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Updated: June 25, 2025
Farm-wagons of various degrees of decay stood by the gate, and in the barn-yard plows and harrows deeply buried by the weeds were rusting forlornly away. A little farther up the stream the tall pipe of a sawmill rose above the firs. A pack of dogs of all sizes and signs came clamoring to the fence, followed by a big, slovenly dressed, red-bearded man of sixty or thereabouts.
He joined the Turk and the wire-stringers at a prairie hamlet straggly rows of unpainted frame shanties, the stores with tin-corniced false fronts that pretended to be two stories high. There were pig-pens in the dooryards, and the single church had a square, low, white steeple like the paper cap which Labor wears in the posters. Farm-wagons were hitched before a gloomy saloon.
Along about sun-up you hear the big farm-wagons clattering into town, chairs in the wagon bed, and Paw, and Maw, and Mary Elizabeth, and Martin Luther, and all the family, clean down to Teedy, the baby. He's named after Theodore Roosevelt, and they have the letter home now, framed and hanging up over the organ.
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