Chapter: IT is sixteen years since John Bergson died. His wife now lies
beside him, and the white shaft that marks their graves gleams
across the wheat-fields. Could he rise from beneath it, he would
not know the country under which he has been asleep. The shaggy coat
of the prairie, which they lifted to make him a bed, has vanished
forever. From the Norwegian graveyard one looks out over a vast
checker-board, marked off in squares of wheat and corn; light and
dark, dark and light. Telephone wires hum along the white roads,
which always run at right angles. From the graveyard gate one can
count a dozen gayly painted farmhouses; the gilded weather-vanes
on the big red barns wink at each other across the green and brown
and yellow fields. The light steel windmills tremble throughout
their frames and tug at their moorings, as they vibrate in the wind
that often blows from one week's end to another across that high,
active, resolute stretch of country.

The Divide is now thickly populated. The rich soil yields heavy
harvests; the dry, bracing climate and the smoothness of the land
make labor easy for men and beasts. There are few scenes more
gratifying than a spring plowing in that country, where the furrows
of a single field often lie a mile in length, and the brown earth,
with such a strong, clean smell, and such a power of growth and
fertility in it, yields itself eagerly to the plow; rolls away
from the shear, not even dimming the brightness of the metal, with
a soft, deep sigh of happiness. The wheat-cutting sometimes goes
on all night as well as all day, and in good seasons there are
scarcely men and horses enough to do the harvesting. The grain is
so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet.

There is something frank and joyous and young in the open face
of the country. It gives itself ungrudgingly to the moods of the
season, holding nothing back. Like the plains of Lombardy, it
seems to rise a little to meet the sun. The air and the earth are
curiously mated and intermingled, as if the one were the breath
of the other. You feel in the atmosphere the same tonic, puissant
quality that is in the tilth, the same strength and resoluteness.

One June morning a young man stood at the gate of the Norwegian
graveyard, sharpening his scythe in strokes unconsciously timed to
the tune he was whistling. He wore a flannel cap and duck trousers,
and the sleeves of his white flannel shirt were rolled back to
the elbow. When he was satisfied with the edge of his blade, he
slipped the whetstone into his hip pocket and began to swing his
scythe, still whistling, but softly, out of respect to the quiet
folk about him. Unconscious respect, probably, for he seemed
intent upon his own thoughts, and, like the Gladiator's, they were
far away. He was a splendid figure of a boy, tall and straight
as a young pine tree, with a handsome head, and stormy gray eyes,
deeply set under a serious brow. The space between his two front
teeth, which were unusually far apart, gave him the proficiency
in whistling for which he was distinguished at college. (He also
played the cornet in the University band.)

When the grass required his close attention, or when he had to
stoop to cut about a head-stone, he paused in his lively air,--the
"Jewel" song,--taking it up where he had left it when his scythe
swung free again. He was not thinking about the tired pioneers
over whom his blade glittered. The old wild country, the struggle
in which his sister was destined to succeed while so many men broke
their hearts and died, he can scarcely remember. That is all among
the dim things of childhood and has been forgotten in the brighter
pattern life weaves to-day, in the bright facts of being captain
of the track team, and holding the interstate record for the high
jump, in the all-suffusing brightness of being twenty-one. Yet
sometimes, in the pauses of his work, the young man frowned and
looked at the ground with an intentness which suggested that even
twenty-one might have its problems.

When he had been mowing the better part of an hour, he heard the
rattle of a light cart on the road behind him. Supposing that it
was his sister coming back from one of her farms, he kept on with
his work. The cart stopped at the gate and a merry contralto voice
called, "Almost through, Emil?" He dropped his scythe and went
toward the fence, wiping his face and neck with his handkerchief.
In the cart sat a young woman who wore driving gauntlets and a wide
shade hat, trimmed with red poppies. Her face, too, was rather
like a poppy, round and brown, with rich color in her cheeks and
lips, and her dancing yellow-brown eyes bubbled with gayety. The
wind was flapping her big hat and teasing a curl of her chestnut-colored
hair. She shook her head at the tall youth.

"What time did you get over here? That's not much of a job for
an athlete. Here I've been to town and back. Alexandra lets you
sleep late. Oh, I know! Lou's wife was telling me about the way
she spoils you. I was going to give you a lift, if you were done."
She gathered up her reins.

"But I will be, in a minute. Please wait for me, Marie," Emil
coaxed. "Alexandra sent me to mow our lot, but I've done half a
dozen others, you see. Just wait till I finish off the Kourdnas'.
By the way, they were Bohemians. Why aren't they up in the Catholic
graveyard?"

"Free-thinkers," replied the young woman laconically.

"Lots of the Bohemian boys at the University are," said Emil, taking
up his scythe again. "What did you ever burn John Huss for, anyway?
It's made an awful row. They still jaw about it in history classes."

"We'd do it right over again, most of us," said the young woman
hotly. "Don't they ever teach you in your history classes that
you'd all be heathen Turks if it hadn't been for the Bohemians?"

Emil had fallen to mowing. "Oh, there's no denying you're a spunky
little bunch, you Czechs," he called back over his shoulder.

Marie Shabata settled herself in her seat and watched the rhythmical
movement of the young man's long arms, swinging her foot as if
in time to some air that was going through her mind. The minutes
passed. Emil mowed vigorously and Marie sat sunning herself and
watching the long grass fall. She sat with the ease that belongs
to persons of an essentially happy nature, who can find a comfortable
spot almost anywhere; who are supple, and quick in adapting themselves
to circumstances. After a final swish, Emil snapped the gate and
sprang into the cart, holding his scythe well out over the wheel.
"There," he sighed. "I gave old man Lee a cut or so, too. Lou's
wife needn't talk. I never see Lou's scythe over here."

