Part 2

John sat down to a carefully prepared breakfast of ham, eggs and pancakes. There was but little conversation at the table. The men who raise the nation’s bread have but little time for talk. In twenty minutes John was out again, hitching the six horses to the gang-plow, four abreast across the tongue, and a lead team ahead.

Driving out through the yard, he came to the stubble; and half a mile to the westward he could just see a small piece of fluttering white fixed to a pole. Farther along was another, and at the end of a mile was a third. Maneuvering his team until the three stakes were in line, he drove to the edge of the field. Leaning to one side in his seat, he could see the stakes in line between the horses; then he kicked a lever, and the sharp lay-points dropped to the ground and slipped gently beneath the surface. There came the popping sound of sharp lays in roots and the whirring sound of knife-like coulters; and the stubble, shivering slightly, rose along the moldboards, to turn smoothly and fall bottom-side up, leaving a double furrow of black dirt behind the plow.

Half a mile down the field, Grahame stopped to throw the first stake across the plow. Sighting by the remaining pair, he finally came to the last one, and so out on to the section line. Behind him, a slender black line stretched away into the distance as true as a steel tape.

The second round was easier, for one horse of the lead team and one on the tongue were able to follow the furrow. Taking advantage of this, Grahame hung his handful of lines on the plow-levers while he walked behind and stamped some of the cold out of his joints. At his heels came old Shep, his assistant herder, on the lookout for mice, while behind the dog fluttered a flock of hardy blackbirds watching for worms turned out by the plow.

Five times before dinner and five times in the afternoon Grahame’s plow sliced its way out and back across the field. For the first few rounds he was busy making minor adjustments in the plow and harness, but after that there was nothing to do but ride until he was stiff and then to walk until he was tired. Some days it rained--if not enough to stop the plow, then just enough to make life miserable for horses and man. Sometimes the field was half obscured by snow-squalls or sleet. More often a hot sun started hard oil running from the axles and brought flecks of foam under the horses’ collars.

* * * * *

When Grahame and Jane had put in their first crop, fortune had favored them. A favorable season with steadily rising prices, enabled them to put up a good set of buildings and buy another quarter section, although purchasing the second, called for a mortgage on the first. A second good crop paid up a part of the mortgage on the land, bought additional stock and purchased the machinery they needed; and--then came the deluge. First certain impractical men then in power at the State capitol caused the golden stream of credit to be dammed--gold that had always flowed from the East to carry the farms from crop to crop. People in the East who had money to invest became frightened. They saw or thought they saw a great State crumbling to pieces in the hands of long-haired dreamers. Local banks, unable to borrow, could not lend; and worse yet, they had to collect. Next came the war, with prices which looked high and felt high, but still were below the cost of production. The Government thoughtfully put a price limit on wheat but allowed the price of machinery, twine and leather to climb as high as willing and able profiteers could push them. Lastly came years of drouth, until at the time when this story opens, Grahame had staked his last cent. One good crop would go far toward saving him. Another failure meant the loss of all he had.

Day after day he moved up and down the field, and the black streak grew wider and wider. Sometimes he changed to the drill and seeded what he had plowed, and meanwhile there came the soft rains of early spring, soaking up the thirsty earth. In time the first land plowed became a long band of blue-green. When the wheat was in, he changed to oats and finally to a few acres of spelts for hog feed. June came, and half of it passed, leaving the fields shimmering in the heat of the noonday sun or waving in the cool breezes that followed the frequent showers. Grahame greased the moldboards of the plow to prevent rusting and then went fishing. He needed a few days of rest before haying began.

One afternoon toward the end of June, Grahame, who had just finished cultivating the potatoes, was spraying them with Paris green. It had been an unusually hot day, without a breath of wind, and the air hung heavy and oppressive. Absorbed in his work, he noticed nothing unusual until there came a faint tremor of the air, a low, vibrant thing, half sound, half jar. Straightening up, he looked around to find the western horizon a tumbled mass of threatening clouds. There was a long fork of light, and again came the low murmur, although a little louder than before.

