felt quite heroic while I was driving the
      buggy back that night &amp; keeping Cy away from me. I guess I expected
      the people in Gopher Prairie to admire me. I did use to be admired for my
      athletics at the U.&mdash;just five months ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      FOR a month which was one suspended moment of doubt she saw Erik only
      casually, at an Eastern Star dance, at the shop, where, in the presence of
      Nat Hicks, they conferred with immense particularity on the significance
      of having one or two buttons on the cuff of Kennicott's New Suit. For the
      benefit of beholders they were respectably vacuous.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus barred from him, depressed in the thought of Fern, Carol was suddenly
      and for the first time convinced that she loved Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      She told herself a thousand inspiriting things which he would say if he
      had the opportunity; for them she admired him, loved him. But she was
      afraid to summon him. He understood, he did not come. She forgot her every
      doubt of him, and her discomfort in his background. Each day it seemed
      impossible to get through the desolation of not seeing him. Each morning,
      each afternoon, each evening was a compartment divided from all other
      units of time, distinguished by a sudden &ldquo;Oh! I want to see Erik!&rdquo; which
      was as devastating as though she had never said it before.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were wretched periods when she could not picture him. Usually he
      stood out in her mind in some little moment&mdash;glancing up from his
      preposterous pressing-iron, or running on the beach with Dave Dyer. But
      sometimes he had vanished; he was only an opinion. She worried then about
      his appearance: Weren't his wrists too large and red? Wasn't his nose a
      snub, like so many Scandinavians? Was he at all the graceful thing she had
      fancied? When she encountered him on the street she was as much reassuring
      herself as rejoicing in his presence. More disturbing than being unable to
      visualize him was the darting remembrance of some intimate aspect: his
      face as they had walked to the boat together at the picnic; the ruddy
      light on his temples, neck-cords, flat cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a November evening when Kennicott was in the country she answered the
      bell and was confused to find Erik at the door, stooped, imploring, his
      hands in the pockets of his topcoat. As though he had been rehearsing his
      speech he instantly besought:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saw your husband driving away. I've got to see you. I can't stand it.
      Come for a walk. I know! People might see us. But they won't if we hike
      into the country. I'll wait for you by the elevator. Take as long as you
      want to&mdash;oh, come quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a few minutes,&rdquo; she promised.
    </p>
    <p>
      She murmured, &ldquo;I'll just talk to him for a quarter of an hour and come
      home.&rdquo; She put an her tweed coat and rubber overshoes, considering how
      honest and hopeless are rubbers, how clearly their chaperonage proved that
      she wasn't going to a lovers' tryst.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found him in the shadow of the grain-elevator, sulkily kicking at a
      rail of the side-track. As she came toward him she fancied that his whole
      body expanded. But he said nothing, nor she; he patted her sleeve, she
      returned the pat, and they crossed the railroad tracks, found a road,
      clumped toward open country.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chilly night, but I like this melancholy gray,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They passed a moaning clump of trees and splashed along the wet road. He
      tucked her hand into the side-pocket of his overcoat. She caught his thumb
      and, sighing, held it exactly as Hugh held hers when they went walking.
      She thought about Hugh. The current maid was in for the evening, but was
      it safe to leave the baby with her? The thought was distant and elusive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Erik began to talk, slowly, revealingly. He made for her a picture of his
      work in a large tailor shop in Minneapolis: the steam and heat, and the
      drudgery; the men in darned vests and crumpled trousers, men who &ldquo;rushed
      growlers of beer&rdquo; and were cynical about women, who laughed at him and
      played jokes on him. &ldquo;But I didn't mind, because I could keep away from
      them outside. I used to go to the Art Institute and the Walker Gallery,
      and tramp clear around Lake Harriet, or hike out to the Gates house and
      imagine it was a chateau in Italy and I lived in it. I was a marquis and
      collected tapestries&mdash;that was after I was wounded in Padua. The only
      really bad time was when a tailor named Finkelfarb found a diary I was
      trying to keep and he read it aloud in the shop&mdash;it was a bad fight.&rdquo;
       He laughed. &ldquo;I got fined five dollars. But that's all gone now. Seems as
      though you stand between me and the gas stoves&mdash;the long flames with
      mauve edges, licking up around the irons and making that sneering sound
      all day&mdash;aaaaah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her fingers tightened about his thumb as she perceived the hot low room,
      the pounding of pressing-irons, the reek of scorched cloth, and Erik among
      giggling gnomes. His fingertip crept through the opening of her glove and
      smoothed her palm. She snatched her hand away, stripped off her glove,
      tucked her hand back into his.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was saying something about a &ldquo;wonderful person.&rdquo; In her tranquillity
      she let the words blow by and heeded only the beating wings of his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was conscious that he was fumbling for impressive speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, uh&mdash;Carol, I've written a poem about you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's nice. Let's hear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn it, don't be so casual about it! Can't you take me seriously?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear boy, if I took you seriously&mdash;&mdash;! I don't want us to be
      hurt more than&mdash;more than we will be. Tell me the poem. I've never
      had a poem written about me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It isn't really a poem. It's just some words that I love because it seems
      to me they catch what you are. Of course probably they won't seem so to
      anybody else, but&mdash;&mdash;Well&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Little and tender and merry and wise
     With eyes that meet my eyes.
</pre>
    <p>
      Do you get the idea the way I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! I'm terribly grateful!&rdquo; And she was grateful&mdash;while she
      impersonally noted how bad a verse it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was aware of the haggard beauty in the lowering night. Monstrous
      tattered clouds sprawled round a forlorn moon; puddles and rocks glistened
      with inner light. They were passing a grove of scrub poplars, feeble by
      day but looming now like a menacing wall. She stopped. They heard the
      branches dripping, the wet leaves sullenly plumping on the soggy earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Waiting&mdash;waiting&mdash;everything is waiting,&rdquo; she whispered. She
      drew her hand from his, pressed her clenched fingers against her lips. She
      was lost in the somberness. &ldquo;I am happy&mdash;so we must go home, before
      we have time to become unhappy. But can't we sit on a log for a minute and
      just listen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Too wet. But I wish we could build a fire, and you could sit on my
      overcoat beside it. I'm a grand fire-builder! My cousin Lars and me spent
      a week one time in a cabin way up in the Big Woods, snowed in. The
      fireplace was filled with a dome of ice when we got there, but we chopped
      it out, and jammed the thing full of pine-boughs. Couldn't we build a fire
      back here in the woods and sit by it for a while?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pondered, half-way between yielding and refusal. Her head ached
      faintly. She was in abeyance. Everything, the night, his silhouette, the
      cautious-treading future, was as undistinguishable as though she were
      drifting bodiless in a Fourth Dimension. While her mind groped, the lights
      of a motor car swooped round a bend in the road, and they stood farther
      apart. &ldquo;What ought I to do?&rdquo; she mused. &ldquo;I think&mdash;&mdash;Oh, I won't
      be robbed! I AM good! If I'm so enslaved that I can't sit by the fire with
      a man and talk, then I'd better be dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lights of the thrumming car grew magically; were upon them; abruptly
      stopped. From behind the dimness of the windshield a voice, annoyed,
      sharp: &ldquo;Hello there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She realized that it was Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      The irritation in his voice smoothed out. &ldquo;Having a walk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They made schoolboyish sounds of assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty wet, isn't it? Better ride back. Jump up in front here, Valborg.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner of swinging open the door was a command. Carol was conscious
      that Erik was climbing in, that she was apparently to sit in the back, and
      that she had been left to open the rear door for herself. Instantly the
      wonder which had flamed to the gusty skies was quenched, and she was Mrs.
      W. P. Kennicott of Gopher Prairie, riding in a squeaking old car, and
      likely to be lectured by her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      She feared what Kennicott would say to Erik. She bent toward them.
      Kennicott was observing, &ldquo;Going to have some rain before the night 's
      over, all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Been funny season this year, anyway. Never saw it with such a cold
      October and such a nice November. 'Member we had a snow way back on
      October ninth! But it certainly was nice up to the twenty-first, this
      month&mdash;as I remember it, not a flake of snow in November so far, has
      there been? But I shouldn't wonder if we'd be having some snow 'most any
      time now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, good chance of it,&rdquo; said Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wish I'd had more time to go after the ducks this fall. By golly, what do
      you think?&rdquo; Kennicott sounded appealing. &ldquo;Fellow wrote me from Man Trap
      Lake that he shot seven mallards and couple of canvas-back in one hour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That must have been fine,&rdquo; said Erik.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was ignored. But Kennicott was blustrously cheerful. He shouted to a
      farmer, as he slowed up to pass the frightened team, &ldquo;There we are&mdash;schon
      gut!&rdquo; She sat back, neglected, frozen, unheroic heroine in a drama
      insanely undramatic. She made a decision resolute and enduring. She would
      tell Kennicott&mdash;&mdash;What would she tell him? She could not say
      that she loved Erik. DID she love him? But she would have it out. She was
      not sure whether it was pity for Kennicott's blindness, or irritation at
      his assumption that he was enough to fill any woman's life, which prompted
      her, but she knew that she was out of the trap, that she could be frank;
      and she was exhilarated with the adventure of it . . . while in front he
      was entertaining Erik:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing like an hour on a duck-pass to make you relish your victuals and&mdash;&mdash;Gosh,
      this machine hasn't got the power of a fountain pen. Guess the cylinders
      are jam-cram-full of carbon again. Don't know but what maybe I'll have to
      put in another set of piston-rings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped on Main Street and clucked hospitably, &ldquo;There, that'll give you
      just a block to walk. G' night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was in suspense. Would Erik sneak away?
    </p>
    <p>
      He stolidly moved to the back of the car, thrust in his hand, muttered,
      &ldquo;Good night&mdash;Carol. I'm glad we had our walk.&rdquo; She pressed his hand.
      The car was flapping on. He was hidden from her&mdash;by a corner drug
      store on Main Street!
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott did not recognize her till he drew up before the house. Then he
      condescended, &ldquo;Better jump out here and I'll take the boat around back.
      Say, see if the back door is unlocked, will you?&rdquo; She unlatched the door
      for him. She realized that she still carried the damp glove she had
      stripped off for Erik. She drew it on. She stood in the center of the
      living-room, unmoving, in damp coat and muddy rubbers. Kennicott was as
      opaque as ever. Her task wouldn't be anything so lively as having to
      endure a scolding, but only an exasperating effort to command his
      attention so that he would understand the nebulous things she had to tell
      him, instead of interrupting her by yawning, winding the clock, and going
      up to bed. She heard him shoveling coal into the furnace. He came through
      the kitchen energetically, but before he spoke to her he did stop in the
      hall, did wind the clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sauntered into the living-room and his glance passed from her drenched
      hat to her smeared rubbers. She could hear&mdash;she could hear, see,
      taste, smell, touch&mdash;his &ldquo;Better take your coat off, Carrie; looks
      kind of wet.&rdquo; Yes, there it was:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Carrie, you better&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; He chucked his own coat on a
      chair, stalked to her, went on with a rising tingling voice, &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;you
      better cut it out now. I'm not going to do the out-raged husband stunt. I
      like you and I respect you, and I'd probably look like a boob if I tried
      to be dramatic. But I think it's about time for you and Valborg to call a
      halt before you get in Dutch, like Fern Mullins did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Course. I know all about it. What d' you expect in a town that's as
      filled with busybodies, that have plenty of time to stick their noses into
      other folks' business, as this is? Not that they've had the nerve to do
      much tattling to me, but they've hinted around a lot, and anyway, I could
      see for myself that you liked him. But of course I knew how cold you were,
      I knew you wouldn't stand it even if Valborg did try to hold your hand or
      kiss you, so I didn't worry. But same time, I hope you don't suppose this
      husky young Swede farmer is as innocent and Platonic and all that stuff as
      you are! Wait now, don't get sore! I'm not knocking him. He isn't a bad
      sort. And he's young and likes to gas about books. Course you like him.
      That isn't the real rub. But haven't you just seen what this town can do,
      once it goes and gets moral on you, like it did with Fern? You probably
      think that two young folks making love are alone if anybody ever is, but
      there's nothing in this town that you don't do in company with a whole lot
      of uninvited but awful interested guests. Don't you realize that if Ma
      Westlake and a few others got started they'd drive you up a tree, and
      you'd find yourself so well advertised as being in love with this Valborg
      fellow that you'd HAVE to be, just to spite 'em!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me sit down,&rdquo; was all Carol could say. She drooped on the couch,
      wearily, without elasticity.
    </p>
    <p>
      He yawned, &ldquo;Gimme your coat and rubbers,&rdquo; and while she stripped them off
      he twiddled his watch-chain, felt the radiator, peered at the thermometer.
      He shook out her wraps in the hall, hung them up with exactly his usual
      care. He pushed a chair near to her and sat bolt up. He looked like a
      physician about to give sound and undesired advice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before he could launch into his heavy discourse she desperately got in,
      &ldquo;Please! I want you to know that I was going to tell you everything,
      tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't suppose there's really much to tell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there is. I'm fond of Erik. He appeals to something in here.&rdquo; She
      touched her breast. &ldquo;And I admire him. He isn't just a 'young Swede
      farmer.' He's an artist&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait now! He's had a chance all evening to tell you what a whale of a
      fine fellow he is. Now it's my turn. I can't talk artistic, but&mdash;&mdash;Carrie,
      do you understand my work?&rdquo; He leaned forward, thick capable hands on
      thick sturdy thighs, mature and slow, yet beseeching. &ldquo;No matter even if
      you are cold, I like you better than anybody in the world. One time I said
      that you were my soul. And that still goes. You're all the things that I
      see in a sunset when I'm driving in from the country, the things that I
      like but can't make poetry of. Do you realize what my job is? I go round
      twenty-four hours a day, in mud and blizzard, trying my damnedest to heal
      everybody, rich or poor. You&mdash;that 're always spieling about how
      scientists ought to rule the world, instead of a bunch of spread-eagle
      politicians&mdash;can't you see that I'm all the science there is here?
      And I can stand the cold and the bumpy roads and the lonely rides at
      night. All I need is to have you here at home to welcome me. I don't
      expect you to be passionate&mdash;not any more I don't&mdash;but I do
      expect you to appreciate my work. I bring babies into the world, and save
      lives, and make cranky husbands quit being mean to their wives. And then
      you go and moon over a Swede tailor because he can talk about how to put
      ruchings on a skirt! Hell of a thing for a man to fuss over!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She flew out at him: &ldquo;You make your side clear. Let me give mine. I admit
      all you say&mdash;except about Erik. But is it only you, and the baby,
      that want me to back you up, that demand things from me? They're all on
      me, the whole town! I can feel their hot breaths on my neck! Aunt Bessie
      and that horrible slavering old Uncle Whittier and Juanita and Mrs.
