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Updated: May 22, 2025
"The dog watches the hole, and keeps tab on the boys who carry water. You have got to keep the water going down the gopher hole, and you got to work like sixty.
"I guess he stepped in a gopher's hole," answered her brother. "Let's look," proposed Janet. Brother and sister went to the place where Clipclap had stumbled. There they saw a little hole in the ground. It was the front, or maybe the back, door of the home of a little animal called a gopher, which burrows under the earth.
His foot was shaking on the clutch pedal. The dust behind his car concealed him. For twenty miles she was silent, save when she burst out to her father, "I do hope you're enjoying the trip. It's so easy to make people unhappy. I wonder No. Had to be done." On the morning when Milt Daggett had awakened to sunshine in the woods north of Gopher Prairie, he had discovered the golden age.
That prairie, which stretched under the hot sunshine unbroken to the rim of heaven; that brown grass glowing with an almost phosphorescent light as it curled close to the mother sod; a careless match, a cigar stub, a bit of gun-wadding, and in an afternoon a million acres of pasture land would carry not enough foliage to feed a gopher. Y.D. turned in his saddle.
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. 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.
"That's only part of my scheme," says Hubbs. "The rest I worked out between the time I got word from this Mr. Steele and the day I left for New York. Up to then I hadn't thought of comin' East to boost Gopher; but the letter settled me. 'I'm goin' on, says I to Mrs. Whipple, 'and if Gopher ain't on the map when I come back, I'll never ask you again to change your name to Hubbs.
Carol did not hear Juanita, in front, protesting to Maud Dyer, "If she calls it fun and holiness to sweat over her darned old play well, I don't!" Carol attended the only professional play which came to Gopher Prairie that spring. It was a "tent show, presenting snappy new dramas under canvas."
Her liveliest activity now was organizing outdoor sports in the motor-paralyzed town. 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 and so easy. Skiing and sliding were "stupid" and "old-fashioned."
His machine-finish smile indicated an enormous lack of interest in young men in Teal bugs. Gopher Prairie has all of five thousand people. Its commercial club asserts that it has at least a thousand more population and an infinitely better band than the ridiculously envious neighboring town of Joralemon.
In prose Chicago, New York, New Haven, Richmond, Detroit, San Francisco, and the ubiquitous Main Street of a hundred Gopher Prairies have become wayfares for the memory of the reader, as well as congeries of amusement and trade.
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