At last I know the joys of domestic service. The pleasures of the “hired girl” and all the privileges and emoluments pertaining to her high estate have been mine.

Our good friends, the train crew, who carried us out of Des Moines, dropped us off at the first little station east of Council Bluffs early in the morning of May 15th. We determined to cycle into town, get breakfast and look for work. We were making good time and had entered the suburbs when, as we spun around a corner and approached a large red house, surrounded by a tall hedge, a series of brain-piercing shrieks rent the air. My control of the wheel was none too steady that morning and the shock was too much for frayed nerves and stiffened muscles. The tandem took the bit in its teeth and in a jiffy had buried its nose in the thick branches at the base of the hedge. I landed on my feet, and through a break in the shrubbery saw the cause of the commotion.

In an angle of the enclosure a red hen was flapping and squawking, her brood of downy chickens dashing hither and thither, pursued by a large mongrel dog. Within a high wire fence, evidently the chicken yard, a moon-faced woman stood like a marionette, her fat hands shooting into the air with a rhythmic precision which synchronised perfectly with the dropping of her lower jaw which opened widely with each vocal effort.

As I stared, the dog captured a tiny chick and tossed it high in air. I dashed forward and seized the brute by the scruff of the neck and dragged it, growling and struggling, to the break in the hedge where Dan came to my assistance and sent the animal howling down the road.

I turned back to the frightened brood and was joined by the female calliope. Together we gathered the cowering mites from their places of concealment among the grass and weeds and at last saw the mother safe in the coop, her decimated family huddled about her.

“You know chickens, oh, you know,” the lady puffed. “These are prize birds—all, all prize stock—I paid an outrageous price for them—Tamas said it was very shortsighted to do so—but you know chickens.”

“I couldn’t stand idly by while that hateful dog mangled the little things,” I interrupted.

“Of course not, with prize stock like these. You know, oh, you know.”

Dan approached with the tandem, the front tire of which was sadly flattened.

“Got a puncture when you rammed the hedge. Guess we’ll have to camp here till I can patch the inner tube. Maybe you can buy a few eggs and cook breakfast. I’m nearly starved.”

“Not these eggs. Not these eggs. These are all prize stock, every one a prize winner.” The arms of the moon-faced madam made an upward sweep. I clapped my hands over my ears instinctively. But a compassionate Fate in the shape of a young girl intervened.

“Breakfast’s ready, Ma’am,” she sang out. “Mr. MacBride says he will be right in.”

A tremendous struggle was mirrored in my lady’s open countenance. She looked at the “prize chickens,” turned toward the house, shot a covert glance at Dan, gazed anxiously at the chickens again. It was a solemn moment. But fear and hospitality triumphed.

“Maybe you better come in. I don’t know what Tamas will say. But the dog would have killed more—all prize stock—so shortsighted of me....”

Thus rambling on, she led the way into the house, while the maid stared unbelievingly. It came my turn for wonderment when I caught sight of the breakfast table. It was loaded with great bowls of oatmeal, cream, sausage, eggs, potatoes, and a heaping plate of graham or oatmeal gems. An odour of hot cakes spoke of more food to follow.

“You must wait till Tamas has finished. Just sit down here. I hear him coming now.”

Our hostess turned in much agitation as a long, cadaverous individual entered the door. He halted and fixed us with a hostile glare.

“Now, Tamas, now—this lady saved my prize doggins from a chick—oh, dickens from a chog—oh, oh, what am I saying!”

Dan uttered a strangled snort. The mingled horror and wrath on Tamas’ face was indescribable. His unfortunate wife once more essayed an explanation.

“He—he was going to suck the eggs. But I told him they were all—all prize eggs. Then I thought it best to bring them in here.”

“Probably under the circumstances it was the safest thing to do, ah. So you go about the country begging, do you?” He turned to Dan. “I am surprised, surprised and pained. Your wife—I presume she is your wife?—appears quite intelligent, ah.” He dragged out each word as from the depths of ultimate wisdom.

“Well, I’ll admit that my wife does show gleams of intelligence at times,” Dan responded gravely.