Marie clucked to her horse. "Oh, you know Annie!" She looked at
the young man's bare arms. "How brown you've got since you came
home. I wish I had an athlete to mow my orchard. I get wet to my
knees when I go down to pick cherries."

"You can have one, any time you want him. Better wait until after
it rains." Emil squinted off at the horizon as if he were looking
for clouds.

"Will you? Oh, there's a good boy!" She turned her head to him
with a quick, bright smile. He felt it rather than saw it. Indeed,
he had looked away with the purpose of not seeing it. "I've been
up looking at Angelique's wedding clothes," Marie went on, "and
I'm so excited I can hardly wait until Sunday. Amedee will be
a handsome bridegroom. Is anybody but you going to stand up with
him? Well, then it will be a handsome wedding party." She made a
droll face at Emil, who flushed. "Frank," Marie continued, flicking
her horse, "is cranky at me because I loaned his saddle to Jan
Smirka, and I'm terribly afraid he won't take me to the dance in
the evening. Maybe the supper will tempt him. All Angelique's
folks are baking for it, and all Amedee's twenty cousins. There
will be barrels of beer. If once I get Frank to the supper, I'll
see that I stay for the dance. And by the way, Emil, you mustn't
dance with me but once or twice. You must dance with all the French
girls. It hurts their feelings if you don't. They think you're
proud because you've been away to school or something."

Emil sniffed. "How do you know they think that?"

"Well, you didn't dance with them much at Raoul Marcel's party, and
I could tell how they took it by the way they looked at you--and
at me."

"All right," said Emil shortly, studying the glittering blade of
his scythe.

They drove westward toward Norway Creek, and toward a big white
house that stood on a hill, several miles across the fields. There
were so many sheds and outbuildings grouped about it that the
place looked not unlike a tiny village. A stranger, approaching
it, could not help noticing the beauty and fruitfulness of the
outlying fields. There was something individual about the great
farm, a most unusual trimness and care for detail. On either side
of the road, for a mile before you reached the foot of the hill,
stood tall osage orange hedges, their glossy green marking off
the yellow fields. South of the hill, in a low, sheltered swale,
surrounded by a mulberry hedge, was the orchard, its fruit trees
knee-deep in timothy grass. Any one thereabouts would have told
you that this was one of the richest farms on the Divide, and that
the farmer was a woman, Alexandra Bergson.

If you go up the hill and enter Alexandra's big house, you will
find that it is curiously unfinished and uneven in comfort. One
room is papered, carpeted, over-furnished; the next is almost
bare. The pleasantest rooms in the house are the kitchen--where
Alexandra's three young Swedish girls chatter and cook and pickle
and preserve all summer long--and the sitting-room, in which
Alexandra has brought together the old homely furniture that the
Bergsons used in their first log house, the family portraits, and
the few things her mother brought from Sweden.

When you go out of the house into the flower garden, there you feel
again the order and fine arrangement manifest all over the great
farm; in the fencing and hedging, in the windbreaks and sheds, in
the symmetrical pasture ponds, planted with scrub willows to give
shade to the cattle in fly-time. There is even a white row of
beehives in the orchard, under the walnut trees. You feel that,
properly, Alexandra's house is the big out-of-doors, and that it
is in the soil that she expresses herself best.




Emil reached home a little past noon, and when he went into the
kitchen Alexandra was already seated at the head of the long table,
having dinner with her men, as she always did unless there were
visitors. He slipped into his empty place at his sister's right.
The three pretty young Swedish girls who did Alexandra's housework
were cutting pies, refilling coffeecups, placing platters of bread
and meat and potatoes upon the red tablecloth, and continually
getting in each other's way between the table and the stove. To be
sure they always wasted a good deal of time getting in each other's
way and giggling at each other's mistakes. But, as Alexandra had
pointedly told her sisters-in-law, it was to hear them giggle that
she kept three young things in her kitchen; the work she could
do herself, if it were necessary. These girls, with their long
letters from home, their finery, and their love-affairs, afforded
her a great deal of entertainment, and they were company for her
when Emil was away at school.

Of the youngest girl, Signa, who has a pretty figure, mottled pink
cheeks, and yellow hair, Alexandra is very fond, though she keeps
a sharp eye upon her. Signa is apt to be skittish at mealtime, when
the men are about, and to spill the coffee or upset the cream. It
is supposed that Nelse Jensen, one of the six men at the dinner-table,
is courting Signa, though he has been so careful not to commit
himself that no one in the house, least of all Signa, can tell
just how far the matter has progressed. Nelse watches her glumly
as she waits upon the table, and in the evening he sits on a bench
behind the stove with his DRAGHARMONIKA, playing mournful airs
and watching her as she goes about her work. When Alexandra asked
Signa whether she thought Nelse was in earnest, the poor child hid
her hands under her apron and murmured, "I don't know, ma'm. But
he scolds me about everything, like as if he wanted to have me!"

At Alexandra's left sat a very old man, barefoot and wearing a long
blue blouse, open at the neck. His shaggy head is scarcely whiter
than it was sixteen years ago, but his little blue eyes have become
pale and watery, and his ruddy face is withered, like an apple that
has clung all winter to the tree. When Ivar lost his land through
mismanagement a dozen years ago, Alexandra took him in, and he has
been a member of her household ever since. He is too old to work
in the fields, but he hitches and unhitches the work-teams and
looks after the health of the stock. Sometimes of a winter evening
Alexandra calls him into the sitting-room to read the Bible aloud
to her, for he still reads very well. He dislikes human habitations,
so Alexandra has fitted him up a room in the barn, where he is very
comfortable, being near the horses and, as he says, further from
temptations. No one has ever found out what his temptations are.
In cold weather he sits by the kitchen fire and makes hammocks
or mends harness until it is time to go to bed. Then he says his
prayers at great length behind the stove, puts on his buffalo-skin
coat and goes out to his room in the barn.