* * * * *

Grahame had long ago learned to fear storms which came up on apparently still air, and his first thought was of hail. He tried to dismiss the fear as foolish, because it was too early in the season for hailstorms. As a precautionary measure, however, he went to the pasture and drove in his stock. As he came back, Jane was working with the turkeys and young chickens. It took the combined efforts of both to find and drive in the last turkey hen, and by that time the clouds were well above their heads. On their crest was a long white billow rolling over and over, from which shot out streamers of white vapor to fall behind in long trailing lines. Behind the crests were the dreaded streaks of green, crossed and recrossed by jagged lines of crimson fire. Then came a black wall of water sweeping toward them across the fields, while the roar of thunder had become continuous.

In the house they worked fast shutting windows and getting ready for wind and rain if for nothing worse. The wall of water came on, shutting out mile after mile of fields, crossed the section line on their west and came up through the wheat. With awful force it struck. A roar, a crash and darkness. The house writhed and groaned, but it held fast to its foundation. Sheets of water ran from the eaves, and the yard became an electrically illuminated lake. For ten minutes it continued unabated, and then the roar fell away to little more than a whisper.

It was the crucial time, and Grahame held his breath. A glance had shown him that the buildings were all intact, and his hopes began to rise. Just then came the forerunner of doom. Something hit the roof like the tap from a small sledge. Running to the window, they saw the water in the yard spurting up as though from shells in a naval engagement. From the lungs of Grahame came the sigh of a man who recognizes defeat. Nothing on God’s green earth could save them now. All was lost, his wheat, his home, his stock, everything gone. Pieces of ice from the size of a pea to big three-cornered chunks larger than hens’ eggs were splashing and bobbing about the yard. With no wind, they were doing little harm, but Grahame drew no comfort from that, for he knew all too well what was behind them, and soon it came. Another roar, another crash. The battering on walls and roof, the splitting of siding and shingles, the breaking of glass and roaring of wind produced pandemonium.

Of the two west windows, they chose one and held pillows against the glass. The other crashed in with a shower of splintered panes, leaving an opening for icy projectiles that pounded across the room to pile up on the opposite wall. For a time the screen on the window they were guarding held, but in the end it gave way and only the pillows saved them from another deluge. When the last pane of glass had been battered out, they stuffed the pillows farther in and reinforced them with other bedding. And then suddenly it seemed as though a divine Protector had thrust forth a shield and covered the house. The tumult ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The quiet was oppressive. The wind dropped to a breeze and a burst of sunlight illuminated the field of wheat before them. There was nothing but a sea of mud.

For many minutes Grahame stood leaning against the battered window. His head rested against his arm, and his whole body sagged in an attitude of utter despondency. Only those who have known what it is to have the results of long hours of work and hope dashed to nothing by the lash of fire or storm can realize the agony of this man who suddenly found himself bereft of the foundation upon which all of his hopes were builded, and face to face with ruin. He was a strong man, as all of his kind must be who wrest a living from Mother Earth, but this last, the greatest blow of all, had been a hard one. The spark of resistance had been all but beaten out.

* * * * *

In the hour of supreme discouragement it is usually the woman who revives first. Jane saw and understood the force of their calamity as well as John himself; but within her she carried the indomitable faith of the pioneer--the faith which endured, over mountains and deserts, through bitter cold and choking dust, to build an empire under the war-clubs of Apache and Sioux. Jane’s first thought was for the man at the window, and soon Grahame felt her arm across his shoulder and the gentle touch of her hand on his hair.

For a long time she too rested her elbow on the empty sash and gazed out on the scene of desolation. Before her eyes stretched a hundred acres of blue-gray mud. Not a living thing in sight, not a plant or weed! At the last thought an expression of grim satisfaction flashed across her face. At least the weeds had gone too. Behind the drill a drift of hailstones was slowly melting in the sun, and the thawing ice brought a renewed tang of spring to the air. It seemed as though the season was just beginning again, and as she looked down along the pasture fence, she almost expected to see a blue bank of wild crocus, just as she had less than two months ago.

From the drill to the field and back to the drill again her eyes wandered, and though she was hardly aware of seeing either, the laws of suggestion came subconsciously into operation. Slowly at first, and then with gathering force, an idea took possession of her mind, and with it came a new expression of hope. She turned with an eager gasp to the man at her side.

“John, I’ve thought of something.”

She saw his face then. It was gray and haggard, but she shook his arm again.