“Those thoroughbred fowls are provoking, most provoking, ah.” Mr. MacBride turned to his palpitating wife. “You see, my dear, how very shortsighted it was of you to bargain for them while I was in Omaha. Such a waste and loss—no profit. I shall be compelled to foreclose on old lady Martin’s poultry farm next week, which will give us some of the finest fowls in this county,—and at absolutely no expense for feed and care, no bother, no annoyance. All profit, clear profit, mark you that.”

He licked his lips physically and metaphorically as he seated himself at the table and attacked a bowl of oatmeal and cream. His performance reminded me of a dredger I once saw at work in the Sacramento Valley. The spoon work was wonderful—his only rival in endless chain effect being a Chinaman with chopsticks.

The girl removed the empty bowl and replaced it with a plate heaped with sausage, eggs and fried potatoes, which Mr. MacBride fell upon with undiminished zeal, his wife meanwhile plying us with questions.

“You, I take it, are presumably working people—that is, you will no doubt accept employment if such is presented to you,” he began after a prolonged period of uninterrupted labour. “Now, there is one grave failing to which the working classes of America abandon themselves, ah. They eat too much.”

With consummate skill he flipped into his thin-lipped, rapacious mouth an enormous forkful of sausages and potatoes, which he swallowed at a single gulp.

“I have read scientific articles, articles written by experts, which prove with mathematical accuracy that a workingman can live comfortably on nine cents a day, ah.”

“Tamas knows, oh, he knows,” chirped his wife delightedly.

“But the average workingman’s outlay is far, far beyond reason. This whole nation is suffering from extravagance and overfeeding, ah.”

“But thousands of people, in the cities especially, eat scarcely enough to sustain life,” I ventured.

“Slums, bah, slums, human dregs unworthy of an intelligent man’s consideration. Of course, they live in poverty. Why not? It is all their own fault,—lack of thrift, extravagance and laziness.” He paused to drain a cup of tea.

“But there is never any real poverty in the country districts. Now this community, for instance, is prosperous, most prosperous. I never get less than 8 per cent. on my loans.”

“That certainly does speak well for the community and yourself,” I conceded.

“I flatter myself that I am a good business man, an excellent example of the pure American type, conservative, patriotic, a solid all-round citizen. But our low, ignorant foreigners must be educated. I have endeavoured to collect a fund among our leading merchants to secure a teacher to inculcate an idea of thrift. Such work should really be done by the government. Thrift, ah—the lack of thrift is the curse of this nation. Just imagine the business gain if our extravagant working class could be brought to live on nine cents a day.”

“But I don’t understand,” I murmured, eyeing him with interest. “If your patrons ate less, they might save money, and then they would not borrow money of you at 8 per cent. interest, and the prosperity of this community would suffer.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He leaned forward with a first suggestion of animation. “With the price of land as it is, the cost of farm implements, the high taxes on improvements and the irregularity of crops, it is simply impossible for a man of small capital to escape a mortgage. Now the point is this. With the present high cost of living, the farmer pays even a moderate interest of 8 per cent. say, with extreme difficulty. But with proper instruction in thrift, I have no doubt rates could be raised to 12 per cent. and still not prove prohibitive.” He paused to butter a muffin.

“I hold land that I purchased for a song years ago. I hold it unimproved as the advance in land values, as the small farmers come in, amply repays me. But some of it I subdivided and sold at fat prices. Why, one of those farms has been foreclosed on five times in the last fifteen years. Each owner has added improvements, of course, but not what they should have done. If I could have had a series of really ambitious men on it, I now would own one of the finest farms in this section. But my farmers don’t seem to understand thrift.”

He sighed heavily as the maid set out the remains of the meal for our consumption. Dan, no doubt deeming imitation the sincerest flattery, seemed bent on equalling his host’s remarkable performance as trencherman. Mr. MacBride eyed each mouthful with scowling anguish, while with each succeeding minute his wife’s agitation increased.

“Really, my good man, your appetite is excessive, positively abnormal. I had thought of permitting you to work a few days for your board and lodging, but that is manifestly impossible. It would never do. Moderation, my good man, moderation should be the keynote in all things.”

We passed from the MacBride domicile in comparative quiet.