Alexandra herself has changed very little. Her figure is fuller,
and she has more color. She seems sunnier and more vigorous than
she did as a young girl. But she still has the same calmness and
deliberation of manner, the same clear eyes, and she still wears
her hair in two braids wound round her head. It is so curly that
fiery ends escape from the braids and make her head look like one
of the big double sunflowers that fringe her vegetable garden.
Her face is always tanned in summer, for her sunbonnet is oftener
on her arm than on her head. But where her collar falls away from
her neck, or where her sleeves are pushed back from her wrist, the
skin is of such smoothness and whiteness as none but Swedish women
ever possess; skin with the freshness of the snow itself.

Alexandra did not talk much at the table, but she encouraged her
men to talk, and she always listened attentively, even when they
seemed to be talking foolishly.

To-day Barney Flinn, the big red-headed Irishman who had been with
Alexandra for five years and who was actually her foreman, though
he had no such title, was grumbling about the new silo she had put
up that spring. It happened to be the first silo on the Divide,
and Alexandra's neighbors and her men were skeptical about it. "To
be sure, if the thing don't work, we'll have plenty of feed without
it, indeed," Barney conceded.

Nelse Jensen, Signa's gloomy suitor, had his word. "Lou, he says
he wouldn't have no silo on his place if you'd give it to him.
He says the feed outen it gives the stock the bloat. He heard of
somebody lost four head of horses, feedin' 'em that stuff."

Alexandra looked down the table from one to another. "Well,
the only way we can find out is to try. Lou and I have different
notions about feeding stock, and that's a good thing. It's bad if
all the members of a family think alike. They never get anywhere.
Lou can learn by my mistakes and I can learn by his. Isn't that
fair, Barney?"

The Irishman laughed. He had no love for Lou, who was always uppish
with him and who said that Alexandra paid her hands too much. "I've
no thought but to give the thing an honest try, mum. 'T would be
only right, after puttin' so much expense into it. Maybe Emil will
come out an' have a look at it wid me." He pushed back his chair,
took his hat from the nail, and marched out with Emil, who, with
his university ideas, was supposed to have instigated the silo.
The other hands followed them, all except old Ivar. He had been
depressed throughout the meal and had paid no heed to the talk of
the men, even when they mentioned cornstalk bloat, upon which he
was sure to have opinions.

"Did you want to speak to me, Ivar?" Alexandra asked as she rose
from the table. "Come into the sitting-room."

The old man followed Alexandra, but when she motioned him to a chair
he shook his head. She took up her workbasket and waited for him
to speak. He stood looking at the carpet, his bushy head bowed,
his hands clasped in front of him. Ivar's bandy legs seemed to
have grown shorter with years, and they were completely misfitted
to his broad, thick body and heavy shoulders.

"Well, Ivar, what is it?" Alexandra asked after she had waited
longer than usual.

Ivar had never learned to speak English and his Norwegian was quaint
and grave, like the speech of the more old-fashioned people. He
always addressed Alexandra in terms of the deepest respect, hoping
to set a good example to the kitchen girls, whom he thought too
familiar in their manners.

"Mistress," he began faintly, without raising his eyes, "the folk
have been looking coldly at me of late. You know there has been
talk."

"Talk about what, Ivar?"

"About sending me away; to the asylum."

Alexandra put down her sewing-basket. "Nobody has come to me with
such talk," she said decidedly. "Why need you listen? You know
I would never consent to such a thing."

Ivar lifted his shaggy head and looked at her out of his little
eyes. "They say that you cannot prevent it if the folk complain of
me, if your brothers complain to the authorities. They say that
your brothers are afraid--God forbid!--that I may do you some
injury when my spells are on me. Mistress, how can any one think
that?--that I could bite the hand that fed me!" The tears trickled
down on the old man's beard.

Alexandra frowned. "Ivar, I wonder at you, that you should come
bothering me with such nonsense. I am still running my own house,
and other people have nothing to do with either you or me. So long
as I am suited with you, there is nothing to be said."

Ivar pulled a red handkerchief out of the breast of his blouse and
wiped his eyes and beard. "But I should not wish you to keep me
if, as they say, it is against your interests, and if it is hard
for you to get hands because I am here."

Alexandra made an impatient gesture, but the old man put out his
hand and went on earnestly:--

"Listen, mistress, it is right that you should take these things
into account. You know that my spells come from God, and that
I would not harm any living creature. You believe that every one
should worship God in the way revealed to him. But that is not
the way of this country. The way here is for all to do alike. I
am despised because I do not wear shoes, because I do not cut my
hair, and because I have visions. At home, in the old country,
there were many like me, who had been touched by God, or who had
seen things in the graveyard at night and were different afterward.
We thought nothing of it, and let them alone. But here, if a man
is different in his feet or in his head, they put him in the asylum.
Look at Peter Kralik; when he was a boy, drinking out of a creek,
he swallowed a snake, and always after that he could eat only
such food as the creature liked, for when he ate anything else, it
became enraged and gnawed him. When he felt it whipping about in
him, he drank alcohol to stupefy it and get some ease for himself.
He could work as good as any man, and his head was clear, but they
locked him up for being different in his stomach. That is the way;
they have built the asylum for people who are different, and they
will not even let us live in the holes with the badgers. Only
your great prosperity has protected me so far. If you had had
ill-fortune, they would have taken me to Hastings long ago."