      Westlake and Mrs. Bogart and all of them. And you welcome them, you
      encourage them to drag me down into their cave! I won't stand it! Do you
      hear? Now, right now, I'm done. And it's Erik who gives me the courage.
      You say he just thinks about ruches (which do not usually go on skirts, by
      the way!). I tell you he thinks about God, the God that Mrs. Bogart covers
      up with greasy gingham wrappers! Erik will be a great man some day, and if
      I could contribute one tiny bit to his success&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait, wait, wait now! Hold up! You're assuming that your Erik will make
      good. As a matter of fact, at my age he'll be running a one-man tailor
      shop in some burg about the size of Schoenstrom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's what he's headed for now all right, and he's twenty-five or -six
      and&mdash;&mdash;What's he done to make you think he'll ever be anything
      but a pants-presser?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has sensitiveness and talent&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait now! What has he actually done in the art line? Has he done one
      first-class picture or&mdash;sketch, d' you call it? Or one poem, or
      played the piano, or anything except gas about what he's going to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked thoughtful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it's a hundred to one shot that he never will. Way I understand it,
      even these fellows that do something pretty good at home and get to go to
      art school, there ain't more than one out of ten of 'em, maybe one out of
      a hundred, that ever get above grinding out a bum living&mdash;about as
      artistic as plumbing. And when it comes down to this tailor, why, can't
      you see&mdash;you that take on so about psychology&mdash;can't you see
      that it's just by contrast with folks like Doc McGanum or Lym Cass that
      this fellow seems artistic? Suppose you'd met up with him first in one of
      these reg'lar New York studios! You wouldn't notice him any more 'n a
      rabbit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She huddled over folded hands like a temple virgin shivering on her knees
      before the thin warmth of a brazier. She could not answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott rose quickly, sat on the couch, took both her hands. &ldquo;Suppose he
      fails&mdash;as he will! Suppose he goes back to tailoring, and you're his
      wife. Is that going to be this artistic life you've been thinking about?
      He's in some bum shack, pressing pants all day, or stooped over sewing,
      and having to be polite to any grouch that blows in and jams a dirty
      stinking old suit in his face and says, 'Here you, fix this, and be blame
      quick about it.' He won't even have enough savvy to get him a big shop.
      He'll pike along doing his own work&mdash;unless you, his wife, go help
      him, go help him in the shop, and stand over a table all day, pushing a
      big heavy iron. Your complexion will look fine after about fifteen years
      of baking that way, won't it! And you'll be humped over like an old hag.
      And probably you'll live in one room back of the shop. And then at night&mdash;oh,
      you'll have your artist&mdash;sure! He'll come in stinking of gasoline,
      and cranky from hard work, and hinting around that if it hadn't been for
      you, he'd of gone East and been a great artist. Sure! And you'll be
      entertaining his relatives&mdash;&mdash;Talk about Uncle Whit! You'll be
      having some old Axel Axelberg coming in with manure on his boots and
      sitting down to supper in his socks and yelling at you, 'Hurry up now, you
      vimmin make me sick!' Yes, and you'll have a squalling brat every year,
      tugging at you while you press clothes, and you won't love 'em like you do
      Hugh up-stairs, all downy and asleep&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please! Not any more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her face was on his knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      He bent to kiss her neck. &ldquo;I don't want to be unfair. I guess love is a
      great thing, all right. But think it would stand much of that kind of
      stuff? Oh, honey, am I so bad? Can't you like me at all? I've&mdash;I've
      been so fond of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She snatched up his hand, she kissed it. Presently she sobbed, &ldquo;I won't
      ever see him again. I can't, now. The hot living-room behind the tailor
      shop&mdash;&mdash;I don't love him enough for that. And you are&mdash;&mdash;Even
      if I were sure of him, sure he was the real thing, I don't think I could
      actually leave you. This marriage, it weaves people together. It's not
      easy to break, even when it ought to be broken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you want to break it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lifted her, carried her up-stairs, laid her on her bed, turned to the
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come kiss me,&rdquo; she whimpered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He kissed her lightly and slipped away. For an hour she heard him moving
      about his room, lighting a cigar, drumming with his knuckles on a chair.
      She felt that he was a bulwark between her and the darkness that grew
      thicker as the delayed storm came down in sleet.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      He was cheery and more casual than ever at breakfast. All day she tried to
      devise a way of giving Erik up. Telephone? The village central would
      unquestionably &ldquo;listen in.&rdquo; A letter? It might be found. Go to see him?
      Impossible. That evening Kennicott gave her, without comment, an envelope.
      The letter was signed &ldquo;E. V.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      I know I can't do anything but make trouble for you, I think. I am going
      to Minneapolis tonight and from there as soon as I can either to New York
      or Chicago. I will do as big things as I can. I&mdash;I can't write I love
      you too much&mdash;God keep you.
    </p>
    <p>
      Until she heard the whistle which told her that the Minneapolis train was
      leaving town, she kept herself from thinking, from moving. Then it was all
      over. She had no plan nor desire for anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she caught Kennicott looking at her over his newspaper she fled to
      his arms, thrusting the paper aside, and for the first time in years they
      were lovers. But she knew that she still had no plan in life, save always
      to go along the same streets, past the same people, to the same shops.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      A week after Erik's going the maid startled her by announcing, &ldquo;There's a
      Mr. Valborg down-stairs say he vant to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was conscious of the maid's interested stare, angry at this shattering
      of the calm in which she had hidden. She crept down, peeped into the
      living-room. It was not Erik Valborg who stood there; it was a small,
      gray-bearded, yellow-faced man in mucky boots, canvas jacket, and red
      mittens. He glowered at her with shrewd red eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You de doc's wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm Adolph Valborg, from up by Jefferson. I'm Erik's father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; He was a monkey-faced little man, and not gentle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you done wit' my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think I understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I t'ink you're going to understand before I get t'rough! Where is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, really&mdash;&mdash;I presume that he's in Minneapolis.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You presume!&rdquo; He looked through her with a contemptuousness such as she
      could not have imagined. Only an insane contortion of spelling could
      portray his lyric whine, his mangled consonants. He clamored, &ldquo;Presume!
      Dot's a fine word! I don't want no fine words and I don't want no more
      lies! I want to know what you KNOW!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying right now. I'm not one
      of your farmwomen. I don't know where your son is, and there's no reason
      why I should know.&rdquo; Her defiance ran out in face of his immense flaxen
      stolidity. He raised his fist, worked up his anger with the gesture, and
      sneered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You dirty city women wit' your fine ways and fine dresses! A father come
      here trying to save his boy from wickedness, and you call him a bully! By
      God, I don't have to take nothin' off you nor your husband! I ain't one of
      your hired men. For one time a woman like you is going to hear de trut'
      about what you are, and no fine city words to it, needer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Mr. Valborg&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What you done wit' him? Heh? I'll yoost tell you what you done! He was a
      good boy, even if he was a damn fool. I want him back on de farm. He don't
      make enough money tailoring. And I can't get me no hired man! I want to
      take him back on de farm. And you butt in and fool wit' him and make love
      wit' him, and get him to run away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are lying! It's not true that&mdash;&mdash;It's not true, and if it
      were, you would have no right to speak like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't talk foolish. I know. Ain't I heard from a fellow dot live right
      here in town how you been acting wit' de boy? I know what you done!
      Walking wit' him in de country! Hiding in de woods wit' him! Yes and I
      guess you talk about religion in de woods! Sure! Women like you&mdash;you're
      worse dan street-walkers! Rich women like you, wit' fine husbands and no
      decent work to do&mdash;and me, look at my hands, look how I work, look at
      those hands! But you, oh God no, you mustn't work, you're too fine to do
      decent work. You got to play wit' young fellows, younger as you are,
      laughing and rolling around and acting like de animals! You let my son
      alone, d' you hear?&rdquo; He was shaking his fist in her face. She could smell
      the manure and sweat. &ldquo;It ain't no use talkin' to women like you. Get no
      trut' out of you. But next time I go by your husband!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was marching into the hall. Carol flung herself on him, her clenching
      hand on his hayseed-dusty shoulder. &ldquo;You horrible old man, you've always
      tried to turn Erik into a slave, to fatten your pocketbook! You've sneered
      at him, and overworked him, and probably you've succeeded in preventing
      his ever rising above your muck-heap! And now because you can't drag him
      back, you come here to vent&mdash;&mdash;Go tell my husband, go tell him,
      and don't blame me when he kills you, when my husband kills you&mdash;he
      will kill you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man grunted, looked at her impassively, said one word, and walked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      She heard the word very plainly.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not quite reach the couch. Her knees gave way, she pitched
      forward. She heard her mind saying, &ldquo;You haven't fainted. This is
      ridiculous. You're simply dramatizing yourself. Get up.&rdquo; But she could not
      move. When Kennicott arrived she was lying on the couch. His step
      quickened. &ldquo;What's happened, Carrie? You haven't got a bit of blood in
      your face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She clutched his arm. &ldquo;You've got to be sweet to me, and kind! I'm going
      to California&mdash;mountains, sea. Please don't argue about it, because
      I'm going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Quietly, &ldquo;All right. We'll go. You and I. Leave the kid here with Aunt
      Bessie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well yes, just as soon as we can get away. Now don't talk any more. Just
      imagine you've already started.&rdquo; He smoothed her hair, and not till after
      supper did he continue: &ldquo;I meant it about California. But I think we
      better wait three weeks or so, till I get hold of some young fellow
      released from the medical corps to take my practice. And if people are
      gossiping, you don't want to give them a chance by running away. Can you
      stand it and face 'em for three weeks or so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said emptily.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      People covertly stared at her on the street. Aunt Bessie tried to
      catechize her about Erik's disappearance, and it was Kennicott who
      silenced the woman with a savage, &ldquo;Say, are you hinting that Carrie had
      anything to do with that fellow's beating it? Then let me tell you, and
      you can go right out and tell the whole bloomin' town, that Carrie and I
      took Val&mdash;took Erik riding, and he asked me about getting a better
      job in Minneapolis, and I advised him to go to it. . . . Getting much
      sugar in at the store now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Guy Pollock crossed the street to be pleasant apropos of California and
      new novels. Vida Sherwin dragged her to the Jolly Seventeen. There, with
      every one rigidly listening, Maud Dyer shot at Carol, &ldquo;I hear Erik has
      left town.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was amiable. &ldquo;Yes, so I hear. In fact, he called me up&mdash;told me
      he had been offered a lovely job in the city. So sorry he's gone. He would
      have been valuable if we'd tried to start the dramatic association again.
      Still, I wouldn't be here for the association myself, because Will is all
      in from work, and I'm thinking of taking him to California. Juanita&mdash;you
      know the Coast so well&mdash;tell me: would you start in at Los Angeles or
      San Francisco, and what are the best hotels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Jolly Seventeen looked disappointed, but the Jolly Seventeen liked to
      give advice, the Jolly Seventeen liked to mention the expensive hotels at
      which they had stayed. (A meal counted as a stay.) Before they could
      question her again Carol escorted in with drum and fife the topic of
      Raymie Wutherspoon. Vida had news from her husband. He had been gassed in
      the trenches, had been in a hospital for two weeks, had been promoted to
      major, was learning French.
    </p>
    <p>
      She left Hugh with Aunt Bessie.
    </p>
    <p>
      But for Kennicott she would have taken him. She hoped that in some
      miraculous way yet unrevealed she might find it possible to remain in
      California. She did not want to see Gopher Prairie again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Smails were to occupy the Kennicott house, and quite the hardest thing
      to endure in the month of waiting was the series of conferences between
      Kennicott and Uncle Whittier in regard to heating the garage and having
      the furnace flues cleaned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did Carol, Kennicott inquired, wish to stop in Minneapolis to buy new
      clothes?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! I want to get as far away as I can as soon as I can. Let's wait till
      Los Angeles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, sure! Just as you like. Cheer up! We're going to have a large wide
      time, and everything 'll be different when we come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Dusk on a snowy December afternoon. The sleeper which would connect at
      Kansas City with the California train rolled out of St. Paul with a
      chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick, chick-a-chick as it crossed the other
      tracks. It bumped through the factory belt, gained speed. Carol could see
      nothing but gray fields, which had closed in on her all the way from
      Gopher Prairie. Ahead was darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For an hour, in Minneapolis, I must have been near Erik. He's still
      there, somewhere. He'll be gone when I come back. I'll never know where he
      has gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Kennicott switched on the seat-light she turned drearily to the
      illustrations in a motion-picture magazine.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      THEY journeyed for three and a half months. They saw the Grand Canyon, the
      adobe walls of Sante Fe and, in a drive from El Paso into Mexico, their
      first foreign land. They jogged from San Diego and La Jolla to Los
      Angeles, Pasadena, Riverside, through towns with bell-towered missions and
      orange-groves; they viewed Monterey and San Francisco and a forest of
      sequoias. They bathed in the surf and climbed foothills and danced, they
      saw a polo game and the making of motion-pictures, they sent one hundred
      and seventeen souvenir post-cards to Gopher Prairie, and once, on a dune
      by a foggy sea when she was walking alone, Carol found an artist, and he
      looked up at her and said, &ldquo;Too damned wet to paint; sit down and talk,&rdquo;
       and so for ten minutes she lived in a romantic novel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her only struggle was in coaxing Kennicott not to spend all his time with
      the tourists from the ten thousand other Gopher Prairies. In winter,
      California is full of people from Iowa and Nebraska, Ohio and Oklahoma,
      who, having traveled thousands of miles from their familiar villages,
      hasten to secure an illusion of not having left them. They hunt for people
      from their own states to stand between them and the shame of naked
      mountains; they talk steadily, in Pullmans, on hotel porches, at
      cafeterias and motion-picture shows, about the motors and crops and county
      politics back home. Kennicott discussed land-prices with them, he went
      into the merits of the several sorts of motor cars with them, he was
      intimate with train porters, and he insisted on seeing the Luke Dawsons at
      their flimsy bungalow in Pasadena, where Luke sat and yearned to go back
      and make some more money. But Kennicott gave promise of learning to play.
      He shouted in the pool at the Coronado, and he spoke of (though he did
      nothing more radical than speak of) buying evening-clothes. Carol was
      touched by his efforts to enjoy picture galleries, and the dogged way in
      which he accumulated dates and dimensions when they followed monkish
      guides through missions.