Dan soon had the puncture repaired and the wheel ready for the road. We mounted and presently were gliding through the streets of Council Bluffs.

A few hours’ inquiry convinced Dan of his inability to get work at his trade, but he heard that there was a chance of employment on a truck farm east of town, so we rode out to locate the place.

After some argument, we were engaged, I to do the housework, Dan to work in the fields. The farmer first offered a dollar a day between us, but we finally secured a dollar and a half a day and board. We were immediately put to work tying bunches of radishes, onions and other vegetables for market.

About ten in the evening, as we went to the bare room assigned us, the woman handed me an alarm clock set for four A. M. with orders to serve breakfast promptly at five so the men could be at work by five-thirty.

Nightmare days followed. Always up at four in the morning, I was kept constantly at work until after I had cooked the nine o’clock supper for two men who made the late trip to town each evening.

The house was a large one. There were four children, the man and his wife, an old aunt and five hired men besides Dan and myself to cook for. The laundry had remained undone since the last girl left, and present opportunities were not to be overlooked. Such heaps of soiled clothing I never saw before. Then, when cooking, cleaning, washing and ironing were done, if perchance there was half an hour to spare, I was set at the never-ending task of tying vegetables. On Sunday the mistress of the house wanted to know whether I could darn stockings, as I ought to be able to do a good deal of mending on that day. To cap it all, the couple quarrelled constantly, nagged the children and one another and railed at the poor old aunt by the hour. When not so engaged, the woman would snoop through our scanty belongings, ask me all manner of personal questions and follow me about with talk of the good home she was giving me and how few people there were who would take tramps and hoboes right into their own comfortable houses and care for them. Poor Dan was driven like a slave from dawn till dark and after, so at the end of a week, we concluded to take to the road once more.

When Dan informed the man of our intentions and asked for our money, such a storm of invective was loosed as is seldom heard. We were lazy, good-for-nothing bums who were too shiftless to do honest work, but wanted to live off thrifty, economical people who had some ambition in life. The woman declared that I was an ungrateful dog—only she did not say dog, but referred to the female of the species—that I had imposed on her hospitality for a whole week, but she supposed that was all one could expect for trying to do a good turn to dirty sewer rats. The man then burst into shocking profanity, which Dan cut short by suggesting the imminence of a stiff punch on the jaw.

As we were riding away from the “good home,” I recalled experiences related by servant girls with whom I had come in contact in the practice of my profession. I remembered the little maid who was on duty habitually sixteen hours a day in the mansion of a San Francisco millionaire. She became violently insane and was sent to the Napa State Hospital. I thought of the great number of household workers to be found in such institutions, and of the terrifying increase in insanity. Then my thoughts turned to those who go astray and others who lead lives of shame, and the large percentage that are recruited from the ranks of servant girls. My mind dwelt on the attitude of friends who counted the “good home” given a girl a large part of her reward for service rendered.

A good home. What is it? Food and shelter? Yes. But it is something more. Personal comfort, the exercise of individual taste in the choice of one’s intimate surroundings, the joy of ownership, the privilege of entertaining one’s friends, a sense of privacy, a certain liberty of habits—all these, added to that greatest of all great gifts, love, and the presence of the loved ones, make a true home.

We were approaching the Missouri River when black clouds heaped themselves across the horizon, and soon blasts of wind and rain forced us to seek the shelter of a rude shack on the river bank. A bent, white-bearded man opened the door and invited us in with all the warmth and grace of real southern hospitality. There was scant room for the wheel beneath the tiny porch, and the two rooms were already over-crowded.

A feeble old lady, swathed in shawls, sat in a rough box chair at the window. A young girl with a baby but a few days old on her arm lay on the bed, while a woman, evidently the daughter of the old couple, fussed about her. A tall, incredibly lanky girl was kept busy placing pots and pans to catch the drippings from the roof, which leaked in a dozen places.

In ten minutes we were chatting as freely as lifelong friends. The old man was a Confederate veteran, who had been wrecked financially and physically by the Civil War. He and his invalid wife had moved by degrees from Kentucky across Illinois and Iowa to their present location. One child only had survived the many privations. She had married young and been left a widow with two little girls. The eldest of these, the pale girl in the bed, had married a youth of eighteen when little more than a child. The baby which formed the fourth generation in this home of poverty awakened with a feeble wail. The mother showed me the wriggling red mite with an air of pride, but suddenly she turned her head away and burst into tears.