As Ivar talked, his gloom lifted. Alexandra had found that she
could often break his fasts and long penances by talking to him
and letting him pour out the thoughts that troubled him. Sympathy
always cleared his mind, and ridicule was poison to him.

"There is a great deal in what you say, Ivar. Like as not they
will be wanting to take me to Hastings because I have built a silo;
and then I may take you with me. But at present I need you here.
Only don't come to me again telling me what people say. Let people
go on talking as they like, and we will go on living as we think
best. You have been with me now for twelve years, and I have gone
to you for advice oftener than I have ever gone to any one. That
ought to satisfy you."

Ivar bowed humbly. "Yes, mistress, I shall not trouble you with
their talk again. And as for my feet, I have observed your wishes
all these years, though you have never questioned me; washing them
every night, even in winter."

Alexandra laughed. "Oh, never mind about your feet, Ivar. We can
remember when half our neighbors went barefoot in summer. I expect
old Mrs. Lee would love to slip her shoes off now sometimes, if
she dared. I'm glad I'm not Lou's mother-in-law."

Ivar looked about mysteriously and lowered his voice almost to a
whisper. "You know what they have over at Lou's house? A great
white tub, like the stone water-troughs in the old country, to wash
themselves in. When you sent me over with the strawberries, they
were all in town but the old woman Lee and the baby. She took me
in and showed me the thing, and she told me it was impossible to
wash yourself clean in it, because, in so much water, you could
not make a strong suds. So when they fill it up and send her in
there, she pretends, and makes a splashing noise. Then, when they
are all asleep, she washes herself in a little wooden tub she keeps
under her bed."

Alexandra shook with laughter. "Poor old Mrs. Lee! They won't let
her wear nightcaps, either. Never mind; when she comes to visit
me, she can do all the old things in the old way, and have as much
beer as she wants. We'll start an asylum for old-time people,
Ivar."

Ivar folded his big handkerchief carefully and thrust it back into
his blouse. "This is always the way, mistress. I come to you
sorrowing, and you send me away with a light heart. And will you
be so good as to tell the Irishman that he is not to work the brown
gelding until the sore on its shoulder is healed?"

"That I will. Now go and put Emil's mare to the cart. I am going
to drive up to the north quarter to meet the man from town who is
to buy my alfalfa hay."




Alexandra was to hear more of Ivar's case, however. On Sunday her
married brothers came to dinner. She had asked them for that day
because Emil, who hated family parties, would be absent, dancing
at Amedee Chevalier's wedding, up in the French country. The table
was set for company in the dining-room, where highly varnished
wood and colored glass and useless pieces of china were conspicuous
enough to satisfy the standards of the new prosperity. Alexandra
had put herself into the hands of the Hanover furniture dealer, and
he had conscientiously done his best to make her dining-room look
like his display window. She said frankly that she knew nothing
about such things, and she was willing to be governed by the general
conviction that the more useless and utterly unusable objects
were, the greater their virtue as ornament. That seemed reasonable
enough. Since she liked plain things herself, it was all the more
necessary to have jars and punchbowls and candlesticks in the company
rooms for people who did appreciate them. Her guests liked to see
about them these reassuring emblems of prosperity.

The family party was complete except for Emil, and Oscar's wife
who, in the country phrase, "was not going anywhere just now."
Oscar sat at the foot of the table and his four tow-headed little
boys, aged from twelve to five, were ranged at one side. Neither
Oscar nor Lou has changed much; they have simply, as Alexandra said
of them long ago, grown to be more and more like themselves. Lou
now looks the older of the two; his face is thin and shrewd and
wrinkled about the eyes, while Oscar's is thick and dull. For all
his dullness, however, Oscar makes more money than his brother,
which adds to Lou's sharpness and uneasiness and tempts him to
make a show. The trouble with Lou is that he is tricky, and his
neighbors have found out that, as Ivar says, he has not a fox's face
for nothing. Politics being the natural field for such talents,
he neglects his farm to attend conventions and to run for county
offices.

Lou's wife, formerly Annie Lee, has grown to look curiously like
her husband. Her face has become longer, sharper, more aggressive.
She wears her yellow hair in a high pompadour, and is bedecked with
rings and chains and "beauty pins." Her tight, high-heeled shoes
give her an awkward walk, and she is always more or less preoccupied
with her clothes. As she sat at the table, she kept telling her
youngest daughter to "be careful now, and not drop anything on
mother."

The conversation at the table was all in English. Oscar's wife,
from the malaria district of Missouri, was ashamed of marrying a
foreigner, and his boys do not understand a word of Swedish. Annie
and Lou sometimes speak Swedish at home, but Annie is almost as
much afraid of being "caught" at it as ever her mother was of being
caught barefoot. Oscar still has a thick accent, but Lou speaks
like anybody from Iowa.

"When I was in Hastings to attend the convention," he was saying,
"I saw the superintendent of the asylum, and I was telling him about
Ivar's symptoms. He says Ivar's case is one of the most dangerous
kind, and it's a wonder he hasn't done something violent before
this."

Alexandra laughed good-humoredly. "Oh, nonsense, Lou! The doctors
would have us all crazy if they could. Ivar's queer, certainly,
but he has more sense than half the hands I hire."

Lou flew at his fried chicken. "Oh, I guess the doctor knows his
business, Alexandra. He was very much surprised when I told him
how you'd put up with Ivar. He says he's likely to set fire to the
barn any night, or to take after you and the girls with an axe."

Little Signa, who was waiting on the table, giggled and fled to
the kitchen. Alexandra's eyes twinkled. "That was too much for
Signa, Lou. We all know that Ivar's perfectly harmless. The girls
would as soon expect me to chase them with an axe."