    </p>
    <p>
      She felt strong. Whenever she was restless she dodged her thoughts by the
      familiar vagabond fallacy of running away from them, of moving on to a new
      place, and thus she persuaded herself that she was tranquil. In March she
      willingly agreed with Kennicott that it was time to go home. She was
      longing for Hugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      They left Monterey on April first, on a day of high blue skies and poppies
      and a summer sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the train struck in among the hills she resolved, &ldquo;I'm going to love
      the fine Will Kennicott quality that there is in Gopher Prairie. The
      nobility of good sense. It will be sweet to see Vida and Guy and the
      Clarks. And I'm going to see my baby! All the words he'll be able to say
      now! It's a new start. Everything will be different!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus on April first, among dappled hills and the bronze of scrub oaks,
      while Kennicott seesawed on his toes and chuckled, &ldquo;Wonder what Hugh'll
      say when he sees us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Three days later they reached Gopher Prairie in a sleet storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      No one knew that they were coming; no one met them; and because of the icy
      roads, the only conveyance at the station was the hotel 'bus, which they
      missed while Kennicott was giving his trunk-check to the station agent&mdash;the
      only person to welcome them. Carol waited for him in the station, among
      huddled German women with shawls and umbrellas, and ragged-bearded farmers
      in corduroy coats; peasants mute as oxen, in a room thick with the steam
      of wet coats, the reek of the red-hot stove, the stench of sawdust boxes
      which served as cuspidors. The afternoon light was as reluctant as a
      winter dawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a useful market-center, an interesting pioneer post, but it is
      not a home for me,&rdquo; meditated the stranger Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott suggested, &ldquo;I'd 'phone for a flivver but it'd take quite a while
      for it to get here. Let's walk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They stepped uncomfortably from the safety of the plank platform and,
      balancing on their toes, taking cautious strides, ventured along the road.
      The sleety rain was turning to snow. The air was stealthily cold. Beneath
      an inch of water was a layer of ice, so that as they wavered with their
      suit-cases they slid and almost fell. The wet snow drenched their gloves;
      the water underfoot splashed their itching ankles. They scuffled inch by
      inch for three blocks. In front of Harry Haydock's Kennicott sighed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We better stop in here and 'phone for a machine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She followed him like a wet kitten.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Haydocks saw them laboring up the slippery concrete walk, up the
      perilous front steps, and came to the door chanting:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, well, back again, eh? Say, this is fine! Have a fine trip?
      My, you look like a rose, Carol. How did you like the coast, doc? Well,
      well, well! Where-all did you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as Kennicott began to proclaim the list of places achieved, Harry
      interrupted with an account of how much he himself had seen, two years
      ago. When Kennicott boasted, &ldquo;We went through the mission at Santa
      Barbara,&rdquo; Harry broke in, &ldquo;Yeh, that's an interesting old mission. Say,
      I'll never forget that hotel there, doc. It was swell. Why, the rooms were
      made just like these old monasteries. Juanita and I went from Santa
      Barbara to San Luis Obispo. You folks go to San Luis Obispo?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well you ought to gone to San Luis Obispo. And then we went from there to
      a ranch, least they called it a ranch&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott got in only one considerable narrative, which began:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, I never knew&mdash;did you, Harry?&mdash;that in the Chicago
      district the Kutz Kar sells as well as the Overland? I never thought much
      of the Kutz. But I met a gentleman on the train&mdash;it was when we were
      pulling out of Albuquerque, and I was sitting on the back platform of the
      observation car, and this man was next to me and he asked me for a light,
      and we got to talking, and come to find out, he came from Aurora, and when
      he found out I came from Minnesota he asked me if I knew Dr. Clemworth of
      Red Wing, and of course, while I've never met him, I've heard of Clemworth
      lots of times, and seems he's this man's brother! Quite a coincidence!
      Well, we got to talking, and we called the porter&mdash;that was a pretty
      good porter on that car&mdash;and we had a couple bottles of ginger ale,
      and I happened to mention the Kutz Kar, and this man&mdash;seems he's
      driven a lot of different kinds of cars&mdash;he's got a Franklin now&mdash;and
      he said that he'd tried the Kutz and liked it first-rate. Well, when we
      got into a station&mdash;I don't remember the name of it&mdash;Carrie,
      what the deuce was the name of that first stop we made the other side of
      Albuquerque?&mdash;well, anyway, I guess we must have stopped there to
      take on water, and this man and I got out to stretch our legs, and darned
      if there wasn't a Kutz drawn right up at the depot platform, and he
      pointed out something I'd never noticed, and I was glad to learn about it:
      seems that the gear lever in the Kutz is an inch longer&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even this chronicle of voyages Harry interrupted, with remarks on the
      advantages of the ball-gear-shift.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott gave up hope of adequate credit for being a traveled man, and
      telephoned to a garage for a Ford taxicab, while Juanita kissed Carol and
      made sure of being the first to tell the latest, which included seven
      distinct and proven scandals about Mrs. Swiftwaite, and one considerable
      doubt as to the chastity of Cy Bogart.
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw the Ford sedan making its way over the water-lined ice, through
      the snow-storm, like a tug-boat in a fog. The driver stopped at a corner.
      The car skidded, it turned about with comic reluctance, crashed into a
      tree, and stood tilted on a broken wheel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Kennicotts refused Harry Haydock's not too urgent offer to take them
      home in his car &ldquo;if I can manage to get it out of the garage&mdash;terrible
      day&mdash;stayed home from the store&mdash;but if you say so, I'll take a
      shot at it.&rdquo; Carol gurgled, &ldquo;No, I think we'd better walk; probably make
      better time, and I'm just crazy to see my baby.&rdquo; With their suit-cases
      they waddled on. Their coats were soaked through.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol had forgotten her facile hopes. She looked about with impersonal
      eyes. But Kennicott, through rain-blurred lashes, caught the glory that
      was Back Home.
    </p>
    <p>
      She noted bare tree-trunks, black branches, the spongy brown earth between
      patches of decayed snow on the lawns. The vacant lots were full of tall
      dead weeds. Stripped of summer leaves the houses were hopeless&mdash;temporary
      shelters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott chuckled, &ldquo;By golly, look down there! Jack Elder must have
      painted his garage. And look! Martin Mahoney has put up a new fence around
      his chicken yard. Say, that's a good fence, eh? Chicken-tight and
      dog-tight. That's certainly a dandy fence. Wonder how much it cost a yard?
      Yes, sir, they been building right along, even in winter. Got more
      enterprise than these Californians. Pretty good to be home, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She noted that all winter long the citizens had been throwing garbage into
      their back yards, to be cleaned up in spring. The recent thaw had
      disclosed heaps of ashes, dog-bones, torn bedding, clotted paint-cans, all
      half covered by the icy pools which filled the hollows of the yards. The
      refuse had stained the water to vile colors of waste: thin red, sour
      yellow, streaky brown.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott chuckled, &ldquo;Look over there on Main Street! They got the feed
      store all fixed up, and a new sign on it, black and gold. That'll improve
      the appearance of the block a lot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She noted that the few people whom they passed wore their raggedest coats
      for the evil day. They were scarecrows in a shanty town. . . . &ldquo;To think,&rdquo;
       she marveled, &ldquo;of coming two thousand miles, past mountains and cities, to
      get off here, and to plan to stay here! What conceivable reason for
      choosing this particular place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She noted a figure in a rusty coat and a cloth cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott chuckled, &ldquo;Look who's coming! It's Sam Clark! Gosh, all rigged
      out for the weather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two men shook hands a dozen times and, in the Western fashion,
      bumbled, &ldquo;Well, well, well, well, you old hell-hound, you old devil, how
      are you, anyway? You old horse-thief, maybe it ain't good to see you
      again!&rdquo; While Sam nodded at her over Kennicott's shoulder, she was
      embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I should never have gone away. I'm out of practise in lying. I
      wish they would get it over! Just a block more and&mdash;my baby!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were home. She brushed past the welcoming Aunt Bessie and knelt by
      Hugh. As he stammered, &ldquo;O mummy, mummy, don't go away! Stay with me,
      mummy!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;No, I'll never leave you again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He volunteered, &ldquo;That's daddy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By golly, he knows us just as if we'd never been away!&rdquo; said Kennicott.
      &ldquo;You don't find any of these California kids as bright as he is, at his
      age!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the trunk came they piled about Hugh the bewhiskered little wooden
      men fitting one inside another, the miniature junk, and the Oriental drum,
      from San Francisco Chinatown; the blocks carved by the old Frenchman in
      San Diego; the lariat from San Antonio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you forgive mummy for going away? Will you?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Absorbed in Hugh, asking a hundred questions about him&mdash;had he had
      any colds? did he still dawdle over his oatmeal? what about unfortunate
      morning incidents? she viewed Aunt Bessie only as a source of information,
      and was able to ignore her hint, pointed by a coyly shaken finger, &ldquo;Now
      that you've had such a fine long trip and spent so much money and all, I
      hope you're going to settle down and be satisfied and not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he like carrots yet?&rdquo; replied Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was cheerful as the snow began to conceal the slatternly yards. She
      assured herself that the streets of New York and Chicago were as ugly as
      Gopher Prairie in such weather; she dismissed the thought, &ldquo;But they do
      have charming interiors for refuge.&rdquo; She sang as she energetically looked
      over Hugh's clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The afternoon grew old and dark. Aunt Bessie went home. Carol took the
      baby into her own room. The maid came in complaining, &ldquo;I can't get no
      extra milk to make chipped beef for supper.&rdquo; Hugh was sleepy, and he had
      been spoiled by Aunt Bessie. Even to a returned mother, his whining and
      his trick of seven times snatching her silver brush were fatiguing. As a
      background, behind the noises of Hugh and the kitchen, the house reeked
      with a colorless stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the window she heard Kennicott greeting the Widow Bogart as he had
      always done, always, every snowy evening: &ldquo;Guess this 'll keep up all
      night.&rdquo; She waited. There they were, the furnace sounds, unalterable,
      eternal: removing ashes, shoveling coal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. She was back home! Nothing had changed. She had never been away.
      California? Had she seen it? Had she for one minute left this scraping
      sound of the small shovel in the ash-pit of the furnace? But Kennicott
      preposterously supposed that she had. Never had she been quite so far from
      going away as now when he believed she had just come back. She felt oozing
      through the walls the spirit of small houses and righteous people. At that
      instant she knew that in running away she had merely hidden her doubts
      behind the officious stir of travel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear God, don't let me begin agonizing again!&rdquo; she sobbed. Hugh wept with
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait for mummy a second!&rdquo; She hastened down to the cellar, to Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was standing before the furnace. However inadequate the rest of the
      house, he had seen to it that the fundamental cellar should be large and
      clean, the square pillars whitewashed, and the bins for coal and potatoes
      and trunks convenient. A glow from the drafts fell on the smooth gray
      cement floor at his feet. He was whistling tenderly, staring at the
      furnace with eyes which saw the black-domed monster as a symbol of home
      and of the beloved routine to which he had returned&mdash;his gipsying
      decently accomplished, his duty of viewing &ldquo;sights&rdquo; and &ldquo;curios&rdquo; performed
      with thoroughness. Unconscious of her, he stooped and peered in at the
      blue flames among the coals. He closed the door briskly, and made a
      whirling gesture with his right hand, out of pure bliss.
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw her. &ldquo;Why, hello, old lady! Pretty darn good to be back, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she lied, while she quaked, &ldquo;Not now. I can't face the job of
      explaining now. He's been so good. He trusts me. And I'm going to break
      his heart!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled at him. She tidied his sacred cellar by throwing an empty
      bluing bottle into the trash bin. She mourned, &ldquo;It's only the baby that
      holds me. If Hugh died&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She fled upstairs in panic and made
      sure that nothing had happened to Hugh in these four minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw a pencil-mark on a window-sill. She had made it on a September day
      when she had been planning a picnic for Fern Mullins and Erik. Fern and
      she had been hysterical with nonsense, had invented mad parties for all
      the coming winter. She glanced across the alley at the room which Fern had
      occupied. A rag of a gray curtain masked the still window.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to think of some one to whom she wanted to telephone. There was
      no one.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Sam Clarks called that evening and encouraged her to describe the
      missions. A dozen times they told her how glad they were to have her back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is good to be wanted,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;It will drug me. But&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      is all life, always, an unresolved But?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXV
    </h2>
    <p>
      SHE tried to be content, which was a contradiction in terms. She
      fanatically cleaned house all April. She knitted a sweater for Hugh. She
      was diligent at Red Cross work. She was silent when Vida raved that though
      America hated war as much as ever, we must invade Germany and wipe out
      every man, because it was now proven that there was no soldier in the
      German army who was not crucifying prisoners and cutting off babies'
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol was volunteer nurse when Mrs. Champ Perry suddenly died of
      pneumonia.
    </p>
    <p>
      In her funeral procession were the eleven people left out of the Grand
      Army and the Territorial Pioneers, old men and women, very old and weak,
      who a few decades ago had been boys and girls of the frontier, riding
      broncos through the rank windy grass of this prairie. They hobbled behind
      a band made up of business men and high-school boys, who straggled along
      without uniforms or ranks or leader, trying to play Chopin's Funeral March&mdash;a
      shabby group of neighbors with grave eyes, stumbling through the slush
      under a solemnity of faltering music.
    </p>
    <p>
      Champ was broken. His rheumatism was worse. The rooms over the store were
      silent. He could not do his work as buyer at the elevator. Farmers coming
      in with sled-loads of wheat complained that Champ could not read the
      scale, that he seemed always to be watching some one back in the darkness
      of the bins. He was seen slipping through alleys, talking to himself,
      trying to avoid observation, creeping at last to the cemetery. Once Carol
      followed him and found the coarse, tobacco-stained, unimaginative old man
      lying on the snow of the grave, his thick arms spread out across the raw
      mound as if to protect her from the cold, her whom he had carefully
      covered up every night for sixty years, who was alone there now, uncared
      for.
    </p>
    <p>
      The elevator company, Ezra Stowbody president, let him go. The company,
      Ezra explained to Carol, had no funds for giving pensions.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to have him appointed to the postmastership, which, since all
      the work was done by assistants, was the one sinecure in town, the one
      reward for political purity. But it proved that Mr. Bert Tybee, the former
      bartender, desired the postmastership.
    </p>
    <p>
      At her solicitation Lyman Cass gave Champ a warm berth as night watchman.