“Oh, Tony, Tony,” she moaned, “how can they keep you away from your own beautiful baby boy?”

“Her Tony’s in the jail,” the old man volunteered with slow bitterness. “In the jail because he couldn’t see his wife and unborn baby starve. We had bad luck last winter. I’m an old man. My right hand never has been worth anything since the War.” He extended his withered arm, drawn and distorted by an old wound. “I’ve done all I could, but work is scarce for such as me.”

“Folks won’t give Grandpap a job. They call him an old Copperhead.” The younger girl spoke for the first time.

“I fought for the South. I love her. Should my great-grandchild be starved for that?”

“The children had typhoid fever, Tony and Sadie and Stella.” The quiet, brown-eyed widow took up the story. “Tony took sick at the camp—he’d only been there a few weeks—and came home the last of October ready to die. Sadie took it next. She was carrying little Tony and it went hard with her. Then Stella came down. I thought we would lose them all. We had no money for anything. It was weeks and weeks before Tony got better and then he wasn’t strong. I took in washing when the worst was over, and Pap did all he could. Tony, he’s an orphan and Italian besides,—a Dago they call him.” Her voice trailed off despondently.

“Tony is as good an American as ever lived,” Sadie spoke up fiercely, “a sight better than the scrubs around here. Supposing his folks was Italian. What difference does that make?”

“Tony got work teaming,” the old man spoke again. “We had no food in the house, the weather was cold, Sadie was weak from the fever and crying with hunger all the time. He got to taking things from the cars and bringing them home. One time he brought a case of canned soup. How the girls did go for it. It was their salvation.

“Then one night it was snowing hard. Tony came in all tuckered out—he never was one of these husky boys—and he was sitting over the stove, with Sadie trying to cheer him up. All of a sudden the door flew open with a bang and in walks a couple of men—didn’t knock or nothing, just walked in—and put the handcuffs on him and dragged him away. I’ll never forget his black eyes, looking so big in his white face as he stared back at Sadie who had fallen in a faint.”

“And now he’s in jail, my Tony. He never knew what it was to have a single soul to love him till he met me. Just an orphan and a bound boy. He was always so good to me, working hard for a home and children. And now he can’t see his own son. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She flung herself about in agony.

“Hush, honey, hush. Think of little Tony. You’ll poison the milk if you take on that away.”

The frail mother quieted her grief and clasped her baby in an ecstasy of mother-love. “I must take good care of you, mother’s little angel. Daddy will come back to his own little baby boy some day.”

The rain had stopped, so we said good-bye to the unfortunate family and resumed our journey.

“There is no real poverty in the country districts, is there now?” I remarked as we pushed the wheel along the sloppy road.

“Oh, Tamas knows—he knows,” returned Dan grimly.

The old Confederate had told us of another truck farm not far distant where we could probably find employment, so we located a convenient clump of willows and made camp for the night.

Early next morning we applied for work at the farm and were set to the task of weeding onions, ten hours’ work for a dollar a day and board. Slowly the hours dragged past. The noon hour found me far too weary to eat, so I flung myself face down under a tree, while Dan sought the cook house with the other hands.

Once more I began work on the interminable rows. The sun beat down with intense heat, my back seemed literally broken. As I weeded in a daze, a peculiar illusion took possession of my mind. I saw a cosy room in San Francisco, caught a whiff of cooling, bracing fog, fresh from the Pacific, heard the unctuous tones of a well-groomed, fat-jowled, long-haired gentleman who was declaiming to a group of adoring females lengthy verses of his own composition on the “Joy of Labour.” Oh, grave and paunchy poet, would that thou wert here to busy thy soft white hands with gummy weeds and thistles and reap a harvest of joy and onions in my stead!

About three o’clock something happened. I found myself lying under the tree at the side of the field, with Dan pouring water over my face.

“What’s the matter, Dan?” I demanded, bewildered by my new and strange sensations.