Lou flushed and signaled to his wife. "All the same, the neighbors
will be having a say about it before long. He may burn anybody's
barn. It's only necessary for one property-owner in the township
to make complaint, and he'll be taken up by force. You'd better
send him yourself and not have any hard feelings."

Alexandra helped one of her little nephews to gravy. "Well, Lou,
if any of the neighbors try that, I'll have myself appointed Ivar's
guardian and take the case to court, that's all. I am perfectly
satisfied with him."

"Pass the preserves, Lou," said Annie in a warning tone. She had
reasons for not wishing her husband to cross Alexandra too openly.
"But don't you sort of hate to have people see him around here,
Alexandra?" she went on with persuasive smoothness. "He IS a
disgraceful object, and you're fixed up so nice now. It sort of
makes people distant with you, when they never know when they'll
hear him scratching about. My girls are afraid as death of him,
aren't you, Milly, dear?"

Milly was fifteen, fat and jolly and pompadoured, with a creamy
complexion, square white teeth, and a short upper lip. She
looked like her grandmother Bergson, and had her comfortable and
comfort-loving nature. She grinned at her aunt, with whom she was
a great deal more at ease than she was with her mother. Alexandra
winked a reply.

"Milly needn't be afraid of Ivar. She's an especial favorite of
his. In my opinion Ivar has just as much right to his own way of
dressing and thinking as we have. But I'll see that he doesn't
bother other people. I'll keep him at home, so don't trouble any
more about him, Lou. I've been wanting to ask you about your new
bathtub. How does it work?"

Annie came to the fore to give Lou time to recover himself. "Oh,
it works something grand! I can't keep him out of it. He washes
himself all over three times a week now, and uses all the hot water.
I think it's weakening to stay in as long as he does. You ought
to have one, Alexandra."

"I'm thinking of it. I might have one put in the barn for Ivar,
if it will ease people's minds. But before I get a bathtub, I'm
going to get a piano for Milly."

Oscar, at the end of the table, looked up from his plate. "What
does Milly want of a pianny? What's the matter with her organ?
She can make some use of that, and play in church."

Annie looked flustered. She had begged Alexandra not to say
anything about this plan before Oscar, who was apt to be jealous
of what his sister did for Lou's children. Alexandra did not get
on with Oscar's wife at all. "Milly can play in church just the
same, and she'll still play on the organ. But practising on it
so much spoils her touch. Her teacher says so," Annie brought out
with spirit.

Oscar rolled his eyes. "Well, Milly must have got on pretty good
if she's got past the organ. I know plenty of grown folks that
ain't," he said bluntly.

Annie threw up her chin. "She has got on good, and she's going to
play for her commencement when she graduates in town next year."

"Yes," said Alexandra firmly, "I think Milly deserves a piano.
All the girls around here have been taking lessons for years, but
Milly is the only one of them who can ever play anything when you
ask her. I'll tell you when I first thought I would like to give
you a piano, Milly, and that was when you learned that book of old
Swedish songs that your grandfather used to sing. He had a sweet
tenor voice, and when he was a young man he loved to sing. I can
remember hearing him singing with the sailors down in the shipyard,
when I was no bigger than Stella here," pointing to Annie's younger
daughter.

Milly and Stella both looked through the door into the sitting-room,
where a crayon portrait of John Bergson hung on the wall. Alexandra
had had it made from a little photograph, taken for his friends
just before he left Sweden; a slender man of thirty-five, with
soft hair curling about his high forehead, a drooping mustache,
and wondering, sad eyes that looked forward into the distance, as
if they already beheld the New World.

After dinner Lou and Oscar went to the orchard to pick cherries--they
had neither of them had the patience to grow an orchard of their
own--and Annie went down to gossip with Alexandra's kitchen girls
while they washed the dishes. She could always find out more about
Alexandra's domestic economy from the prattling maids than from
Alexandra herself, and what she discovered she used to her own
advantage with Lou. On the Divide, farmers' daughters no longer
went out into service, so Alexandra got her girls from Sweden, by
paying their fare over. They stayed with her until they married,
and were replaced by sisters or cousins from the old country.

Alexandra took her three nieces into the flower garden. She was
fond of the little girls, especially of Milly, who came to spend
a week with her aunt now and then, and read aloud to her from the
old books about the house, or listened to stories about the early
days on the Divide. While they were walking among the flower beds,
a buggy drove up the hill and stopped in front of the gate. A man
got out and stood talking to the driver. The little girls were
delighted at the advent of a stranger, some one from very far away,
they knew by his clothes, his gloves, and the sharp, pointed cut
of his dark beard. The girls fell behind their aunt and peeped out
at him from among the castor beans. The stranger came up to the
gate and stood holding his hat in his hand, smiling, while Alexandra
advanced slowly to meet him. As she approached he spoke in a low,
pleasant voice.

"Don't you know me, Alexandra? I would have known you, anywhere."

Alexandra shaded her eyes with her hand. Suddenly she took a quick
step forward. "Can it be!" she exclaimed with feeling; "can it be
that it is Carl Linstrum? Why, Carl, it is!" She threw out both
her hands and caught his across the gate. "Sadie, Milly, run tell
your father and Uncle Oscar that our old friend Carl Linstrum is
here. Be quick! Why, Carl, how did it happen? I can't believe
this!" Alexandra shook the tears from her eyes and laughed.

The stranger nodded to his driver, dropped his suitcase inside
the fence, and opened the gate. "Then you are glad to see me, and
you can put me up overnight? I couldn't go through this country
without stopping off to have a look at you. How little you have
changed! Do you know, I was sure it would be like that. You
simply couldn't be different. How fine you are!" He stepped back
and looked at her admiringly.

