My husband is home again. He came back with the first blizzard of the winter and had a hard time getting through to Casa Grande. This gives him all the excuses he could desire for railing at prairie life. I told him, after patiently listening to him cussing about everything in sight, that it was plain to see that he belonged to the land of the beaver. He promptly requested to know what I meant by that.

“Doesn’t the beaver regard it as necessary to dam his home before he considers it fit to live in?” I retorted. But Duncan, in that estranging new mood of his, didn’t relax a line. He even announced, a little later on, that a quick-silver wit might be all right if it could be kept from running over. And it was my turn to ask if he had any particular reference to allusions.

“Well, for one thing,” he told me, “there’s this tiresome habit of hitching nicknames on to everything in sight.”

I asked him what names he objected to. 173

“To begin right at home,” he retorted, “I regard ‘Dinkie’ as an especially silly name for a big hulk of a boy. I think it’s about time that youngster was called by his proper name.”

I’d never thought about it, to tell the truth. His real name, I remembered, was Elmer Duncan McKail. That endearing diminutive of “Dinkie” had stuck to him from his baby days, and in my fond and foolish eyes, of course, had always seemed to fit him. But even Gershom had spoken to me on the matter, months before, asking me if I preferred the boy to be known as “Dinkie” to his school mates. And I’d told Gershom that I didn’t believe we could get rid of the “Dinkie” if we wanted to. His father, I knew, had once objected to “Duncan,” as he had no liking to be dubbed “Old Duncan” while his offspring would answer to “Young Duncan.” And “Duncan,” as a name, had never greatly appealed to me. But it is plain now that I have been remiss in the matter. So hereafter we’ll have to make an effort to have our little Dinkie known as Elmer. It’s like bringing a new child into the family circle, a new child we’re not quite acquainted with. But these things, I suppose, have to be faced. So hereafter my laddie shall officially be known as “Elmer,” Elmer Duncan 174 McKail. And I have started the ball rolling by duly inscribing in his new books “Elmer D. McKail” and requesting Gershom to address his pupil as “Elmer.”

I’ve been wondering, in the meantime, if Duncan is going to insist on a revision of all our ranch names, the names so tangled up with love and good-natured laughter and memories of the past. Take our horses alone: Tumble-weed and timeless Tithonus, Buntie and Briquette, Laughing-gas and Coco the Third, Mudski and Tarzanette. I’d hate now to lose those names. They are the register of our friendly love for our animals.

It begins to creep through this thick head of mine that my husband no longer nurses any real love for either these animals or prairie life. And if that is the case, he will never get anything out of prairie living. It will be useless for him even to try. So I may as well do what I can to reconcile myself to the inevitable. I am not without my moments of revolt. But in those moods when I feel a bit uppish I remember about my recent venture into astronomy. What’s the use of worrying, anyway? There was one ice age, and there is going to be another ice age. I tell myself that my troubles are pretty trivial, after all, since I’m only one of many millions on this earth and 175 since this earth is only one of many millions of other earths which will swing about their suns billions and billions of years after I and my children and my children’s children are withered into dust.

It rather takes my breath away, at times, and I shy away from it the same as Pauline Augusta shies away from the sight of blood. It reminds me of Chaddie’s New York lady with whom the Bishop ventured to discuss ultimate destinies. “Yes, I suppose I shall enter into eternal bliss,” responded this fair lady, “but would you mind not discussing such disagreeable subjects at tea-time?”

Speaking of disagreeable subjects, we seem to have a new little trouble-maker here at Casa Grande. It’s in the form of a brindle pup called Minty, which Dinkie—I mean, of course, which Elmer, acquired in exchange for a jack-knife and what was left of his Swiss Family Robinson. But Minty has not been well treated by the world, and was brought home with a broken leg. So Whinnie and I made splints out of an old cigar-box cover, and padded the fracture with cotton wool and bound it up with tape. Minty, in the moderated spirits of invalidism, was a meek and well behaved pup during the first few days after his arrival, sleeping quietly at the foot of Elmer’s bed 176 and stumping around after his new master like a war veteran awaiting his discharge. But now that Minty’s leg is getting better and he finds himself in a world that flows with warm milk and much petting, he betrays a tendency to use any odd article of wearing apparel as a teething-ring. He has completely ruined one of my bedroom slippers and done Mexican-drawn-work on the ends of the two living-room window-curtains. But what is much more ominous, Minty yesterday got hold of Dinky-Dunk’s Stetson and made one side of its rim look as though it had been put through a meat-chopper. So my lord and master has been making inquiries about Minty and Minty’s right of possession. And the order has gone forth that hereafter no canines are to sleep in this house. It impresses me as a trifle unreasonable, all things considered, and Elmer, with a rather unsteady underlip, has asked me if Minty must be taken away from him. But I have no intention of countermanding Duncan’s order. The crust over the volcano is quite thin enough, as it is. And whatever happens, I am resolved to be a meek and dutiful wife. But I’ve had a talk with Whinnie and he’s going to fix up a comfortable box behind the stove in the bunk-house, and there the exiled Minty will soon learn to repose 177 in peace. It’s marvelous, though, how that little three-legged animal loves my Dinkie, loves my Elmer, I should say. He licks my laddie’s shoes and yelps with joy at the smell of his pillow ... Poor little abundant-hearted mite, overflowing with love! But life, I suppose, will see to it that he is brought to reason. We must learn not to be too happy on this earth. And we must learn that love isn’t always given all it asks for.