do you think o' that? Jest back o' you a little there's a sycamore
split into five trunks, any one o' them a famous big tree, tops up
'mong the clouds, an' roots diggin' under the old river; an' over a
little farther's a maple 'at's eight big trees in one. Most anything
you can name, you can find it 'long this ole Wabash, if you only know
where to hunt for it.

"They's mighty few white men takes the trouble to look, but the Indians
used to know. They'd come canoein' an' fishin' down the river an' camp
under these very trees, an' Ma 'ud git so mad at the old squaws.
Settlers wasn't so thick then, an' you had to be mighty careful not to
rile 'em, an' they'd come a-trapesin' with their wild berries. Woods
full o' berries! Anybody could get 'em by the bushel for the pickin',
an' we hadn't got on to raisin' much wheat, an' had to carry it on
horses over into Ohio to get it milled. Took Pa five days to make the
trip; an' then the blame old squaws 'ud come, an' Ma 'ud be compelled
to hand over to 'em her big white loaves. Jest about set her plumb
crazy. Used to get up in the night, an' fix her yeast, an' bake, an'
let the oven cool, an' hide the bread out in the wheat bin, an' get the
smell of it all out o' the house by good daylight, so's 'at she could
say there wasn't a loaf in the cabin. Oh! if it's good pickin' you're
after, they's berries for all creation 'long the river yet; an' jest
wait a few days till old April gets done showerin' an' I plow this corn
field!"

Abram set a foot on the third rail and leaned his elbows on the top.
The Cardinal chipped delightedly and hopped and tilted closer.

"I hadn't jest 'lowed all winter I'd tackle this field again. I've
turned it every spring for forty year. Bought it when I was a young
fellow, jest married to Maria. Shouldered a big debt on it; but I
always loved these slopin' fields, an' my share of this old Wabash
hasn't been for sale nor tradin' any time this past forty year. I've
hung on to it like grim death, for it's jest that much o' Paradise I'm
plumb sure of. First time I plowed this field, Mr. Redbird, I only hit
the high places. Jest married Maria, an' I didn't touch earth any too
frequent all that summer. I've plowed it every year since, an' I've
been 'lowin' all this winter, when the rheumatiz was gettin' in its
work, 'at I'd give it up this spring an' turn it to medder; but I don't
know. Once I got started, b'lieve I could go it all right an' not f