Alexandra blushed and laughed again. "But you yourself, Carl--with
that beard--how could I have known you? You went away a little
boy." She reached for his suitcase and when he intercepted her
she threw up her hands. "You see, I give myself away. I have only
women come to visit me, and I do not know how to behave. Where is
your trunk?"

"It's in Hanover. I can stay only a few days. I am on my way to
the coast."

They started up the path. "A few days? After all these years!"
Alexandra shook her finger at him. "See this, you have walked
into a trap. You do not get away so easy." She put her hand
affectionately on his shoulder. "You owe me a visit for the sake
of old times. Why must you go to the coast at all?"

"Oh, I must! I am a fortune hunter. From Seattle I go on to
Alaska."

"Alaska?" She looked at him in astonishment. "Are you going to
paint the Indians?"

"Paint?" the young man frowned. "Oh! I'm not a painter, Alexandra.
I'm an engraver. I have nothing to do with painting."

"But on my parlor wall I have the paintings--"

He interrupted nervously. "Oh, water-color sketches--done for
amusement. I sent them to remind you of me, not because they were
good. What a wonderful place you have made of this, Alexandra."
He turned and looked back at the wide, map-like prospect of field
and hedge and pasture. "I would never have believed it could be
done. I'm disappointed in my own eye, in my imagination."

At this moment Lou and Oscar came up the hill from the orchard.
They did not quicken their pace when they saw Carl; indeed, they
did not openly look in his direction. They advanced distrustfully,
and as if they wished the distance were longer.

Alexandra beckoned to them. "They think I am trying to fool them.
Come, boys, it's Carl Linstrum, our old Carl!"

Lou gave the visitor a quick, sidelong glance and thrust out his
hand. "Glad to see you."

Oscar followed with "How d' do." Carl could not tell whether their
offishness came from unfriendliness or from embarrassment. He and
Alexandra led the way to the porch.

"Carl," Alexandra explained, "is on his way to Seattle. He is
going to Alaska."

Oscar studied the visitor's yellow shoes. "Got business there?"
he asked.

Carl laughed. "Yes, very pressing business. I'm going there to
get rich. Engraving's a very interesting profession, but a man
never makes any money at it. So I'm going to try the goldfields."

Alexandra felt that this was a tactful speech, and Lou looked up
with some interest. "Ever done anything in that line before?"

"No, but I'm going to join a friend of mine who went out from New
York and has done well. He has offered to break me in."

"Turrible cold winters, there, I hear," remarked Oscar. "I thought
people went up there in the spring."

"They do. But my friend is going to spend the winter in Seattle and
I am to stay with him there and learn something about prospecting
before we start north next year."

Lou looked skeptical. "Let's see, how long have you been away from
here?"

"Sixteen years. You ought to remember that, Lou, for you were
married just after we went away."

"Going to stay with us some time?" Oscar asked.

"A few days, if Alexandra can keep me."

"I expect you'll be wanting to see your old place," Lou observed
more cordially. "You won't hardly know it. But there's a few
chunks of your old sod house left. Alexandra wouldn't never let
Frank Shabata plough over it."

Annie Lee, who, ever since the visitor was announced, had been
touching up her hair and settling her lace and wishing she had worn
another dress, now emerged with her three daughters and introduced
them. She was greatly impressed by Carl's urban appearance, and
in her excitement talked very loud and threw her head about. "And
you ain't married yet? At your age, now! Think of that! You'll
have to wait for Milly. Yes, we've got a boy, too. The youngest.
He's at home with his grandma. You must come over to see mother
and hear Milly play. She's the musician of the family. She does
pyrography, too. That's burnt wood, you know. You wouldn't believe
what she can do with her poker. Yes, she goes to school in town,
and she is the youngest in her class by two years."

Milly looked uncomfortable and Carl took her hand again. He liked
her creamy skin and happy, innocent eyes, and he could see that her
mother's way of talking distressed her. "I'm sure she's a clever
little girl," he murmured, looking at her thoughtfully. "Let me
see--Ah, it's your mother that she looks like, Alexandra. Mrs.
Bergson must have looked just like this when she was a little
girl. Does Milly run about over the country as you and Alexandra
used to, Annie?"

Milly's mother protested. "Oh, my, no! Things has changed since
we was girls. Milly has it very different. We are going to rent
the place and move into town as soon as the girls are old enough
to go out into company. A good many are doing that here now. Lou
is going into business."

Lou grinned. "That's what she says. You better go get your things
on. Ivar's hitching up," he added, turning to Annie.

Young farmers seldom address their wives by name. It is always
"you," or "she."

Having got his wife out of the way, Lou sat down on the step and
began to whittle. "Well, what do folks in New York think of William
Jennings Bryan?" Lou began to bluster, as he always did when he
talked politics. "We gave Wall Street a scare in ninety-six, all
right, and we're fixing another to hand them. Silver wasn't the
only issue," he nodded mysteriously. "There's a good many things
got to be changed. The West is going to make itself heard."

Carl laughed. "But, surely, it did do that, if nothing else."

Lou's thin face reddened up to the roots of his bristly hair. "Oh,
we've only begun. We're waking up to a sense of our responsibilities,
out here, and we ain't afraid, neither. You fellows back there
must be a tame lot. If you had any nerve you'd get together and
march down to Wall Street and blow it up. Dynamite it, I mean,"
with a threatening nod.

He was so much in earnest that Carl scarcely knew how to answer
him. "That would be a waste of powder. The same business would
go on in another street. The street doesn't matter. But what have
you fellows out here got to kick about? You have the only safe
place there is. Morgan himself couldn't touch you. One only has
to drive through this country to see that you're all as rich as
barons."

"We have a good deal more to say than we had when we were poor,"
said Lou threateningly. "We're getting on to a whole lot of things."