      Small boys played a good many tricks on Champ when he fell asleep at the
      mill.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She had vicarious happiness in the return of Major Raymond Wutherspoon. He
      was well, but still weak from having been gassed; he had been discharged
      and he came home as the first of the war veterans. It was rumored that he
      surprised Vida by coming unannounced, that Vida fainted when she saw him,
      and for a night and day would not share him with the town. When Carol saw
      them Vida was hazy about everything except Raymie, and never went so far
      from him that she could not slip her hand under his. Without understanding
      why Carol was troubled by this intensity. And Raymie&mdash;surely this was
      not Raymie, but a sterner brother of his, this man with the tight blouse,
      the shoulder emblems, the trim legs in boots. His face seemed different,
      his lips more tight. He was not Raymie; he was Major Wutherspoon; and
      Kennicott and Carol were grateful when he divulged that Paris wasn't half
      as pretty as Minneapolis, that all of the American soldiers had been
      distinguished by their morality when on leave. Kennicott was respectful as
      he inquired whether the Germans had good aeroplanes, and what a salient
      was, and a cootie, and Going West.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a week Major Wutherspoon was made full manager of the Bon Ton. Harry
      Haydock was going to devote himself to the half-dozen branch stores which
      he was establishing at crossroads hamlets. Harry would be the town's rich
      man in the coming generation, and Major Wutherspoon would rise with him,
      and Vida was jubilant, though she was regretful at having to give up most
      of her Red Cross work. Ray still needed nursing, she explained.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Carol saw him with his uniform off, in a pepper-and salt suit and a
      new gray felt hat, she was disappointed. He was not Major Wutherspoon; he
      was Raymie.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a month small boys followed him down the street, and everybody called
      him Major, but that was presently shortened to Maje, and the small boys
      did not look up from their marbles as he went by.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      The town was booming, as a result of the war price of wheat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wheat money did not remain in the pockets of the farmers; the towns
      existed to take care of all that. Iowa farmers were selling their land at
      four hundred dollars an acre and coming into Minnesota. But whoever bought
      or sold or mortgaged, the townsmen invited themselves to the feast&mdash;millers,
      real-estate men, lawyers, merchants, and Dr. Will Kennicott. They bought
      land at a hundred and fifty, sold it next day at a hundred and seventy,
      and bought again. In three months Kennicott made seven thousand dollars,
      which was rather more than four times as much as society paid him for
      healing the sick.
    </p>
    <p>
      In early summer began a &ldquo;campaign of boosting.&rdquo; The Commercial Club
      decided that Gopher Prairie was not only a wheat-center but also the
      perfect site for factories, summer cottages, and state institutions. In
      charge of the campaign was Mr. James Blausser, who had recently come to
      town to speculate in land. Mr. Blausser was known as a Hustler. He liked
      to be called Honest Jim. He was a bulky, gauche, noisy, humorous man, with
      narrow eyes, a rustic complexion, large red hands, and brilliant clothes.
      He was attentive to all women. He was the first man in town who had not
      been sensitive enough to feel Carol's aloofness. He put his arm about her
      shoulder while he condescended to Kennicott, &ldquo;Nice lil wifey, I'll say,
      doc,&rdquo; and when she answered, not warmly, &ldquo;Thank you very much for the
      imprimatur,&rdquo; he blew on her neck, and did not know that he had been
      insulted.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a layer-on of hands. He never came to the house without trying to
      paw her. He touched her arm, let his fist brush her side. She hated the
      man, and she was afraid of him. She wondered if he had heard of Erik, and
      was taking advantage. She spoke ill of him at home and in public places,
      but Kennicott and the other powers insisted, &ldquo;Maybe he is kind of a
      roughneck, but you got to hand it to him; he's got more git-up-and-git
      than any fellow that ever hit this burg. And he's pretty cute, too. Hear
      what he said to old Ezra? Chucked him in the ribs and said, 'Say, boy,
      what do you want to go to Denver for? Wait 'll I get time and I'll move
      the mountains here. Any mountain will be tickled to death to locate here
      once we get the White Way in!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The town welcomed Mr. Blausser as fully as Carol snubbed him. He was the
      guest of honor at the Commercial Club Banquet at the Minniemashie House,
      an occasion for menus printed in gold (but injudiciously proof-read), for
      free cigars, soft damp slabs of Lake Superior whitefish served as fillet
      of sole, drenched cigar-ashes gradually filling the saucers of coffee
      cups, and oratorical references to Pep, Punch, Go, Vigor, Enterprise, Red
      Blood, He-Men, Fair Women, God's Country, James J. Hill, the Blue Sky, the
      Green Fields, the Bountiful Harvest, Increasing Population, Fair Return on
      Investments, Alien Agitators Who Threaten the Security of Our
      Institutions, the Hearthstone the Foundation of the State, Senator Knute
      Nelson, One Hundred Per Cent. Americanism, and Pointing with Pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry Haydock, as chairman, introduced Honest Jim Blausser. &ldquo;And I am
      proud to say, my fellow citizens, that in his brief stay here Mr. Blausser
      has become my warm personal friend as well as my fellow booster, and I
      advise you all to very carefully attend to the hints of a man who knows
      how to achieve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Blausser reared up like an elephant with a camel's neck&mdash;red
      faced, red eyed, heavy fisted, slightly belching&mdash;a born leader,
      divinely intended to be a congressman but deflected to the more lucrative
      honors of real-estate. He smiled on his warm personal friends and fellow
      boosters, and boomed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly was astonished in the streets of our lovely little city, the
      other day. I met the meanest kind of critter that God ever made&mdash;meaner
      than the horned toad or the Texas lallapaluza! (Laughter.) And do you know
      what the animile was? He was a knocker! (Laughter and applause.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to tell you good people, and it's just as sure as God made little
      apples, the thing that distinguishes our American commonwealth from the
      pikers and tin-horns in other countries is our Punch. You take a genuwine,
      honest-to-God homo Americanibus and there ain't anything he's afraid to
      tackle. Snap and speed are his middle name! He'll put her across if he has
      to ride from hell to breakfast, and believe me, I'm mighty good and sorry
      for the boob that's so unlucky as to get in his way, because that poor
      slob is going to wonder where he was at when Old Mr. Cyclone hit town!
      (Laughter.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, frien's, there's some folks so yellow and small and so few in the
      pod that they go to work and claim that those of us that have the big
      vision are off our trolleys. They say we can't make Gopher Prairie, God
      bless her! just as big as Minneapolis or St. Paul or Duluth. But lemme
      tell you right here and now that there ain't a town under the blue canopy
      of heaven that's got a better chance to take a running jump and go
      scooting right up into the two-hundred-thousand class than little old G.
      P.! And if there's anybody that's got such cold kismets that he's afraid
      to tag after Jim Blausser on the Big Going Up, then we don't want him
      here! Way I figger it, you folks are just patriotic enough so that you
      ain't going to stand for any guy sneering and knocking his own town, no
      matter how much of a smart Aleck he is&mdash;and just on the side I want
      to add that this Farmers' Nonpartisan League and the whole bunch of
      socialists are right in the same category, or, as the fellow says, in the
      same scategory, meaning This Way Out, Exit, Beat It While the Going's
      Good, This Means You, for all knockers of prosperity and the rights of
      property!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fellow citizens, there's a lot of folks, even right here in this fair
      state, fairest and richest of all the glorious union, that stand up on
      their hind legs and claim that the East and Europe put it all over the
      golden Northwestland. Now let me nail that lie right here and now.
      'Ah-ha,' says they, 'so Jim Blausser is claiming that Gopher Prairie is as
      good a place to live in as London and Rome and&mdash;and all the rest of
      the Big Burgs, is he? How does the poor fish know?' says they. Well I'll
      tell you how I know! I've seen 'em! I've done Europe from soup to nuts!
      They can't spring that stuff on Jim Blausser and get away with it! And let
      me tell you that the only live thing in Europe is our boys that are
      fighting there now! London&mdash;I spent three days, sixteen straight
      hours a day, giving London the once-over, and let me tell you that it's
      nothing but a bunch of fog and out-of-date buildings that no live American
      burg would stand for one minute. You may not believe it, but there ain't
      one first-class skyscraper in the whole works. And the same thing goes for
      that crowd of crabs and snobs Down East, and next time you hear some zob
      from Yahooville-on-the-Hudson chewing the rag and bulling and trying to
      get your goat, you tell him that no two-fisted enterprising Westerner
      would have New York for a gift!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now the point of this is: I'm not only insisting that Gopher Prairie is
      going to be Minnesota's pride, the brightest ray in the glory of the North
      Star State, but also and furthermore that it is right now, and still more
      shall be, as good a place to live in, and love in, and bring up the Little
      Ones in, and it's got as much refinement and culture, as any burg on the
      whole bloomin' expanse of God's Green Footstool, and that goes, get me,
      that goes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Half an hour later Chairman Haydock moved a vote of thanks to Mr.
      Blausser.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boosters' campaign was on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The town sought that efficient and modern variety of fame which is known
      as &ldquo;publicity.&rdquo; The band was reorganized, and provided by the Commercial
      Club with uniforms of purple and gold. The amateur baseball-team hired a
      semi-professional pitcher from Des Moines, and made a schedule of games
      with every town for fifty miles about. The citizens accompanied it as
      &ldquo;rooters,&rdquo; in a special car, with banners lettered &ldquo;Watch Gopher Prairie
      Grow,&rdquo; and with the band playing &ldquo;Smile, Smile, Smile.&rdquo; Whether the team
      won or lost the Dauntless loyally shrieked, &ldquo;Boost, Boys, and Boost
      Together&mdash;Put Gopher Prairie on the Map&mdash;Brilliant Record of Our
      Matchless Team.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then, glory of glories, the town put in a White Way. White Ways were in
      fashion in the Middlewest. They were composed of ornamented posts with
      clusters of high-powered electric lights along two or three blocks on Main
      Street. The Dauntless confessed: &ldquo;White Way Is Installed&mdash;Town Lit Up
      Like Broadway&mdash;Speech by Hon. James Blausser&mdash;Come On You Twin
      Cities&mdash;Our Hat Is In the Ring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Commercial Club issued a booklet prepared by a great and expensive
      literary person from a Minneapolis advertising agency, a red-headed young
      man who smoked cigarettes in a long amber holder. Carol read the booklet
      with a certain wonder. She learned that Plover and Minniemashie Lakes were
      world-famed for their beauteous wooded shores and gamey pike and bass not
      to be equalled elsewhere in the entire country; that the residences of
      Gopher Prairie were models of dignity, comfort, and culture, with lawns
      and gardens known far and wide; that the Gopher Prairie schools and public
      library, in its neat and commodious building, were celebrated throughout
      the state; that the Gopher Prairie mills made the best flour in the
      country; that the surrounding farm lands were renowned, where'er men ate
      bread and butter, for their incomparable No. 1 Hard Wheat and
      Holstein-Friesian cattle; and that the stores in Gopher Prairie compared
      favorably with Minneapolis and Chicago in their abundance of luxuries and
      necessities and the ever-courteous attention of the skilled clerks. She
      learned, in brief, that this was the one Logical Location for factories
      and wholesale houses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;THERE'S where I want to go; to that model town Gopher Prairie,&rdquo; said
      Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott was triumphant when the Commercial Club did capture one small
      shy factory which planned to make wooden automobile-wheels, but when Carol
      saw the promoter she could not feel that his coming much mattered&mdash;and
      a year after, when he failed, she could not be very sorrowful.
    </p>
    <p>
      Retired farmers were moving into town. The price of lots had increased a
      third. But Carol could discover no more pictures nor interesting food nor
      gracious voices nor amusing conversation nor questing minds. She could,
      she asserted, endure a shabby but modest town; the town shabby and
      egomaniac she could not endure. She could nurse Champ Perry, and warm to
      the neighborliness of Sam Clark, but she could not sit applauding Honest
      Jim Blausser. Kennicott had begged her, in courtship days, to convert the
      town to beauty. If it was now as beautiful as Mr. Blausser and the
      Dauntless said, then her work was over, and she could go.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      KENNICOTT was not so inhumanly patient that he could continue to forgive
      Carol's heresies, to woo her as he had on the venture to California. She
      tried to be inconspicuous, but she was betrayed by her failure to glow
      over the boosting. Kennicott believed in it; demanded that she say
      patriotic things about the White Way and the new factory. He snorted, &ldquo;By
      golly, I've done all I could, and now I expect you to play the game. Here
      you been complaining for years about us being so poky, and now when
      Blausser comes along and does stir up excitement and beautify the town
      like you've always wanted somebody to, why, you say he's a roughneck, and
      you won't jump on the band-wagon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once, when Kennicott announced at noon-dinner, &ldquo;What do you know about
      this! They say there's a chance we may get another factory&mdash;cream-separator
      works!&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;You might try to look interested, even if you ain't!&rdquo;
       The baby was frightened by the Jovian roar; ran wailing to hide his face
      in Carol's lap; and Kennicott had to make himself humble and court both
      mother and child. The dim injustice of not being understood even by his
      son left him irritable. He felt injured.
