the east, the west was now red, glorious. High up in the sky,
surrounding the glow, a part of it as well, narrow luminous sun-dogs
presaged uncertain weather to follow.

Guy Landers mounted the wagon wearily, and looked ahead. The end of
the two loaded corn-rows which he was robbing was in sight, and he
returned doggedly to his task. The ardor of the morning had succumbed
to the steady grind of physical toil, and he worked with the impassive
perseverance of a machine.

Night and the stillness thereof settled fast. The world darkened so
swiftly that the change could almost be distinguished. The rows ahead
grew shadowy, and in their midst, by contrast, the corn-ears stood out
white and distinct. The whole world seemed to draw more closely
together. The low vibrant hum that marked the location of the distant
threshing crew, sounded now almost as near as the voice of a friend. A
flock of prairie-chickens flew low overhead, their flatly spread wings
cutting the air with a sound like whips. They settled nearby, and out
of the twilight came anon the confused murmur of their voices.

Landers stopped the impatient horses at the end of the field, and
shook level the irregular, golden heap in the wagon-box. Slowly he
drew on coat and top-coat, and mounted the full load, sitting sideways
with legs hanging over the bulging wagon-box. It was dark now, but he
was not alone. Other wagons were groaning homeward as well. Suddenly,
thin and brassy, out of the distance came the sound of a steam
whistle; and when it was again silent the hum of the thresher had
ceased. From a field by the roadside, a solitary prairie-rooster gave
once, twice, its lone, restless call.

The man stretched back full length on the corn bed and looked up where
the stars sparkled clear and bright. It all appealed to him, and a
moisture formed in his eyes. A new side to the problem of the morning
came to him. These sounds--he realized now how he loved them. Verily
they were a part of his life. Mid them he had been bred; of them as of
food he had grown. That whistle, thin and unmusical; that elusive,
indescribable call of prairie male; all these homely sounds that meant
so much to him--could he leave them?

The moisture in his eyes deepened and a tightness gripped his throat.
Slowly two great tears fought their way down through the dust on his
face, and dropped lingeringly, one after the other amid the
corn-ears.

II

The little, low, weather-white schoo