“Oh, nothing much. You pitched forward on your head about half an hour ago and I thought you would never come to. You mark my words now. This ends it. You don’t do any more weed pulling or washing or scrubbing on this trip. If I can’t earn the living I’ll beg or steal.”

“It was my back, dear. I haven’t recovered from the thump I got that night in the radiator car. As soon as that spot gets well, I’ll be able to do any kind of work.”

“You may be able, but you won’t do it. I’ll see to that after this. You lie here and meditate on what I’ve been telling you while I finish this infernal day’s work. We’ll beat it into Omaha in the morning and I’ll look for a white man’s job.” With a farewell pat he returned to the weeding, leaving me to fall asleep in utter exhaustion.

We trundled over the long bridge across the Missouri River and passed through Omaha early the following morning. In a grove of trees on the western outskirts of the city, Dan pitched camp and made me as comfortable as possible, then mounted the wheel and rode into Omaha to search for work.

I was stretched full length on the ground, enjoying the rustle of the wind in the tree tops and the murmur of a tiny brook, when my attention was attracted by the sound of footsteps and a moment later a dainty child in a blue pinafore appeared at the edge of the little hollow. I smiled a welcome and she came closer and leaned against a near-by tree.

“Are you having a picnic all by yourself?” she asked, fingering her apron.

“Yes, a kind of picnic. I’m all by myself because my husband has gone to Omaha. You come over here and sit down by me and then I won’t be lonesome any more.”

She approached and snuggled by my side. We introduced ourselves and soon were deep in an interchange of confidences. She located various birds’ nests for me, described the latest family of kittens, discussed the number of eggs laid by her white pullet and many other matters of interest. Then I noticed that she seemed uneasy, examining our luggage with searching glances. Finally, eight-year-old flesh and blood could endure no more.

“Is the picnic in that bundle?” she asked wistfully. “When are you going to eat it?”

“There isn’t very much in that bundle. All I have is bread and butter, but I’ll get you some of that,” I replied, sitting up.

Her face fell, then brightened. “I know what I’ll do,” she cried, springing to her feet and clapping her hands joyously. “I’ll run home and ask mother to put me up some cookies—and some jam—and some hard-boiled eggs—and maybe some animal crackers, horses, you know, and cows and things—oh, I’ll get lots and lots of good things to eat, and then I’ll come back and we’ll have the very nicest picnic ever you saw in all your life.” She danced away with fairy-like grace, leaving me to picture her mother’s expression when informed of the woman who was holding a picnic all by herself on nothing but bread and butter.

Some fifteen minutes passed. Then I heard a gay “hoo-hoo,” and down the hillside came my girlie, skipping up and down and hastening the footsteps of a woman whom I knew at first glance to be her mother.

“This is Ethel, mother,” she cried as I rose to my feet. Then turning to me, “Now you can’t be lonesome any more, ’cause mother’s come her own self.”

There are persons to whom no introduction is necessary; we recognise them at once as old friends. Thus it was with Mrs. Patton and myself. She was soon in possession of my story and invited me to her home to rest and spend as many days as circumstances would permit. I pinned a note for Dan on the tree trunk, gathered our belongings, and set off for the house. Hazel piloted us over the ridge, through orchards and across fields until we came to a long, low farmhouse, cuddling between two hills and almost hidden by masses of vines and trees.

Mrs. Patton was a trained nurse and at once set to work to demonstrate her capabilities. She heated water, gave me a prolonged hot bath, followed by a thorough spine-stretching and massage, tucked me into bed, fed me a bountiful lunch, and then left me to dream away the afternoon in blissful comfort.

I awakened about six o’clock, wonderfully relieved and refreshed and found that my hostess had sent her son to watch for Dan at the cross roads and guide him to the house.

At dinner we were introduced to Mr. Patton and John, who were greatly interested in the story of our adventures. I told them of the old Confederate soldier, of Sadie grieving for her Tony in the jail, and they were horrified to learn that such misery existed so close at hand.

“Of course, I’ve been aware that there were all kinds of suffering and wretchedness in the slums of large cities,” Mr. Patton sighed, “but I thought there was no real poverty in the country districts.”

