any years a cripple, I never heard her complain,
and no one, I think, ever saw her face clouded with a frown.

Our neighbors in Green's Coulee were all native American. The first and
nearest, Al Randal and his wife and son, we saw often and on the whole
liked, but the Whitwells who lived on the farm above us were a constant
source of comedy to my father. Old Port, as he was called, was a
mild-mannered man who would have made very little impression on the
community, but for his wife, a large and rather unkempt person, who
assumed such man-like freedom of speech that my father was never without
an amusing story of her doings.

She swore in vigorous pioneer fashion, and dominated her husband by
force of lung power as well as by a certain painful candor. "Port,
you're an old fool," she often said to him in our presence. It was her
habit to apologize to her guests, as they took their seats at her
abundant table, "Wal, now, folks, I'm sorry, but there ain't a blank
thing in this house fit for a dawg to eat--" expecting of course to have
everyone cry out, "Oh, Mrs. Whitwell, this is a splendid dinner!" which
they generally did. But once my father took her completely aback by
rising resignedly from the table--"Come, Belle," said he to my mother,
"let's go home. I'm not going to eat food not fit for a dog."

The rough old woman staggered under this blow, but quickly recovered.
"Dick Garland, you blank fool. Sit down, or I'll fetch you a swipe with
the broom."

In spite of her profanity and ignorance she was a good neighbor and in
time of trouble no one was readier to relieve any distress in the
coulee. However, it was upon Mrs. Randal and the widow Green that my
mother called for aid, and I do not think Mrs. Whitwell was ever quite
welcome even at our quilting bees, for her loud voice silenced every
other, and my mother did not enjoy her vulgar stories.--Yes, I can
remember several quilting bees, and I recall molding candles, and that
our "company light" was a large kerosene lamp, in the glass globe of
which a strip of red flannel was coiled. Probably this was merely a
device to lengthen out the wick, but it made a memorable spot of color
in the room--just as the watch-spring gong in the clock gave off a sound
of fairy music to my ear. I don't know why the ring of that coil had
such a wondrous appeal, but I often climbed upon a chair to rake its
spirals with a nail in order that I might float away on its "dying
fall."

Lif