ood out upon the prairie to the west
a mile distant, and during May we trudged our way over a pleasant road,
each carrying a small tin pail filled with luncheon. Here I came in
contact with the Norwegian boys from the colony to the north, and a
bitter feud arose (or existed) between the "Yankees," as they called us,
and "the Norskies," as we called them. Often when we met on the road,
showers of sticks and stones filled the air, and our hearts burned with
the heat of savage conflict. War usually broke out at the moment of
parting. Often after a fairly amicable half-mile together we suddenly
split into hostile ranks, and warred with true tribal frenzy as long as
we could find a stone or a clod to serve as missile. I had no personal
animosity in this, I was merely a Pict willing to destroy my Angle
enemies.

As I look back upon my life on that woodland farm, it all seems very
colorful and sweet. I am re-living days when the warm sun, falling on
radiant slopes of grass, lit the meadow phlox and tall tiger lilies into
flaming torches of color. I think of blackberry thickets and odorous
grapevines and cherry trees and the delicious nuts which grew in
profusion throughout the forest to the north. This forest which seemed
endless and was of enchanted solemnity served as our wilderness. We
explored it at every opportunity. We loved every day for the color it
brought, each season for the wealth of its experience, and we welcomed
the thought of spending all our years in this beautiful home where the
wood and the prairie of our song did actually meet and mingle.

CHAPTER VIII

We Move Again

One day there came into our home a strange man who spoke in a fashion
new to me. He was a middle-aged rather formal individual, dressed in a
rough gray suit, and father alluded to him privately as "that English
duke." I didn't know exactly what he meant by this, but our visitor's
talk gave me a vague notion of "the old country."

"My home," he said, "is near Manchester. I have come to try farming in
the American wilderness."

He was kindly, and did his best to be democratic, but we children stood
away from him, wondering what he was doing in our house. My mother
disliked him from the start for as he took his seat at our dinner table,
he drew from his pocket a case in which he carried a silver fork and
spoon and a silver-handled knife. Our cutlery was not good enough for
him!

Every family that we knew at that time used three-t