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Updated: May 22, 2025
He smiled from a world of superior knowledge; the unseen watcher was the foundation of the big game he was ever playing. The smile ended in a short laugh, and somehow it startled her she seemed so naked in thought before this strange foreigner. "You know what I mean," she went on lamely. "I suppose a gopher peering from its hole in the ground would disturb me sooner or later."
With an apron full of gay dandelion blossoms for the trail, the active little body set out on a wide detour of the woods, across the bridge, up through the Hartman pasture land, reaching the barbed wire fence on their own little farm just in time to see Hope dropping a last handful of grain into a gopher hole before returning to the house with her empty pail.
It might not, however, have suited fastidious palates, because the little squirrel-like gophers which abounded everywhere, burrowing near by, fell into the well by scores, and we had no leisure to fish them out. Neither is there any mistaking the flavor of gopher extract.
"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!" She gaped. "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.
Mott had stated that they were "pleased to meet her," there seemed to be nothing else to say, but the conversation went on automatically. "Do you like Gopher Prairie?" whimpered Mrs. Dawson. "Oh, I'm sure I'm going to be ever so happy." "There's so many nice people." Mrs. Dawson looked to Mr. Mott for social and intellectual aid. He lectured: "There's a fine class of people.
"He'll come down and talk when he feels like it. That's Pete's way." "Watching us, maybe," growled Joe Pollard, with a shade of uneasiness still. "Damned funny gent, Pete is. Watches a man like a cat; watches a gopher hole all day, maybe. And maybe the gent he watches is a friend he's known for ten years. Well let Pete go. They ain't no explaining him."
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.
When she came slowly back, the Swede boy was again stretched upon his stomach, and watching a hole nearer the center of the meadow. The little girl did not follow him, but stayed on the rim and pityingly viewed the limp gopher that lay, with eyes half closed, breast still, and tail thin and lifeless. "Poor fing!" she said sympathetically, "it's 'cause you stealed the corn."
"He has pockets in his cheeks, and that is why he is called Pocket Gopher," replied Old Mother Nature; "but they are not at all like yours, Striped Chipmunk. Yours are on the inside of your cheeks, but his are on the outside." "How funny!" exclaimed Striped Chipmunk. "Your pockets are small compared with those of Grubby," continued Old Mother Nature.
It ain't my way. It's me for the shot gun in the stern of the gopher all the time. It's me to mush up the features of any hoboe who don't know better than to grin when I'm throwin' the hot air. I can't stand for the politics of labour where I hand out the wage. A man's a man to me, not one darn slobber of policy. I'm goin' to jump in on that talk. And when I'm thro' "
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