Dan shot me a covert glance.

“You’ll get the poor man out of jail, so he can see his little baby, won’t you, father dear?” Hazel inquired eagerly.

“Well, well. I’ll see what can be done. It’s a shame that such conditions should exist in a country as rich as this.”

When we had repaired to the living room, Mrs. Patton suggested music, and upon my delighted acquiescence, John set the Victrola to playing. Then for the first time I recognised one cause of my persistent heart-hunger. My soul was starving for music. Thrills of ecstasy agitated me almost to tears as the passionate strains of Tschaikowsky’s “Melodie” flooded the room with pulsating harmonies. Raff’s “Cavatina” seemed the divine expression of universal longing for home and love—heimweh incarnate.

Once, when we had first moved into Chicago’s slums, I took my guitar and sang. Simple songs came to my lips, lullabies, songs of the South, the old, old songs that caress the heart strings. A noise at the door startled me. I swung it open and started back in surprise. Porch, stairway and area below were packed with children all absorbed in my poor performance. Many times thereafter I sat at the narrow entrance and sang while children and adults crowded about, always asking for more. But at last the increasing pinch of hunger goaded me into carrying the precious guitar, relic of girlhood days, to the pawnbroker, there to bid it good-bye forever.

Millions of acres of land lying barren in the hands of speculators, hordes of idle men roaming the country in search of employment, tons of delicious fruit rotting on the ground in California, hungry women, billionaires, destitute children, great masses of wealth producers starving mentally and physically while the fruits of their labor are denied them.

Would to God that the people of this nation could learn to think!

Dan’s efforts to find work in Omaha were unavailing, so after another day’s rest we struck out on the military road leading away from the city. Two days’ travel convinced us that we were hopelessly wrong.

I now look upon myself as something of an expert in mud, and I can truthfully recommend the Nebraska article to be superior in cohesion, adhesion, weight and quantity to any known combination of earth and water. After a few hundred yards of travel, the wheels and skirt guard would completely disappear in great masses of reddish adobe, while our feet assumed elephantine proportions. Standing first on one foot, then on the other, we would rid ourselves of a few pounds of mother earth and scrape the wheel as free as possible from its accumulations. A struggle onward of a quarter of a mile forced us to repeat the process.

A day passed—and another. Food ran out and farmers refused to sell; there were no stores, and the situation grew desperate.

We approached a school house one evening and stopped under a horse shed for the night. The teacher was passing and stopped to chat. Later she returned with a bottle of malted milk tablets, which constituted our evening meal.

Next morning we turned south to reach the railroad. About one o’clock we came to a little blacksmith shop, and after some haggling, bought a half loaf of mouldy bread for a dime. Pushing on for perhaps a mile, we stopped in a lonely spot to make tea. Everything was dripping with moisture from recent rains, so, despite Dan’s vigorous efforts, the fire refused to burn.

We were both on our knees blowing lustily when a shadow falling athwart the rack attracted our attention and, glancing up, we saw a bareheaded man standing with folded arms, fixedly regarding us. We sat back and stared, for we had seen no house in that vicinity.

“When you get tired exercising your lungs,” began the stranger, “just follow me and get a surprise.”

Thinking that any change must be an improvement on our situation, we gathered up the cooking utensils and obediently dragged the wheel after our guide, who plunged into a thick growth of trees on our right.

A few minutes’ walk brought us to an immense tent, from which issued a great noise of crunching, stamping and snorting. Passing around to the far end, we beheld, stretching down one side of the interior, a long row of horses and mules—perhaps twenty in number—busily munching their noonday feed, while the other side of the tent was fitted with a kitchen range, a gasoline stove, cooking utensils, table and chairs, and in the rear some bunks and a great pile of hay. Leading the way through the kitchen, the stranger pulled out a curtain strung on a wire, closing off the rear compartment, and brought a huge kettle of hot water, buckets of cold, a large tub, towels and soap, with directions to enjoy ourselves while he prepared a meal. And what a delight it was to have the use of such conveniences, crude as they were. My opinion of “dirty hoboes” has undergone a radical change since I have seen for myself the difficulties that beset the man who has nothing, in his efforts toward cleanliness.