    </p>
    <p>
      An event which did not directly touch them brought down his wrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the early autumn, news came from Wakamin that the sheriff had forbidden
      an organizer for the National Nonpartisan League to speak anywhere in the
      county. The organizer had defied the sheriff, and announced that in a few
      days he would address a farmers' political meeting. That night, the news
      ran, a mob of a hundred business men led by the sheriff&mdash;the tame
      village street and the smug village faces ruddled by the light of bobbing
      lanterns, the mob flowing between the squatty rows of shops&mdash;had
      taken the organizer from his hotel, ridden him on a fence-rail, put him on
      a freight train, and warned him not to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story was threshed out in Dave Dyer's drug store, with Sam Clark,
      Kennicott, and Carol present.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the way to treat those fellows&mdash;only they ought to have
      lynched him!&rdquo; declared Sam, and Kennicott and Dave Dyer joined in a proud
      &ldquo;You bet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol walked out hastily, Kennicott observing her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through supper-time she knew that he was bubbling and would soon boil
      over. When the baby was abed, and they sat composedly in canvas chairs on
      the porch, he experimented; &ldquo;I had a hunch you thought Sam was kind of
      hard on that fellow they kicked out of Wakamin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wasn't Sam rather needlessly heroic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All these organizers, yes, and a whole lot of the German and Squarehead
      farmers themselves, they're seditious as the devil&mdash;disloyal,
      non-patriotic, pro-German pacifists, that's what they are!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did this organizer say anything pro-German?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not on your life! They didn't give him a chance!&rdquo; His laugh was stagey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So the whole thing was illegal&mdash;and led by the sheriff! Precisely
      how do you expect these aliens to obey your law if the officer of the law
      teaches them to break it? Is it a new kind of logic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe it wasn't exactly regular, but what's the odds? They knew this
      fellow would try to stir up trouble. Whenever it comes right down to a
      question of defending Americanism and our constitutional rights, it's
      justifiable to set aside ordinary procedure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What editorial did he get that from?&rdquo; she wondered, as she protested,
      &ldquo;See here, my beloved, why can't you Tories declare war honestly? You
      don't oppose this organizer because you think he's seditious but because
      you're afraid that the farmers he is organizing will deprive you townsmen
      of the money you make out of mortgages and wheat and shops. Of course,
      since we're at war with Germany, anything that any one of us doesn't like
      is 'pro-German,' whether it's business competition or bad music. If we
      were fighting England, you'd call the radicals 'pro-English.' When this
      war is over, I suppose you'll be calling them 'red anarchists.' What an
      eternal art it is&mdash;such a glittery delightful art&mdash;finding hard
      names for our opponents! How we do sanctify our efforts to keep them from
      getting the holy dollars we want for ourselves! The churches have always
      done it, and the political orators&mdash;and I suppose I do it when I call
      Mrs. Bogart a 'Puritan' and Mr. Stowbody a 'capitalist.' But you business
      men are going to beat all the rest of us at it, with your simple-hearted,
      energetic, pompous&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She got so far only because Kennicott was slow in shaking off respect for
      her. Now he bayed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That'll be about all from you! I've stood for your sneering at this town,
      and saying how ugly and dull it is. I've stood for your refusing to
      appreciate good fellows like Sam. I've even stood for your ridiculing our
      Watch Gopher Prairie Grow campaign. But one thing I'm not going to stand:
      I'm not going to stand my own wife being seditious. You can camouflage all
      you want to, but you know darn well that these radicals, as you call 'em,
      are opposed to the war, and let me tell you right here and now, and you
      and all these long-haired men and short-haired women can beef all you want
      to, but we're going to take these fellows, and if they ain't patriotic,
      we're going to make them be patriotic. And&mdash;Lord knows I never
      thought I'd have to say this to my own wife&mdash;but if you go defending
      these fellows, then the same thing applies to you! Next thing, I suppose
      you'll be yapping about free speech. Free speech! There's too much free
      speech and free gas and free beer and free love and all the rest of your
      damned mouthy freedom, and if I had my way I'd make you folks live up to
      the established rules of decency even if I had to take you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will!&rdquo; She was not timorous now. &ldquo;Am I pro-German if I fail to throb to
      Honest Jim Blausser, too? Let's have my whole duty as a wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was grumbling, &ldquo;The whole thing's right in line with the criticism
      you've always been making. Might have known you'd oppose any decent
      constructive work for the town or for&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right. All I've done has been in line. I don't belong to Gopher
      Prairie. That isn't meant as a condemnation of Gopher Prairie, and it may
      be a condemnation of me. All right! I don't care! I don't belong here, and
      I'm going. I'm not asking permission any more. I'm simply going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grunted. &ldquo;Do you mind telling me, if it isn't too much trouble, how
      long you're going for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. Perhaps for a year. Perhaps for a lifetime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see. Well, of course, I'll be tickled to death to sell out my practise
      and go anywhere you say. Would you like to have me go with you to Paris
      and study art, maybe, and wear velveteen pants and a woman's bonnet, and
      live on spaghetti?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I think we can save you that trouble. You don't quite understand. I
      am going&mdash;I really am&mdash;and alone! I've got to find out what my
      work is&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Work? Work? Sure! That's the whole trouble with you! You haven't got
      enough work to do. If you had five kids and no hired girl, and had to help
      with the chores and separate the cream, like these farmers' wives, then
      you wouldn't be so discontented.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know. That's what most men&mdash;and women&mdash;like you WOULD say.
      That's how they would explain all I am and all I want. And I shouldn't
      argue with them. These business men, from their crushing labors of sitting
      in an office seven hours a day, would calmly recommend that I have a dozen
      children. As it happens, I've done that sort of thing. There've been a
      good many times when we hadn't a maid, and I did all the housework, and
      cared for Hugh, and went to Red Cross, and did it all very efficiently.
      I'm a good cook and a good sweeper, and you don't dare say I'm not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no, you're&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But was I more happy when I was drudging? I was not. I was just
      bedraggled and unhappy. It's work&mdash;but not my work. I could run an
      office or a library, or nurse and teach children. But solitary
      dish-washing isn't enough to satisfy me&mdash;or many other women. We're
      going to chuck it. We're going to wash 'em by machinery, and come out and
      play with you men in the offices and clubs and politics you've cleverly
      kept for yourselves! Oh, we're hopeless, we dissatisfied women! Then why
      do you want to have us about the place, to fret you? So it's for your sake
      that I'm going!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course a little thing like Hugh makes no difference!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, all the difference. That's why I'm going to take him with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I refuse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Forlornly, &ldquo;Uh&mdash;&mdash;Carrie, what the devil is it you want,
      anyway?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, conversation! No, it's much more than that. I think it's a greatness
      of life&mdash;a refusal to be content with even the healthiest mud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you know that nobody ever solved a problem by running away from
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. Only I choose to make my own definition of 'running away' I
      don't call&mdash;&mdash;Do you realize how big a world there is beyond
      this Gopher Prairie where you'd keep me all my life? It may be that some
      day I'll come back, but not till I can bring something more than I have
      now. And even if I am cowardly and run away&mdash;all right, call it
      cowardly, call me anything you want to! I've been ruled too long by fear
      of being called things. I'm going away to be quiet and think. I'm&mdash;I'm
      going! I have a right to my own life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So have I to mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a right to my life&mdash;and you're it, you're my life! You've
      made yourself so. I'm damned if I'll agree to all your freak notions, but
      I will say I've got to depend on you. Never thought of that complication,
      did you, in this 'off to Bohemia, and express yourself, and free love, and
      live your own life' stuff!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a right to me if you can keep me. Can you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      For a month they discussed it. They hurt each other very much, and
      sometimes they were close to weeping, and invariably he used banal phrases
      about her duties and she used phrases quite as banal about freedom, and
      through it all, her discovery that she really could get away from Main
      Street was as sweet as the discovery of love. Kennicott never consented
      definitely. At most he agreed to a public theory that she was &ldquo;going to
      take a short trip and see what the East was like in wartime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She set out for Washington in October&mdash;just before the war ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had determined on Washington because it was less intimidating than the
      obvious New York, because she hoped to find streets in which Hugh could
      play, and because in the stress of war-work, with its demand for thousands
      of temporary clerks, she could be initiated into the world of offices.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hugh was to go with her, despite the wails and rather extensive comments
      of Aunt Bessie.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wondered if she might not encounter Erik in the East but it was a
      chance thought, soon forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      The last thing she saw on the station platform was Kennicott, faithfully
      waving his hand, his face so full of uncomprehending loneliness that he
      could not smile but only twitch up his lips. She waved to him as long as
      she could, and when he was lost she wanted to leap from the vestibule and
      run back to him. She thought of a hundred tendernesses she had neglected.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had her freedom, and it was empty. The moment was not the highest of
      her life, but the lowest and most desolate, which was altogether
      excellent, for instead of slipping downward she began to climb.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sighed, &ldquo;I couldn't do this if it weren't for Will's kindness, his
      giving me money.&rdquo; But a second after: &ldquo;I wonder how many women would
      always stay home if they had the money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hugh complained, &ldquo;Notice me, mummy!&rdquo; He was beside her on the red plush
      seat of the day-coach; a boy of three and a half. &ldquo;I'm tired of playing
      train. Let's play something else. Let's go see Auntie Bogart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, NO! Do you really like Mrs. Bogart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She gives me cookies and she tells me about the Dear Lord. You never
      tell me about the Dear Lord. Why don't you tell me about the Dear Lord?
      Auntie Bogart says I'm going to be a preacher. Can I be a preacher? Can I
      preach about the Dear Lord?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, please wait till my generation has stopped rebelling before yours
      starts in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's a generation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a ray in the illumination of the spirit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's foolish.&rdquo; He was a serious and literal person, and rather
      humorless. She kissed his frown, and marveled:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am running away from my husband, after liking a Swedish ne'er-do-well
      and expressing immoral opinions, just as in a romantic story. And my own
      son reproves me because I haven't given him religious instruction. But the
      story doesn't go right. I'm neither groaning nor being dramatically saved.
      I keep on running away, and I enjoy it. I'm mad with joy over it. Gopher
      Prairie is lost back there in the dust and stubble, and I look forward&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She continued it to Hugh: &ldquo;Darling, do you know what mother and you are
      going to find beyond the blue horizon rim?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; flatly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're going to find elephants with golden howdahs from which peep young
      maharanees with necklaces of rubies, and a dawn sea colored like the
      breast of a dove, and a white and green house filled with books and silver
      tea-sets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And cookies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cookies? Oh, most decidedly cookies. We've had enough of bread and
      porridge. We'd get sick on too many cookies, but ever so much sicker on no
      cookies at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's foolish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, O male Kennicott!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Huh!&rdquo; said Kennicott II, and went to sleep on her shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      The theory of the Dauntless regarding Carol's absence:
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Will Kennicott and son Hugh left on No. 24 on Saturday last for a
      stay of some months in Minneapolis, Chicago, New York and Washington. Mrs.
      Kennicott confided to <i>Ye Scribe</i> that she will be connected with one
      of the multifarious war activities now centering in the Nation's Capital
      for a brief period before returning. Her countless friends who appreciate
      her splendid labors with the local Red Cross realize how valuable she will
      be to any war board with which she chooses to become connected. Gopher
      Prairie thus adds another shining star to its service flag and without
      wishing to knock any neighboring communities, we would like to know any
      town of anywheres near our size in the state that has such a sterling war
      record. Another reason why you'd better Watch Gopher Prairie Grow.
    </p>
    <p>
      * * *
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. and Mrs. David Dyer, Mrs. Dyer's sister, Mrs. Jennie Dayborn of
      Jackrabbit, and Dr. Will Kennicott drove to Minniemashie on Tuesday for a
      delightful picnic.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVII
    </h2>
    <h3>
      I
    </h3>
    <p>
      SHE found employment in the Bureau of War Risk Insurance. Though the
      armistice with Germany was signed a few weeks after her coming to
      Washington, the work of the bureau continued. She filed correspondence all
      day; then she dictated answers to letters of inquiry. It was an endurance
      of monotonous details, yet she asserted that she had found &ldquo;real work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Disillusions she did have. She discovered that in the afternoon, office
      routine stretches to the grave. She discovered that an office is as full
      of cliques and scandals as a Gopher Prairie. She discovered that most of
      the women in the government bureaus lived unhealthfully, dining on
      snatches in their crammed apartments. But she also discovered that
      business women may have friendships and enmities as frankly as men and may
      revel in a bliss which no housewife attains&mdash;a free Sunday. It did
      not appear that the Great World needed her inspiration, but she felt that
      her letters, her contact with the anxieties of men and women all over the
      country, were a part of vast affairs, not confined to Main Street and a
      kitchen but linked with Paris, Bangkok, Madrid.
    </p>
    <p>
      She perceived that she could do office work without losing any of the
      putative feminine virtue of domesticity; that cooking and cleaning, when
      divested of the fussing of an Aunt Bessie, take but a tenth of the time
      which, in a Gopher Prairie, it is but decent to devote to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not to have to apologize for her thoughts to the Jolly Seventeen, not to
      have to report to Kennicott at the end of the day all that she had done or
      might do, was a relief which made up for the office weariness. She felt
      that she was no longer one-half of a marriage but the whole of a human
      being.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      Washington gave her all the graciousness in which she had had faith: white
      columns seen across leafy parks, spacious avenues, twisty alleys. Daily
      she passed a dark square house with a hint of magnolias and a courtyard
      behind it, and a tall curtained second-story window through which a woman
      was always peering. The woman was mystery, romance, a story which told
      itself differently every day; now she was a murderess, now the neglected
      wife of an ambassador. It was mystery which Carol had most lacked in
      Gopher Prairie, where every house was open to view, where every person was
      but too easy to meet, where there were no secret gates opening upon moors
      over which one might walk by moss-deadened paths to strange high
      adventures in an ancient garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she flitted up Sixteenth Street after a Kreisler recital, given late in
      the afternoon for the government clerks, as the lamps kindled in spheres
      of soft fire, as the breeze flowed into the street, fresh as prairie winds
      and kindlier, as she glanced up the elm alley of Massachusetts Avenue, as
      she was rested by the integrity of the Scottish Rite Temple, she loved the
      city as she loved no one save Hugh. She encountered negro shanties turned
      into studios, with orange curtains and pots of mignonette; marble houses
      on New Hampshire Avenue, with butlers and limousines; and men who looked
      like fictional explorers and aviators. Her days were swift, and she knew
      that in her folly of running away she had found the courage to be wise.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had a dispiriting first month of hunting lodgings in the crowded city.
      She had to roost in a hall-room in a moldy mansion conducted by an
      indignant decayed gentlewoman, and leave Hugh to the care of a doubtful nurse.
      But later she made a home.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Her first acquaintances were the members of the Tincomb Methodist Church,
      a vast red-brick tabernacle. Vida Sherwin had given her a letter to an
      earnest woman with eye-glasses, plaid silk waist, and a belief in Bible
      Classes, who introduced her to the Pastor and the Nicer Members of
      Tincomb. Carol recognized in Washington as she had in California a
      transplanted and guarded Main Street. Two-thirds of the church-members had
      come from Gopher Prairies. The church was their society and their
      standard; they went to Sunday service, Sunday School, Christian Endeavor,
      missionary lectures, church suppers, precisely as they had at home; they
      agreed that ambassadors and flippant newspapermen and infidel scientists
      of the bureaus were equally wicked and to be avoided; and by cleaving to
      Tincomb Church they kept their ideals from all contamination.
