hat old J. G. Whitmore had fired the
Happy Family in a bunch for some unforgivable crime against the peace
and dignity of the outfit, and that the boys were hatching up some
scheme to get even. From the gossip that was rolled relishfully upon the
tongues of the Dry Lake scandal lovers, the Happy Family must have been
more than sufficiently convincing.

CHAPTER 7. THE COMING OF THE COLONY

If you would see northern Montana at its most beautiful best, you should
see it in mid-May when the ground-swallows are nesting and the meadow
larks are puffing their throats and singing of their sweet ecstasy
with life; when curlews go sailing low over the green, grassy billows,
peering and perking with long bills thrust rapier-wise through the sunny
stillness, and calling shrilly, "Cor-r-ECK, cor-r-eck!"--which, I take
it, is simply their opinion of world and weather given tersely in plain
English. You should see the high prairies then, when all the world
is a-shimmer with green velvet brocaded brightly in blue and pink and
yellow flower-patterns; when the heat waves go quivering up to meet the
sun, so that the far horizons wave like painted drop-scenes stirred by a
breeze; when a hypnotic spell of peace and bright promises is woven over
the rangeland--you should see it then, if you would love it with a sweet
unreason that will last you through all the years to come.

The homeseekers' Syndicate, as represented by Florence Grace
Hallman--she of the wheat-yellow hair and the tempting red lips and the
narrow, calculating eyes and stubborn chin--did well to wait for the
spell of the prairies when the wind flowers and the lupines blue the
hillsides and the new grass paints green the hollows.

There is in us all a deep-rooted instinct to create, and never is that
instinct so nearly dominant as in the spring when the grass and the
flowers and the little, new leaves and the birds all sing the song of
Creation together. Then is when case-hardened city dwellers study the
bright array of seed-packets in the stores, and meditate rashly upon
the possibilities of back-yard gardening. Then is when the seasoned
country-dwellers walk over their farms in the sunset and plan largely
for harvest time. Then is when the salaried-folk read avidly the
real-estate advertisements, and pore optimistically over folders and
dream of chicken ranches and fruit ranches and the like. Surely, then,
the homeseekers' Syndicate planned well the date of their excu