As Ivar drove a double carriage up to the gate, Annie came out in
a hat that looked like the model of a battleship. Carl rose and
took her down to the carriage, while Lou lingered for a word with
his sister.

"What do you suppose he's come for?" he asked, jerking his head
toward the gate.

"Why, to pay us a visit. I've been begging him to for years."

Oscar looked at Alexandra. "He didn't let you know he was coming?"

"No. Why should he? I told him to come at any time."

Lou shrugged his shoulders. "He doesn't seem to have done much
for himself. Wandering around this way!"

Oscar spoke solemnly, as from the depths of a cavern. "He never
was much account."

Alexandra left them and hurried down to the gate where Annie was
rattling on to Carl about her new dining-room furniture. "You
must bring Mr. Linstrum over real soon, only be sure to telephone
me first," she called back, as Carl helped her into the carriage.
Old Ivar, his white head bare, stood holding the horses. Lou came
down the path and climbed into the front seat, took up the reins,
and drove off without saying anything further to any one. Oscar
picked up his youngest boy and trudged off down the road, the other
three trotting after him. Carl, holding the gate open for Alexandra,
began to laugh. "Up and coming on the Divide, eh, Alexandra?" he
cried gayly.




Carl had changed, Alexandra felt, much less than one might have
expected. He had not become a trim, self-satisfied city man. There
was still something homely and wayward and definitely personal
about him. Even his clothes, his Norfolk coat and his very high
collars, were a little unconventional. He seemed to shrink into
himself as he used to do; to hold himself away from things, as if
he were afraid of being hurt. In short, he was more self-conscious
than a man of thirty-five is expected to be. He looked older than
his years and not very strong. His black hair, which still hung
in a triangle over his pale forehead, was thin at the crown, and
there were fine, relentless lines about his eyes. His back, with
its high, sharp shoulders, looked like the back of an over-worked
German professor off on his holiday. His face was intelligent,
sensitive, unhappy.

That evening after supper, Carl and Alexandra were sitting by the
clump of castor beans in the middle of the flower garden. The
gravel paths glittered in the moonlight, and below them the fields
lay white and still.

"Do you know, Alexandra," he was saying, "I've been thinking how
strangely things work out. I've been away engraving other men's
pictures, and you've stayed at home and made your own." He pointed
with his cigar toward the sleeping landscape. "How in the world
have you done it? How have your neighbors done it?"

"We hadn't any of us much to do with it, Carl. The land did it.
It had its little joke. It pretended to be poor because nobody
knew how to work it right; and then, all at once, it worked itself.
It woke up out of its sleep and stretched itself, and it was so big,
so rich, that we suddenly found we were rich, just from sitting
still. As for me, you remember when I began to buy land. For
years after that I was always squeezing and borrowing until I was
ashamed to show my face in the banks. And then, all at once, men
began to come to me offering to lend me money--and I didn't need
it! Then I went ahead and built this house. I really built it
for Emil. I want you to see Emil, Carl. He is so different from
the rest of us!"

"How different?"

"Oh, you'll see! I'm sure it was to have sons like Emil, and to
give them a chance, that father left the old country. It's curious,
too; on the outside Emil is just like an American boy,--he graduated
from the State University in June, you know,--but underneath he is
more Swedish than any of us. Sometimes he is so like father that
he frightens me; he is so violent in his feelings like that."

"Is he going to farm here with you?"

"He shall do whatever he wants to," Alexandra declared warmly. "He
is going to have a chance, a whole chance; that's what I've worked
for. Sometimes he talks about studying law, and sometimes, just
lately, he's been talking about going out into the sand hills and
taking up more land. He has his sad times, like father. But I
hope he won't do that. We have land enough, at last!" Alexandra
laughed.

"How about Lou and Oscar? They've done well, haven't they?"

"Yes, very well; but they are different, and now that they have
farms of their own I do not see so much of them. We divided the
land equally when Lou married. They have their own way of doing
things, and they do not altogether like my way, I am afraid. Perhaps
they think me too independent. But I have had to think for myself
a good many years and am not likely to change. On the whole,
though, we take as much comfort in each other as most brothers and
sisters do. And I am very fond of Lou's oldest daughter."

"I think I liked the old Lou and Oscar better, and they probably
feel the same about me. I even, if you can keep a secret,"--Carl
leaned forward and touched her arm, smiling,--"I even think I liked
the old country better. This is all very splendid in its way,
but there was something about this country when it was a wild old
beast that has haunted me all these years. Now, when I come back
to all this milk and honey, I feel like the old German song, 'Wo
bist du, wo bist du, mein geliebtest Land?'--Do you ever feel like
that, I wonder?"

"Yes, sometimes, when I think about father and mother and those
who are gone; so many of our old neighbors." Alexandra paused and
looked up thoughtfully at the stars. "We can remember the graveyard
when it was wild prairie, Carl, and now--"

"And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said
Carl softly. "Isn't it queer: there are only two or three human
stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they
had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that
have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years."

"Oh, yes! The young people, they live so hard. And yet I sometimes
envy them. There is my little neighbor, now; the people who bought
your old place. I wouldn't have sold it to any one else, but I
was always fond of that girl. You must remember her, little Marie
Tovesky, from Omaha, who used to visit here? When she was eighteen
she ran away from the convent school and got married, crazy child!
She came out here a bride, with her father and husband. He had
nothing, and the old man was willing to buy them a place and set
them up. Your farm took her fancy, and I was glad to have her so
near me. I've never been sorry, either. I even try to get along
with Frank on her account."

"Is Frank her husband?"