    </p>
    <p>
      They welcomed Carol, asked about her husband, gave her advice regarding
      colic in babies, passed her the gingerbread and scalloped potatoes at
      church suppers, and in general made her very unhappy and lonely, so that
      she wondered if she might not enlist in the militant suffrage organization
      and be allowed to go to jail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Always she was to perceive in Washington (as doubtless she would have
      perceived in New York or London) a thick streak of Main Street. The
      cautious dullness of a Gopher Prairie appeared in boarding-houses where
      ladylike bureau-clerks gossiped to polite young army officers about the
      movies; a thousand Sam Clarks and a few Widow Bogarts were to be
      identified in the Sunday motor procession, in theater parties, and at the
      dinners of State Societies, to which the emigres from Texas or Michigan
      surged that they might confirm themselves in the faith that their several
      Gopher Prairies were notoriously &ldquo;a whole lot peppier and chummier than
      this stuck-up East.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she found a Washington which did not cleave to Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Guy Pollock wrote to a cousin, a temporary army captain, a confiding and
      buoyant lad who took Carol to tea-dances, and laughed, as she had always
      wanted some one to laugh, about nothing in particular. The captain
      introduced her to the secretary of a congressman, a cynical young widow
      with many acquaintances in the navy. Through her Carol met commanders and
      majors, newspapermen, chemists and geographers and fiscal experts from the
      bureaus, and a teacher who was a familiar of the militant suffrage
      headquarters. The teacher took her to headquarters. Carol never became a
      prominent suffragist. Indeed her only recognized position was as an able
      addresser of envelopes. But she was casually adopted by this family of
      friendly women who, when they were not being mobbed or arrested, took
      dancing lessons or went picnicking up the Chesapeake Canal or talked about
      the politics of the American Federation of Labor.
    </p>
    <p>
      With the congressman's secretary and the teacher Carol leased a small
      flat. Here she found home, her own place and her own people. She had,
      though it absorbed most of her salary, an excellent nurse for Hugh. She
      herself put him to bed and played with him on holidays. There were walks
      with him, there were motionless evenings of reading, but chiefly
      Washington was associated with people, scores of them, sitting about the
      flat, talking, talking, talking, not always wisely but always excitedly.
      It was not at all the &ldquo;artist's studio&rdquo; of which, because of its
      persistence in fiction, she had dreamed. Most of them were in offices all
      day, and thought more in card-catalogues or statistics than in mass and
      color. But they played, very simply, and they saw no reason why anything
      which exists cannot also be acknowledged.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was sometimes shocked quite as she had shocked Gopher Prairie by these
      girls with their cigarettes and elfish knowledge. When they were most
      eager about soviets or canoeing, she listened, longed to have some special
      learning which would distinguish her, and sighed that her adventure had
      come so late. Kennicott and Main Street had drained her self-reliance; the
      presence of Hugh made her feel temporary. Some day&mdash;oh, she'd have to
      take him back to open fields and the right to climb about hay-lofts.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the fact that she could never be eminent among these scoffing
      enthusiasts did not keep her from being proud of them, from defending them
      in imaginary conversations with Kennicott, who grunted (she could hear his
      voice), &ldquo;They're simply a bunch of wild impractical theorists sittin'
      round chewing the rag,&rdquo; and &ldquo;I haven't got the time to chase after a lot
      of these fool fads; I'm too busy putting aside a stake for our old age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Most of the men who came to the flat, whether they were army officers or
      radicals who hated the army, had the easy gentleness, the acceptance of
      women without embarrassed banter, for which she had longed in Gopher
      Prairie. Yet they seemed to be as efficient as the Sam Clarks. She
      concluded that it was because they were of secure reputation, not hemmed
      in by the fire of provincial jealousies. Kennicott had asserted that the
      villager's lack of courtesy is due to his poverty. &ldquo;We're no millionaire
      dudes,&rdquo; he boasted. Yet these army and navy men, these bureau experts, and
      organizers of multitudinous leagues, were cheerful on three or four
      thousand a year, while Kennicott had, outside of his land speculations,
      six thousand or more, and Sam had eight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor could she upon inquiry learn that many of this reckless race died in
      the poorhouse. That institution is reserved for men like Kennicott who,
      after devoting fifty years to &ldquo;putting aside a stake,&rdquo; incontinently
      invest the stake in spurious oil-stocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      She was encouraged to believe that she had not been abnormal in viewing
      Gopher Prairie as unduly tedious and slatternly. She found the same faith
      not only in girls escaped from domesticity but also in demure old ladies
      who, tragically deprived of esteemed husbands and huge old houses, yet
      managed to make a very comfortable thing of it by living in small flats
      and having time to read.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she also learned that by comparison Gopher Prairie was a model of
      daring color, clever planning, and frenzied intellectuality. From her
      teacher-housemate she had a sardonic description of a Middlewestern
      railroad-division town, of the same size as Gopher Prairie but devoid of
      lawns and trees, a town where the tracks sprawled along the cinder-scabbed
      Main Street, and the railroad shops, dripping soot from eaves and doorway,
      rolled out smoke in greasy coils.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other towns she came to know by anecdote: a prairie village where the wind
      blew all day long, and the mud was two feet thick in spring, and in summer
      the flying sand scarred new-painted houses and dust covered the few
      flowers set out in pots. New England mill-towns with the hands living in
      rows of cottages like blocks of lava. A rich farming-center in New Jersey,
      off the railroad, furiously pious, ruled by old men, unbelievably ignorant
      old men, sitting about the grocery talking of James G. Blaine. A Southern
      town, full of the magnolias and white columns which Carol had accepted as
      proof of romance, but hating the negroes, obsequious to the Old Families.
      A Western mining-settlement like a tumor. A booming semi-city with parks
      and clever architects, visited by famous pianists and unctuous lecturers,
      but irritable from a struggle between union labor and the manufacturers'
      association, so that in even the gayest of the new houses there was a
      ceaseless and intimidating heresy-hunt.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      The chart which plots Carol's progress is not easy to read. The lines are
      broken and uncertain of direction; often instead of rising they sink in
      wavering scrawls; and the colors are watery blue and pink and the dim gray
      of rubbed pencil marks. A few lines are traceable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unhappy women are given to protecting their sensitiveness by cynical
      gossip, by whining, by high-church and new-thought religions, or by a fog
      of vagueness. Carol had hidden in none of these refuges from reality, but
      she, who was tender and merry, had been made timorous by Gopher Prairie.
      Even her flight had been but the temporary courage of panic. The thing she
      gained in Washington was not information about office-systems and labor
      unions but renewed courage, that amiable contempt called poise. Her
      glimpse of tasks involving millions of people and a score of nations
      reduced Main Street from bloated importance to its actual pettiness. She
      could never again be quite so awed by the power with which she herself had
      endowed the Vidas and Blaussers and Bogarts.
    </p>
    <p>
      From her work and from her association with women who had organized
      suffrage associations in hostile cities, or had defended political
      prisoners, she caught something of an impersonal attitude; saw that she
      had been as touchily personal as Maud Dyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      And why, she began to ask, did she rage at individuals? Not individuals
      but institutions are the enemies, and they most afflict the disciples who
      the most generously serve them. They insinuate their tyranny under a
      hundred guises and pompous names, such as Polite Society, the Family, the
      Church, Sound Business, the Party, the Country, the Superior White Race;
      and the only defense against them, Carol beheld, is unembittered laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      SHE had lived in Washington for a year. She was tired of the office. It
      was tolerable, far more tolerable than housework, but it was not
      adventurous.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was having tea and cinnamon toast, alone at a small round table on the
      balcony of Rauscher's Confiserie. Four debutantes clattered in. She had
      felt young and dissipated, had thought rather well of her black and
      leaf-green suit, but as she watched them, thin of ankle, soft under the
      chin, seventeen or eighteen at most, smoking cigarettes with the correct
      ennui and talking of &ldquo;bedroom farces&rdquo; and their desire to &ldquo;run up to New
      York and see something racy,&rdquo; she became old and rustic and plain, and
      desirous of retreating from these hard brilliant children to a life easier
      and more sympathetic. When they flickered out and one child gave orders to
      a chauffeur, Carol was not a defiant philosopher but a faded government
      clerk from Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.
    </p>
    <p>
      She started dejectedly up Connecticut Avenue. She stopped, her heart
      stopped. Coming toward her were Harry and Juanita Haydock. She ran to
      them, she kissed Juanita, while Harry confided, &ldquo;Hadn't expected to come
      to Washington&mdash;had to go to New York for some buying&mdash;didn't
      have your address along&mdash;just got in this morning&mdash;wondered how
      in the world we could get hold of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was definitely sorry to hear that they were to leave at nine that
      evening, and she clung to them as long as she could. She took them to St.
      Mark's for dinner. Stooped, her elbows on the table, she heard with
      excitement that &ldquo;Cy Bogart had the 'flu, but of course he was too gol-darn
      mean to die of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will wrote me that Mr. Blausser has gone away. How did he get on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fine! Fine! Great loss to the town. There was a real public-spirited
      fellow, all right!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She discovered that she now had no opinions whatever about Mr. Blausser,
      and she said sympathetically, &ldquo;Will you keep up the town-boosting
      campaign?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harry fumbled, &ldquo;Well, we've dropped it just temporarily, but&mdash;sure
      you bet! Say, did the doc write you about the luck B. J. Gougerling had
      hunting ducks down in Texas?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the news had been told and their enthusiasm had slackened she looked
      about and was proud to be able to point out a senator, to explain the
      cleverness of the canopied garden. She fancied that a man with dinner-coat
      and waxed mustache glanced superciliously at Harry's highly form-fitting
      bright-brown suit and Juanita's tan silk frock, which was doubtful at the
      seams. She glared back, defending her own, daring the world not to
      appreciate them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, waving to them, she lost them down the long train shed. She stood
      reading the list of stations: Harrisburg, Pittsburg, Chicago. Beyond
      Chicago&mdash;&mdash;? She saw the lakes and stubble fields, heard the
      rhythm of insects and the creak of a buggy, was greeted by Sam Clark's
      &ldquo;Well, well, how's the little lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nobody in Washington cared enough for her to fret about her sins as Sam
      did.
    </p>
    <p>
      But that night they had at the flat a man just back from Finland.
    </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She was on the Powhatan roof with the captain. At a table, somewhat
      vociferously buying improbable &ldquo;soft drinks&rdquo; for two fluffy girls, was a
      man with a large familiar back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I think I know him,&rdquo; she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? There? Oh, Bresnahan, Percy Bresnahan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. You've met him? What sort of a man is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's a good-hearted idiot. I rather like him, and I believe that as a
      salesman of motors he's a wonder. But he's a nuisance in the aeronautic
      section. Tries so hard to be useful but he doesn't know anything&mdash;he
      doesn't know anything. Rather pathetic: rich man poking around and trying
      to be useful. Do you want to speak to him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;I don't think so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      She was at a motion-picture show. The film was a highly advertised and
      abysmal thing smacking of simpering hair-dressers, cheap perfume,
      red-plush suites on the back streets of tenderloins, and complacent fat
      women chewing gum. It pretended to deal with the life of studios. The
      leading man did a portrait which was a masterpiece. He also saw visions in
      pipe-smoke, and was very brave and poor and pure. He had ringlets, and his
      masterpiece was strangely like an enlarged photograph.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol prepared to leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the screen, in the role of a composer, appeared an actor called Eric
      Valour.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was startled, incredulous, then wretched. Looking straight out at her,
      wearing a beret and a velvet jacket, was Erik Valborg.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a pale part, which he played neither well nor badly. She
      speculated, &ldquo;I could have made so much of him&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She did not
      finish her speculation.
    </p>
    <p>
      She went home and read Kennicott's letters. They had seemed stiff and
      undetailed, but now there strode from them a personality, a personality
      unlike that of the languishing young man in the velvet jacket playing a
      dummy piano in a canvas room.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott first came to see her in November, thirteen months after her
      arrival in Washington. When he announced that he was coming she was not at
      all sure that she wished to see him. She was glad that he had made the
      decision himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had leave from the office for two days.
    </p>
    <p>
      She watched him marching from the train, solid, assured, carrying his
      heavy suit-case, and she was diffident&mdash;he was such a bulky person to
      handle. They kissed each other questioningly, and said at the same time,
      &ldquo;You're looking fine; how's the baby?&rdquo; and &ldquo;You're looking awfully well,
      dear; how is everything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grumbled, &ldquo;I don't want to butt in on any plans you've made or your
      friends or anything, but if you've got time for it, I'd like to chase
      around Washington, and take in some restaurants and shows and stuff, and
      forget work for a while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She realized, in the taxicab, that he was wearing a soft gray suit, a soft
      easy hat, a flippant tie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like the new outfit? Got 'em in Chicago. Gosh, I hope they're the kind
      you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They spent half an hour at the flat, with Hugh. She was flustered, but he
      gave no sign of kissing her again.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he moved about the small rooms she realized that he had had his new tan
      shoes polished to a brassy luster. There was a recent cut on his chin. He
      must have shaved on the train just before coming into Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was pleasant to feel how important she was, how many people she
      recognized, as she took him to the Capitol, as she told him (he asked and
      she obligingly guessed) how many feet it was to the top of the dome, as
      she pointed out Senator LaFollette and the vice-president, and at
      lunch-time showed herself an habitue by leading him through the catacombs
      to the senate restaurant.
    </p>
    <p>
      She realized that he was slightly more bald. The familiar way in which his
      hair was parted on the left side agitated her. She looked down at his
      hands, and the fact that his nails were as ill-treated as ever touched her
      more than his pleading shoe-shine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'd like to motor down to Mount Vernon this afternoon, wouldn't you?&rdquo;
       she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the one thing he had planned. He was delighted that it seemed to be
      a perfectly well bred and Washingtonian thing to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shyly held her hand on the way, and told her the news: they were
      excavating the basement for the new schoolbuilding, Vida &ldquo;made him tired
      the way she always looked at the Maje,&rdquo; poor Chet Dashaway had been killed
      in a motor accident out on the Coast. He did not coax her to like him. At
      Mount Vernon he admired the paneled library and Washington's dental tools.
    </p>
    <p>
      She knew that he would want oysters, that he would have heard of Harvey's
      apropos of Grant and Blaine, and she took him there. At dinner his hearty
      voice, his holiday enjoyment of everything, turned into nervousness in his
      desire to know a number of interesting matters, such as whether they still
      were married. But he did not ask questions, and he said nothing about her
      returning. He cleared his throat and observed, &ldquo;Oh say, been trying out
      the old camera. Don't you think these are pretty good?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He tossed over to her thirty prints of Gopher Prairie and the country
      about. Without defense, she was thrown into it. She remembered that he had
      lured her with photographs in courtship days; she made a note of his
      sameness, his satisfaction with the tactics which had proved good before;
      but she forgot it in the familiar places. She was seeing the sun-speckled
      ferns among birches on the shore of Minniemashie, wind-rippled miles of
      wheat, the porch of their own house where Hugh had played, Main Street
      where she knew every window and every face.