Our ablutions performed, we entered the kitchen and found our host deep in the labour of cooking. And what a meal he set out. Hot biscuits, mashed potatoes, broiled ham and cream gravy, fried eggs and a pot of delicious coffee.

The meal was nearly over before his strange manner impressed me. Opening a large bread box, he took the entire contents and going down the row of animals fed the loaves to them, talking meanwhile in a most astounding fashion. Returning, he escorted us to the rear room and insisted on our lying down, saying that we must be tired, as indeed we were. The words were scarcely spoken when a heavy rain beat a tattoo on the tent walls.

“Confound this weather,” began our host, settling himself in a chair; “I’m two-thirds crazy now, and another three days of this beastly rain will drive me completely nutty.”

He held a large contract for road construction, the grading outfit was his, and “the darned cattle were eating him out of house and home while he was sewed up by the weather.” It seemed the grading crew had gone to Omaha to celebrate their enforced holiday, but should be back that day.

Reaching under the bed, the boss produced an empty demijohn and informed us that he had drunk the contents to cure the blues. He congratulated himself on our opportune arrival, declaring that he intended to keep us so long as the rain continued as an antidote to loneliness and its alcoholic consequences.

Just then the smith who had sold us the bread, appeared on the scene in search of the usual hospitable stimulant. Our host at once produced another demijohn and stood treat, imbibing freely himself. While the two men were thus engaged, a foaming horse, hitched to a covered buggy, dashed up to the tent door, and two women followed by a couple of half-drunken men clambered out. Fishing under the seat, one fellow drew out four good-sized jugs of whiskey.

Night had fallen and the rain was beating heavily, but Dan and I exchanged one glance, seized our hats and made for the wheel, which stood, still packed, just within the entrance. Hastily we backed it out and plunged into the stygian darkness. We had covered a bare hundred feet when wild yells and shouts for our return showed that our flight was discovered. The drunken crew came boiling out of the tent with lanterns in their hands and rushed hither and thither. We drew up behind a clump of bushes and cowered down with our hearts in our mouths. With an oath, the smith discovered the track of the wheel in the soft earth and with a howl of delight started to follow it. Attracted by the outcry, our erstwhile host lunged madly round the tent and collided violently with one of the newcomers. Over and over they rolled in the mud, cursing and slugging one another in drunken frenzy. The smith paused within a yard of our hiding place to watch the battle. The yellow rays of a lantern cast a circle of light at the tent door and illumined the struggling forms.

Cautiously we lifted the wheel, and guarding each step as best we might, made off in the direction of the main road. Doggedly we stumbled on, making as rapid progress as the rain and darkness would permit, falling at times in the slippery ruts, but always driving desperately ahead.

After what seemed an eternity, a light shone off to the left. Following a private road, we came to a gate. The shrill bark of a dog sounded from an outbuilding. I opened the gate and entered. A cold nose touched my hand and I felt the pressure of another against my skirt. I have no fear of dogs and have never been bitten, but Dan is not so fortunate, so he remained in the background while I explored the premises. Accompanied by the dogs, I marched boldly to the front door of a large house and rang the bell. It was opened by a man who stared at my dripping figure in amazement. His eyes travelled from me to the dogs, a Great Dane and an Airedale, and I realised the full significance of his glance. I explained the situation and asked leave to sleep in his barn.

“Well,” he answered uncertainly, “as a rule, I never let anybody sleep in my outbuildings, but a person who can get past those dogs must be all right, so wait till I get a lantern and I’ll take you and your husband over to the hay mow and make you as comfortable as I can.”

He turned into the house and soon came out with a lantern and an armful of bedding beneath an oilskin. Calling Dan and quieting the dogs, he conducted us to a large barn where we were soon settled for the night and glad enough to be under the shelter of a safe roof.

I was awakened this morning by the romping of two kittens and the fox terrier I heard barking last night. The sun is shining brightly and everything looks fresh and clean after the storm. The farmer showed us where to build a fire with dry corn cobs and supplied us with a brimming pan of new milk, a basket of eggs and a crusty loaf of fresh, homemade bread, for all of which he refused compensation.