"Yes. He's one of these wild fellows. Most Bohemians are
good-natured, but Frank thinks we don't appreciate him here, I
guess. He's jealous about everything, his farm and his horses and
his pretty wife. Everybody likes her, just the same as when she
was little. Sometimes I go up to the Catholic church with Emil,
and it's funny to see Marie standing there laughing and shaking
hands with people, looking so excited and gay, with Frank sulking
behind her as if he could eat everybody alive. Frank's not a bad
neighbor, but to get on with him you've got to make a fuss over
him and act as if you thought he was a very important person all
the time, and different from other people. I find it hard to keep
that up from one year's end to another."

"I shouldn't think you'd be very successful at that kind of thing,
Alexandra." Carl seemed to find the idea amusing.

"Well," said Alexandra firmly, "I do the best I can, on Marie's
account. She has it hard enough, anyway. She's too young and
pretty for this sort of life. We're all ever so much older and
slower. But she's the kind that won't be downed easily. She'll
work all day and go to a Bohemian wedding and dance all night, and
drive the hay wagon for a cross man next morning. I could stay by
a job, but I never had the go in me that she has, when I was going
my best. I'll have to take you over to see her to-morrow."

Carl dropped the end of his cigar softly among the castor beans and
sighed. "Yes, I suppose I must see the old place. I'm cowardly
about things that remind me of myself. It took courage to come
at all, Alexandra. I wouldn't have, if I hadn't wanted to see you
very, very much."

Alexandra looked at him with her calm, deliberate eyes. "Why do
you dread things like that, Carl?" she asked earnestly. "Why are
you dissatisfied with yourself?"

Her visitor winced. "How direct you are, Alexandra! Just like
you used to be. Do I give myself away so quickly? Well, you see,
for one thing, there's nothing to look forward to in my profession.
Wood-engraving is the only thing I care about, and that had gone out
before I began. Everything's cheap metal work nowadays, touching
up miserable photographs, forcing up poor drawings, and spoiling good
ones. I'm absolutely sick of it all." Carl frowned. "Alexandra,
all the way out from New York I've been planning how I could
deceive you and make you think me a very enviable fellow, and here
I am telling you the truth the first night. I waste a lot of time
pretending to people, and the joke of it is, I don't think I ever
deceive any one. There are too many of my kind; people know us on
sight."

Carl paused. Alexandra pushed her hair back from her brow with a
puzzled, thoughtful gesture. "You see," he went on calmly, "measured
by your standards here, I'm a failure. I couldn't buy even one of
your cornfields. I've enjoyed a great many things, but I've got
nothing to show for it all."

"But you show for it yourself, Carl. I'd rather have had your
freedom than my land."

Carl shook his head mournfully. "Freedom so often means that one
isn't needed anywhere. Here you are an individual, you have a
background of your own, you would be missed. But off there in the
cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all
alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one
of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him. Our landlady and
the delicatessen man are our mourners, and we leave nothing behind
us but a frock-coat and a fiddle, or an easel, or a typewriter, or
whatever tool we got our living by. All we have ever managed to
do is to pay our rent, the exorbitant rent that one has to pay for
a few square feet of space near the heart of things. We have no
house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets,
in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert
halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder."

Alexandra was silent. She sat looking at the silver spot the moon
made on the surface of the pond down in the pasture. He knew that
she understood what he meant. At last she said slowly, "And yet I
would rather have Emil grow up like that than like his two brothers.
We pay a high rent, too, though we pay differently. We grow hard
and heavy here. We don't move lightly and easily as you do, and
our minds get stiff. If the world were no wider than my cornfields,
if there were not something beside this, I wouldn't feel that it
was much worth while to work. No, I would rather have Emil like
you than like them. I felt that as soon as you came."

"I wonder why you feel like that?" Carl mused.

"I don't know. Perhaps I am like Carrie Jensen, the sister of one
of my hired men. She had never been out of the cornfields, and a
few years ago she got despondent and said life was just the same
thing over and over, and she didn't see the use of it. After she
had tried to kill herself once or twice, her folks got worried and
sent her over to Iowa to visit some relations. Ever since she's
come back she's been perfectly cheerful, and she says she's contented
to live and work in a world that's so big and interesting. She
said that anything as big as the bridges over the Platte and the
Missouri reconciled her. And it's what goes on in the world that
reconciles me."

 The narrative jumps to a time sixteen years after John Bergson's death. His wife has also died. Alexandra has become the most successful farmer on the Divide. Emil, her youngest brother, has had the luxury of attending college, and he has grown into a fine-figured young man. Now twenty-one, he is mowing the high grass around the local graveyard on a June morning. He is also flirting with Marie, the pretty and vivacious young bride of Frank Shabata, who lives on the farm vacated by Carl Linstrum's family during the drought thirteen years earlier. Emil returns from the graveyard to dinner at Alexandra's house, where she presides over a table of workmen including Crazy Ivar, the elderly Norwegian man who now works in her stables. Alexandra owes some of her success to her enthusiasm in adopting new farming technologies of which other farmers, including her brothers Lou and Oscar, who have married and now live on nearby farms of their own, are skeptical. There is talk in the neighborhood of sending Ivar, who is prone to unexplained fits, to an asylum, but Alexandra assures the frightened old man that she will protect him. When Alexandra's brothers bring their families to Sunday dinner, they criticize her for keeping the imbalanced old man in her house, calling it inappropriate and vulgar. Alexandra dismisses their concerns, refusing to bow to petty notions of propriety. That same day, the Bergsons are surprised by a visit from Carl Linstrum, whom they have not seen for thirteen years. Alexandra is delighted to see him; the brothers, however, are suspicious, and treat him coolly. Now about thirty-five, Carl has not changed much: he is still withdrawn, self-conscious, and vaguely dissatisfied. He decides to stay for a few weeks, and he and Alexandra pick up their deep friendship where it left off.