    </p>
    <p>
      She handed them back, with praise for his photography, and he talked of
      lenses and time-exposures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner was over and they were gossiping of her friends at the flat, but an
      intruder was with them, sitting back, persistent, inescapable. She could
      not endure it. She stammered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had you check your bag at the station because I wasn't quite sure where
      you'd stay. I'm dreadfully sorry we haven't room to put you up at the
      flat. We ought to have seen about a room for you before. Don't you think
      you better call up the Willard or the Washington now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He peered at her cloudily. Without words he asked, without speech she
      answered, whether she was also going to the Willard or the Washington. But
      she tried to look as though she did not know that they were debating
      anything of the sort. She would have hated him had he been meek about it.
      But he was neither meek nor angry. However impatient he may have been with
      her blandness he said readily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, guess I better do that. Excuse me a second. Then how about grabbing
      a taxi (Gosh, isn't it the limit the way these taxi shuffers skin around a
      corner? Got more nerve driving than I have!) and going up to your flat for
      a while? Like to meet your friends&mdash;must be fine women&mdash;and I
      might take a look and see how Hugh sleeps. Like to know how he breathes.
      Don't think he has adenoids, but I better make sure, eh?&rdquo; He patted her
      shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the flat they found her two housemates and a girl who had been to jail
      for suffrage. Kennicott fitted in surprisingly. He laughed at the girl's
      story of the humors of a hunger-strike; he told the secretary what to do
      when her eyes were tired from typing; and the teacher asked him&mdash;not
      as the husband of a friend but as a physician&mdash;whether there was
      &ldquo;anything to this inoculation for colds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His colloquialisms seemed to Carol no more lax than their habitual slang.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like an older brother he kissed her good-night in the midst of the
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's terribly nice,&rdquo; said her housemates, and waited for confidences.
      They got none, nor did her own heart. She could find nothing definite to
      agonize about. She felt that she was no longer analyzing and controlling
      forces, but swept on by them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He came to the flat for breakfast, and washed the dishes. That was her
      only occasion for spite. Back home he never thought of washing dishes!
    </p>
    <p>
      She took him to the obvious &ldquo;sights&rdquo;&mdash;the Treasury, the Monument, the
      Corcoran Gallery, the Pan-American Building, the Lincoln Memorial, with
      the Potomac beyond it and the Arlington hills and the columns of the Lee
      Mansion. For all his willingness to play there was over him a melancholy
      which piqued her. His normally expressionless eyes had depths to them now,
      and strangeness. As they walked through Lafayette Square, looking past the
      Jackson statue at the lovely tranquil facade of the White House, he
      sighed, &ldquo;I wish I'd had a shot at places like this. When I was in the U.,
      I had to earn part of my way, and when I wasn't doing that or studying, I
      guess I was roughhousing. My gang were a great bunch for bumming around
      and raising Cain. Maybe if I'd been caught early and sent to concerts and
      all that&mdash;&mdash;Would I have been what you call intelligent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my dear, don't be humble! You are intelligent! For instance, you're
      the most thorough doctor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was edging about something he wished to say. He pounced on it:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did like those pictures of G. P. pretty well, after all, didn't you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wouldn't be so bad to have a glimpse of the old town, would it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it wouldn't. Just as I was terribly glad to see the Haydocks. But
      please understand me! That doesn't mean that I withdraw all my criticisms.
      The fact that I might like a glimpse of old friends hasn't any particular
      relation to the question of whether Gopher Prairie oughtn't to have
      festivals and lamb chops.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hastily, &ldquo;No, no! Sure not. I und'stand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I know it must have been pretty tiresome to have to live with anybody
      as perfect as I was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grinned. She liked his grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      V
    </p>
    <p>
      He was thrilled by old negro coachmen, admirals, aeroplanes, the building
      to which his income tax would eventually go, a Rolls-Royce, Lynnhaven
      oysters, the Supreme Court Room, a New York theatrical manager down for
      the try-out of a play, the house where Lincoln died, the cloaks of Italian
      officers, the barrows at which clerks buy their box-lunches at noon, the
      barges on the Chesapeake Canal, and the fact that District of Columbia
      cars had both District and Maryland licenses.
    </p>
    <p>
      She resolutely took him to her favorite white and green cottages and
      Georgian houses. He admitted that fanlights, and white shutters against
      rosy brick, were more homelike than a painty wooden box. He volunteered,
      &ldquo;I see how you mean. They make me think of these pictures of an
      old-fashioned Christmas. Oh, if you keep at it long enough you'll have Sam
      and me reading poetry and everything. Oh say, d' I tell you about this
      fierce green Jack Elder's had his machine painted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      They were at dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hinted, &ldquo;Before you showed me those places today, I'd already made up
      my mind that when I built the new house we used to talk about, I'd fix it
      the way you wanted it. I'm pretty practical about foundations and
      radiation and stuff like that, but I guess I don't know a whole lot about
      architecture.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, it occurs to me with a sudden shock that I don't either!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;anyway&mdash;you let me plan the garage and the plumbing, and
      you do the rest, if you ever&mdash;I mean&mdash;if you ever want to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Doubtfully, &ldquo;That's sweet of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, Carrie; you think I'm going to ask you to love me. I'm not.
      And I'm not going to ask you to come back to Gopher Prairie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She gaped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's been a whale of a fight. But I guess I've got myself to see that you
      won't ever stand G. P. unless you WANT to come back to it. I needn't say
      I'm crazy to have you. But I won't ask you. I just want you to know how I
      wait for you. Every mail I look for a letter, and when I get one I'm kind
      of scared to open it, I'm hoping so much that you're coming back. Evenings&mdash;&mdash;You
      know I didn't open the cottage down at the lake at all, this past summer.
      Simply couldn't stand all the others laughing and swimming, and you not
      there. I used to sit on the porch, in town, and I&mdash;I couldn't get
      over the feeling that you'd simply run up to the drug store and would be
      right back, and till after it got dark I'd catch myself watching, looking
      up the street, and you never came, and the house was so empty and still
      that I didn't like to go in. And sometimes I fell asleep there, in my
      chair, and didn't wake up till after midnight, and the house&mdash;&mdash;Oh,
      the devil! Please get me, Carrie. I just want you to know how welcome
      you'll be if you ever do come. But I'm not asking you to.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're&mdash;&mdash;It's awfully&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Nother thing. I'm going to be frank. I haven't always been absolutely,
      uh, absolutely, proper. I've always loved you more than anything else in
      the world, you and the kid. But sometimes when you were chilly to me I'd
      get lonely and sore, and pike out and&mdash;&mdash;Never intended&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rescued him with a pitying, &ldquo;It's all right. Let's forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But before we were married you said if your husband ever did anything
      wrong, you'd want him to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I? I can't remember. And I can't seem to think. Oh, my dear, I do
      know how generously you're trying to make me happy. The only thing is&mdash;&mdash;I
      can't think. I don't know what I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then listen! Don't think! Here's what I want you to do! Get a two-weeks
      leave from your office. Weather's beginning to get chilly here. Let's run
      down to Charleston and Savannah and maybe Florida.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A second honeymoon?&rdquo; indecisively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Don't even call it that. Call it a second wooing. I won't ask
      anything. I just want the chance to chase around with you. I guess I never
      appreciated how lucky I was to have a girl with imagination and lively
      feet to play with. So&mdash;&mdash;Could you maybe run away and see the
      South with me? If you wanted to, you could just&mdash;you could just
      pretend you were my sister and&mdash;&mdash;I'll get an extra nurse for
      Hugh! I'll get the best dog-gone nurse in Washington!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in the Villa Margherita, by the palms of the Charleston Battery and
      the metallic harbor, that her aloofness melted.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they sat on the upper balcony, enchanted by the moon glitter, she
      cried, &ldquo;Shall I go back to Gopher Prairie with you? Decide for me. I'm
      tired of deciding and undeciding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. You've got to do your own deciding. As a matter of fact, in spite of
      this honeymoon, I don't think I want you to come home. Not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could only stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to be satisfied when you get there. I'll do everything I can
      to keep you happy, but I'll make lots of breaks, so I want you to take
      time and think it over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was relieved. She still had a chance to seize splendid indefinite
      freedoms. She might go&mdash;oh, she'd see Europe, somehow, before she was
      recaptured. But she also had a firmer respect for Kennicott. She had
      fancied that her life might make a story. She knew that there was nothing
      heroic or obviously dramatic in it, no magic of rare hours, nor valiant
      challenge, but it seemed to her that she was of some significance because
      she was commonplaceness, the ordinary life of the age, made articulate and
      protesting. It had not occurred to her that there was also a story of Will
      Kennicott, into which she entered only so much as he entered into hers;
      that he had bewilderments and concealments as intricate as her own, and
      soft treacherous desires for sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus she brooded, looking at the amazing sea, holding his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      She was in Washington; Kennicott was in Gopher Prairie, writing as dryly
      as ever about water-pipes and goose-hunting and Mrs. Fageros's mastoid.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was talking at dinner to a generalissima of suffrage. Should she
      return?
    </p>
    <p>
      The leader spoke wearily:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, I'm perfectly selfish. I can't quite visualize the needs of your
      husband, and it seems to me that your baby will do quite as well in the
      schools here as in your barracks at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you think I'd better not go back?&rdquo; Carol sounded disappointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's more difficult than that. When I say that I'm selfish I mean that
      the only thing I consider about women is whether they're likely to prove
      useful in building up real political power for women. And you? Shall I be
      frank? Remember when I say 'you' I don't mean you alone. I'm thinking of
      thousands of women who come to Washington and New York and Chicago every
      year, dissatisfied at home and seeking a sign in the heavens&mdash;women
      of all sorts, from timid mothers of fifty in cotton gloves, to girls just
      out of Vassar who organize strikes in their own fathers' factories! All of
      you are more or less useful to me, but only a few of you can take my
      place, because I have one virtue (only one): I have given up father and
      mother and children for the love of God.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's the test for you: Do you come to 'conquer the East,' as people
      say, or do you come to conquer yourself?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's so much more complicated than any of you know&mdash;so much more
      complicated than I knew when I put on Ground Grippers and started out to
      reform the world. The final complication in 'conquering Washington' or
      'conquering New York' is that the conquerors must beyond all things not
      conquer! It must have been so easy in the good old days when authors
      dreamed only of selling a hundred thousand volumes, and sculptors of being
      feted in big houses, and even the Uplifters like me had a simple-hearted
      ambition to be elected to important offices and invited to go round
      lecturing. But we meddlers have upset everything. Now the one thing that
      is disgraceful to any of us is obvious success. The Uplifter who is very
      popular with wealthy patrons can be pretty sure that he has softened his
      philosophy to please them, and the author who is making lots of money&mdash;poor
      things, I've heard 'em apologizing for it to the shabby bitter-enders;
      I've seen 'em ashamed of the sleek luggage they got from movie rights.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you want to sacrifice yourself in such a topsy-turvy world, where
      popularity makes you unpopular with the people you love, and the only
      failure is cheap success, and the only individualist is the person who
      gives up all his individualism to serve a jolly ungrateful proletariat
      which thumbs its nose at him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol smiled ingratiatingly, to indicate that she was indeed one who
      desired to sacrifice, but she sighed, &ldquo;I don't know; I'm afraid I'm not
      heroic. I certainly wasn't out home. Why didn't I do big effective&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a matter of heroism. Matter of endurance. Your Middlewest is
      double-Puritan&mdash;prairie Puritan on top of New England Puritan; bluff
      frontiersman on the surface, but in its heart it still has the ideal of
      Plymouth Rock in a sleet-storm. There's one attack you can make on it,
      perhaps the only kind that accomplishes much anywhere: you can keep on
      looking at one thing after another in your home and church and bank, and
      ask why it is, and who first laid down the law that it had to be that way.
      If enough of us do this impolitely enough, then we'll become civilized in
      merely twenty thousand years or so, instead of having to wait the two
      hundred thousand years that my cynical anthropologist friends allow. . . .
      Easy, pleasant, lucrative home-work for wives: asking people to define
      their jobs. That's the most dangerous doctrine I know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was mediating, &ldquo;I will go back! I will go on asking questions. I've
      always done it, and always failed at it, and it's all I can do. I'm going
      to ask Ezra Stowbody why he's opposed to the nationalization of railroads,
      and ask Dave Dyer why a druggist always is pleased when he's called
      'doctor,' and maybe ask Mrs. Bogart why she wears a widow's veil that
      looks like a dead crow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman leader straightened. &ldquo;And you have one thing. You have a baby to
      hug. That's my temptation. I dream of babies&mdash;of a baby&mdash;and I
      sneak around parks to see them playing. (The children in Dupont Circle are
      like a poppy-garden.) And the antis call me 'unsexed'!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carol was thinking, in panic, &ldquo;Oughtn't Hugh to have country air? I won't
      let him become a yokel. I can guide him away from street-corner loafing. .
      . . I think I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On her way home: &ldquo;Now that I've made a precedent, joined the union and
      gone out on one strike and learned personal solidarity, I won't be so
      afraid. Will won't always be resisting my running away. Some day I really
      will go to Europe with him . . . or without him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've lived with people who are not afraid to go to jail. I could invite a
      Miles Bjornstam to dinner without being afraid of the Haydocks . . . I
      think I could.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll take back the sound of Yvette Guilbert's songs and Elman's violin.
      They'll be only the lovelier against the thrumming of crickets in the
      stubble on an autumn day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can laugh now and be serene . . . I think I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though she should return, she said, she would not be utterly defeated. She
      was glad of her rebellion. The prairie was no longer empty land in the
      sun-glare; it was the living tawny beast which she had fought and made
      beautiful by fighting; and in the village streets were shadows of her
      desires and the sound of her marching and the seeds of mystery and
      greatness.
    </p>
    <p>
      IX
    </p>
    <p>
      Her active hatred of Gopher Prairie had run out. She saw it now as a
      toiling new settlement. With sympathy she remembered Kennicott's defense
      of its citizens as &ldquo;a lot of pretty good folks, working hard and trying to
      bring up their families the best they can.&rdquo; She recalled tenderly the
      young awkwardness of Main Street and the makeshifts of the little brown
      cottages; she pitied their shabbiness and isolation; had compassion for
      their assertion of culture, even as expressed in Thanatopsis papers, for
      their pretense of greatness, even as trumpeted in &ldquo;boosting.&rdquo; She saw Main
      Street in the dusty prairie sunset, a line of frontier shanties with
      solemn lonely people waiting for her, solemn and lonely as an old man who
      has outlived his friends. She remembered that Kennicott and Sam Clark had
      listened to her songs, and she wanted to run to them and sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At last,&rdquo; she rejoiced, &ldquo;I've come to a fairer attitude toward the town.
