our brother all that--the night I tried to keep him.
Told him about his mother--to show what come of running to other folks.
And he said--standing right there--(_pointing_) eyes all bright, he
said, 'Golly, I think that's great!' And then _he_--walked out of this
house. (_fear takes him_) Madeline! (_she stoops over him, her arm
around him_) Don't you leave me--all alone in this house--where so many
was once. What's Hindus--alongside your own father--and him needing you?
It won't be long. After a little I'll be dead--or crazy--or something.
But not here alone where so many was once.

MADELINE: Oh--father. I don't know what to do.

IRA: Nothing stays at home. Not even the corn stays at home. If only the
wind wouldn't blow! Why can't I have my field to myself? Why can't I
keep what's mine? All these years I've worked to make it better. I
wanted it to be--the most that it could be. My father used to talk about
the Indians--how our land was their land, and how we must be more than
them. He had his own ideas of bein' more--well, what's that come to? The
Indians lived happier than we--wars, strikes, prisons. But I've made the
corn more! This land that was once Indian maize now grows corn--I'd like
to have the Indians see my corn! I'd like to see them side by
side!--their Indian maize, my corn. And how'd I get it? Ah, by
thinkin'--always tryin', changin', carin'. Plant this corn by that corn,
and the pollen blows from corn to corn--the golden dust it blows, in the
sunshine and of nights--blows from corn to corn like a--(_the word
hurts_) gift. No, you don't understand it, but (_proudly_) corn don't
stay what it is! You can make it anything--according to what you do,
'cording to the corn it's alongside. (_changing_) But that's it. I want
it to stay in my field. It goes away. The prevailin' wind takes it on to
the Johnsons--them Swedes that took my Madeline! I hear it! Oh, nights
when I can't help myself--and in the sunshine I can see it--pollen--soft
golden dust to make new life--goin' on to _them_,--and them too ignorant
to know what's makin' their corn better! I want my field to myself.
What'd I work all my life for? Work that's had to take the place o' what
I lost--is that to go to Emil Johnson? No! The wind shall stand still!
I'll make it. I'll find a way. Let me alone and I--I'll think it out.
Let me alone, I say.

(_A mind burned to one idea, with greedy haste he shuts himself in the
room at left_. MADELINE _has been st