      I can love it, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was, perhaps, rather proud of herself for having acquired so much
      tolerance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She awoke at three in the morning, after a dream of being tortured by Ella
      Stowbody and the Widow Bogart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been making the town a myth. This is how people keep up the
      tradition of the perfect home-town, the happy boyhood, the brilliant
      college friends. We forget so. I've been forgetting that Main Street
      doesn't think it's in the least lonely and pitiful. It thinks it's God's
      Own Country. It isn't waiting for me. It doesn't care.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the next evening she again saw Gopher Prairie as her home, waiting for
      her in the sunset, rimmed round with splendor.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not return for five months more; five months crammed with greedy
      accumulation of sounds and colors to take back for the long still days.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had spent nearly two years in Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she departed for Gopher Prairie, in June, her second baby was
      stirring within her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIX
    </h2>
    <p>
      SHE wondered all the way home what her sensations would be. She wondered
      about it so much that she had every sensation she had imagined. She was
      excited by each familiar porch, each hearty &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; and flattered to
      be, for a day, the most important news of the community. She bustled
      about, making calls. Juanita Haydock bubbled over their Washington
      encounter, and took Carol to her social bosom. This ancient opponent
      seemed likely to be her most intimate friend, for Vida Sherwin, though she
      was cordial, stood back and watched for imported heresies.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening Carol went to the mill. The mystical Om-Om-Om of the
      dynamos in the electric-light plant behind the mill was louder in the
      darkness. Outside sat the night watchman, Champ Perry. He held up his
      stringy hands and squeaked, &ldquo;We've all missed you terrible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Who in Washington would miss her?
    </p>
    <p>
      Who in Washington could be depended upon like Guy Pollock? When she saw
      him on the street, smiling as always, he seemed an eternal thing, a part
      of her own self.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a week she decided that she was neither glad nor sorry to be back.
      She entered each day with the matter-of-fact attitude with which she had
      gone to her office in Washington. It was her task; there would be
      mechanical details and meaningless talk; what of it?
    </p>
    <p>
      The only problem which she had approached with emotion proved
      insignificant. She had, on the train, worked herself up to such devotion
      that she was willing to give up her own room, to try to share all of her
      life with Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      He mumbled, ten minutes after she had entered the house, &ldquo;Say, I've kept
      your room for you like it was. I've kind of come round to your way of
      thinking. Don't see why folks need to get on each other's nerves just
      because they're friendly. Darned if I haven't got so I like a little
      privacy and mulling things over by myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      II
    </p>
    <p>
      She had left a city which sat up nights to talk of universal transition;
      of European revolution, guild socialism, free verse. She had fancied that
      all the world was changing.
    </p>
    <p>
      She found that it was not.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Gopher Prairie the only ardent new topics were prohibition, the place
      in Minneapolis where you could get whisky at thirteen dollars a quart,
      recipes for home-made beer, the &ldquo;high cost of living,&rdquo; the presidential
      election, Clark's new car, and not very novel foibles of Cy Bogart. Their
      problems were exactly what they had been two years ago, what they had been
      twenty years ago, and what they would be for twenty years to come. With
      the world a possible volcano, the husbandmen were plowing at the base of
      the mountain. A volcano does occasionally drop a river of lava on even the
      best of agriculturists, to their astonishment and considerable injury, but
      their cousins inherit the farms and a year or two later go back to the
      plowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was unable to rhapsodize much over the seven new bungalows and the two
      garages which Kennicott had made to seem so important. Her intensest
      thought about them was, &ldquo;Oh yes, they're all right I suppose.&rdquo; The change
      which she did heed was the erection of the schoolbuilding, with its
      cheerful brick walls, broad windows, gymnasium, classrooms for agriculture
      and cooking. It indicated Vida's triumph, and it stirred her to activity&mdash;any
      activity. She went to Vida with a jaunty, &ldquo;I think I shall work for you.
      And I'll begin at the bottom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did. She relieved the attendant at the rest-room for an hour a day.
      Her only innovation was painting the pine table a black and orange rather
      shocking to the Thanatopsis. She talked to the farmwives and soothed their
      babies and was happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thinking of them she did not think of the ugliness of Main Street as she
      hurried along it to the chatter of the Jolly Seventeen.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wore her eye-glasses on the street now. She was beginning to ask
      Kennicott and Juanita if she didn't look young, much younger than
      thirty-three. The eye-glasses pinched her nose. She considered spectacles.
      They would make her seem older, and hopelessly settled. No! She would not
      wear spectacles yet. But she tried on a pair at Kennicott's office. They
      really were much more comfortable.
    </p>
    <p>
      III
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Westlake, Sam Clark, Nat Hicks, and Del Snafflin were talking in Del's
      barber shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I see Kennicott's wife is taking a whirl at the rest-room, now,&rdquo;
       said Dr. Westlake. He emphasized the &ldquo;now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Del interrupted the shaving of Sam and, with his brush dripping lather, he
      observed jocularly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What'll she be up to next? They say she used to claim this burg wasn't
      swell enough for a city girl like her, and would we please tax ourselves
      about thirty-seven point nine and fix it all up pretty, with tidies on the
      hydrants and statoos on the lawns&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sam irritably blew the lather from his lips, with milky small bubbles, and
      snorted, &ldquo;Be a good thing for most of us roughnecks if we did have a smart
      woman to tell us how to fix up the town. Just as much to her kicking as
      there was to Jim Blausser's gassing about factories. And you can bet Mrs.
      Kennicott is smart, even if she is skittish. Glad to see her back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Westlake hastened to play safe. &ldquo;So was I! So was I! She's got a nice
      way about her, and she knows a good deal about books, or fiction anyway.
      Of course she's like all the rest of these women&mdash;not solidly founded&mdash;not
      scholarly&mdash;doesn't know anything about political economy&mdash;falls
      for every new idea that some windjamming crank puts out. But she's a nice
      woman. She'll probably fix up the rest-room, and the rest-room is a fine
      thing, brings a lot of business to town. And now that Mrs. Kennicott's
      been away, maybe she's got over some of her fool ideas. Maybe she realizes
      that folks simply laugh at her when she tries to tell us how to run
      everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. She'll take a tumble to herself,&rdquo; said Nat Hicks, sucking in his
      lips judicially. &ldquo;As far as I'm concerned, I'll say she's as nice a
      looking skirt as there is in town. But yow!&rdquo; His tone electrified them.
      &ldquo;Guess she'll miss that Swede Valborg that used to work for me! They was a
      pair! Talking poetry and moonshine! If they could of got away with it,
      they'd of been so darn lovey-dovey&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sam Clark interrupted, &ldquo;Rats, they never even thought about making love,
      Just talking books and all that junk. I tell you, Carrie Kennicott's a
      smart woman, and these smart educated women all get funny ideas, but they
      get over 'em after they've had three or four kids. You'll see her settled
      down one of these days, and teaching Sunday School and helping at
      sociables and behaving herself, and not trying to butt into business and
      politics. Sure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After only fifteen minutes of conference on her stockings, her son, her
      separate bedroom, her music, her ancient interest in Guy Pollock, her
      probable salary in Washington, and every remark which she was known to
      have made since her return, the supreme council decided that they would
      permit Carol Kennicott to live, and they passed on to a consideration of
      Nat Hicks's New One about the traveling salesman and the old maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      IV
    </p>
    <p>
      For some reason which was totally mysterious to Carol, Maud Dyer seemed to
      resent her return. At the Jolly Seventeen Maud giggled nervously, &ldquo;Well, I
      suppose you found war-work a good excuse to stay away and have a swell
      time. Juanita! Don't you think we ought to make Carrie tell us about the
      officers she met in Washington?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They rustled and stared. Carol looked at them. Their curiosity seemed
      natural and unimportant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes, yes indeed, have to do that some day,&rdquo; she yawned.
    </p>
    <p>
      She no longer took Aunt Bessie Smail seriously enough to struggle for
      independence. She saw that Aunt Bessie did not mean to intrude; that she
      wanted to do things for all the Kennicotts. Thus Carol hit upon the
      tragedy of old age, which is not that it is less vigorous than youth, but
      that it is not needed by youth; that its love and prosy sageness, so
      important a few years ago, so gladly offered now, are rejected with
      laughter. She divined that when Aunt Bessie came in with a jar of
      wild-grape jelly she was waiting in hope of being asked for the recipe.
      After that she could be irritated but she could not be depressed by Aunt
      Bessie's simoom of questioning.
    </p>
    <p>
      She wasn't depressed even when she heard Mrs. Bogart observe, &ldquo;Now we've
      got prohibition it seems to me that the next problem of the country ain't
      so much abolishing cigarettes as it is to make folks observe the Sabbath
      and arrest these law-breakers that play baseball and go to the movies and
      all on the Lord's Day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Only one thing bruised Carol's vanity. Few people asked her about
      Washington. They who had most admiringly begged Percy Bresnahan for his
      opinions were least interested in her facts. She laughed at herself when
      she saw that she had expected to be at once a heretic and a returned hero;
      she was very reasonable and merry about it; and it hurt just as much as
      ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her baby, born in August, was a girl. Carol could not decide whether she
      was to become a feminist leader or marry a scientist or both, but did
      settle on Vassar and a tricolette suit with a small black hat for her
      Freshman year.
    </p>
    <p>
      VI
    </p>
    <p>
      Hugh was loquacious at breakfast. He desired to give his impressions of
      owls and F Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't make so much noise. You talk too much,&rdquo; growled Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carol flared. &ldquo;Don't speak to him that way! Why don't you listen to him?
      He has some very interesting things to tell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the idea? Mean to say you expect me to spend all my time listening
      to his chatter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For one thing, he's got to learn a little discipline. Time for him to
      start getting educated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've learned much more discipline, I've had much more education, from him
      than he has from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's this? Some new-fangled idea of raising kids you got in
      Washington?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. Did you ever realize that children are people?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all right. I'm not going to have him monopolizing the
      conversation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, of course. We have our rights, too. But I'm going to bring him up as
      a human being. He has just as many thoughts as we have, and I want him to
      develop them, not take Gopher Prairie's version of them. That's my biggest
      work now&mdash;keeping myself, keeping you, from 'educating' him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let's not scrap about it. But I'm not going to have him spoiled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had forgotten it in ten minutes; and she forgot it&mdash;this
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      VII
    </p>
    <p>
      The Kennicotts and the Sam Clarks had driven north to a duck-pass between
      two lakes, on an autumn day of blue and copper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott had given her a light twenty-gauge shotgun. She had a first
      lesson in shooting, in keeping her eyes open, not wincing, understanding
      that the bead at the end of the barrel really had something to do with
      pointing the gun. She was radiant; she almost believed Sam when he
      insisted that it was she who had shot the mallard at which they had fired
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat on the bank of the reedy lake and found rest in Mrs. Clark's
      drawling comments on nothing. The brown dusk was still. Behind them were
      dark marshes. The plowed acres smelled fresh. The lake was garnet and
      silver. The voices of the men, waiting for the last flight, were clear in
      the cool air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark left!&rdquo; sang Kennicott, in a long-drawn call.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three ducks were swooping down in a swift line. The guns banged, and a
      duck fluttered. The men pushed their light boat out on the burnished lake,
      disappeared beyond the reeds. Their cheerful voices and the slow splash
      and clank of oars came back to Carol from the dimness. In the sky a fiery
      plain sloped down to a serene harbor. It dissolved; the lake was white
      marble; and Kennicott was crying, &ldquo;Well, old lady, how about hiking out
      for home? Supper taste pretty good, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll sit back with Ethel,&rdquo; she said, at the car.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time she had called Mrs. Clark by her given name; the
      first time she had willingly sat back, a woman of Main Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm hungry. It's good to be hungry,&rdquo; she reflected, as they drove away.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked across the silent fields to the west. She was conscious of an
      unbroken sweep of land to the Rockies, to Alaska, a dominion which will
      rise to unexampled greatness when other empires have grown senile. Before
      that time, she knew, a hundred generations of Carols will aspire and go
      down in tragedy devoid of palls and solemn chanting, the humdrum
      inevitable tragedy of struggle against inertia.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's all go to the movies tomorrow night. Awfully exciting film,&rdquo; said
      Ethel Clark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I was going to read a new book but&mdash;&mdash;All right, let's
      go,&rdquo; said Carol.
    </p>
    <p>
      VIII
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're too much for me,&rdquo; Carol sighed to Kennicott. &ldquo;I've been thinking
      about getting up an annual Community Day, when the whole town would forget
      feuds and go out and have sports and a picnic and a dance. But Bert Tybee
      (why did you ever elect him mayor?)&mdash;he's kidnapped my idea. He wants
      the Community Day, but he wants to have some politician 'give an address.'
      That's just the stilted sort of thing I've tried to avoid. He asked Vida,
      and of course she agreed with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Kennicott considered the matter while he wound the clock and they tramped
      up-stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it would jar you to have Bert butting in,&rdquo; he said amiably. &ldquo;Are you
      going to do much fussing over this Community stunt? Don't you ever get
      tired of fretting and stewing and experimenting?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven't even started. Look!&rdquo; She led him to the nursery door, pointed
      at the fuzzy brown head of her daughter. &ldquo;Do you see that object on the
      pillow? Do you know what it is? It's a bomb to blow up smugness. If you
      Tories were wise, you wouldn't arrest anarchists; you'd arrest all these
      children while they're asleep in their cribs. Think what that baby will
      see and meddle with before she dies in the year 2000! She may see an
      industrial union of the whole world, she may see aeroplanes going to
      Mars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yump, probably be changes all right,&rdquo; yawned Kennicott.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat on the edge of his bed while he hunted through his bureau for a
      collar which ought to be there and persistently wasn't.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go on, always. And I am happy. But this Community Day makes me see
      how thoroughly I'm beaten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That darn collar certainly is gone for keeps,&rdquo; muttered Kennicott and,
      louder, &ldquo;Yes, I guess you&mdash;&mdash;I didn't quite catch what you said,
      dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She patted his pillows, turned down his sheets, as she reflected:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have won in this: I've never excused my failures by sneering at my
      aspirations, by pretending to have gone beyond them. I do not admit that
      Main Street is as beautiful as it should be! I do not admit that Gopher
      Prairie is greater or more generous than Europe! I do not admit that
      dish-washing is enough to satisfy all women! I may not have fought the
      good fight, but I have kept the faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure. You bet you have,&rdquo; said Kennicott. &ldquo;Well, good night. Sort of feels
      to me like it might snow tomorrow. Have to be thinking about putting up
      the storm-windows pretty soon. Say, did you notice whether the girl put
      that screwdriver back?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAIN STREET ***

***** This file should be named 543-h.htm or 543-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/543/

Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.


</pre>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-06-15 02:21:51 +0000