“John, that field is as clean as summer fallowing. Why not put it into flax and try once more?”

For a while Grahame revolved the idea in his head and then dismissed it with: “Too late.”

“No, it isn’t. I know it isn’t too late. Lots of people put flax in the last of June and win out. If we happened to have plenty of rain and no early frost, we might make it too. It’s worth trying, anyway.”

For a moment Grahame toyed with the thought. He raised his head and looked out over the field. Certainly there never was a finer seed-bed than that looked. Flax sowed then would have a flying start of the weeds even if the weeds started again, because it would germinate and grow faster than any of them. With plenty of moisture it stood a good chance to get ahead of the fall frosts. Gradually his face cleared, and he too looked out upon the world with an expression of new hope. He straightened and started to say something, but the words died in his throat. He bowed his head again.

“No money, no credit!” he groaned.

“Oh, John, don’t say it. You have credit.”

“There isn’t a thing left on the place I could put up for security, and who’d be fool enough to lend me money for seedflax so late in the season? No--no use! We’re beaten, and that’s the end of it.”

For a while Jane returned to her study of the ice-swept field, but she did not show the discouragement of her husband. Instead the light of a strong resolution grew in her eyes, and soon he felt her hand on his arm again.

“John, I’ve thought of something else. I still have the hundred dollars you gave me so I could go to the hospital when--that is, this fall. Let’s take that and buy the seed. It will be enough and some left over for groceries. If we get a crop, there’ll be plenty of money for me, and if we shouldn’t--well, I can get along just as so many other women do. Come, John--come! We must hurry. There’s no time to lose.”

* * * * *

John’s head had come up again, and he turned to the indomitable little woman beside him and gathered her into his arms. And so a woman did what her pioneer sisters have done a thousand times before, and what women will do a thousand times in years to come. She drew from that seemingly inexhaustible well of courage, and inspired in her man the strength and determination to try just once more--and then once again.

Long after dark, that same night, Jane heard the rumble of Grahame’s wagon and went to the gate to meet him.

Climbing up on the wheel and holding her lantern down into the box, she saw the light reflected on the oily amber surface of flax. Lifting a handful, she watched it slip between her fingers. It felt cool and smooth and clean. Somehow there came to her, with its velvety touch, a new hope and faith, the faith which makes all things possible to those who must win success only by trying again and again.

On the long ride home with the flax John had had ample time for thought, and he came to realize what Jane’s faith and courage had meant to him that day, and what it would mean in the anxious days to come, and he tried to give expression to the thought.

“You sure are the best little crutch any lame man could have, honey girl.”

“Lame man! Don’t say it! You’re not a lame man!”

“Not physically, I’ll admit but--Jane, where did you get all your courage? You’re like a rubber ball. Punch you in one place, and you bob out in another. Now, me, if I’m punched in, any place, I stay punched in, I guess.”

Jane laughed, but she recognized his troubled thought under his levity.

“You’re unjust to yourself, John. This is the difference between us. You have all the care and worry. You have the responsibility, not only of your own future-- which, if you were alone, would bother you not at all--but also the responsibility of my future and--our children’s future. Don’t you know that the fear of failure is what takes the courage out of a man? What you have to learn is how to forget to be afraid; and you know you will never lose your crutch, so what does the rest matter?”

“It doesn’t matter at all, honey. Nothing matters as long as we have each other.... Get up on the seat with me and ride to the granary. I’m tired and hungry too.”

“Oh, John, and I have kept you here gabbling all this time! No, I’ll run into the house and have something nice and hot for your supper by the time you’ve unhitched.”

* * * * *

Next morning Grahame went over the field and debated with himself whether it would be better to disk or not before hitching on to the drill, but in the end he decided that the disking would dry out the soil and that with the additional time it would take, would do more to lessen his chances than the few weeds that might survive.

In midafternoon of the fourth day Grahame was coming down the last lap of the final round. Ahead of him the six big horses forged steadily on, dragging the twelve-foot drill step by step toward home. From under his feet he could hear the musical sound of thin disks cutting the surface, and the jingle of many small chains dragging on the ground to cover the tiny furrows, while from each spout of the machine a miniature cascade of flax sifted down through a rubber pipe and dropped gently between the disks. At the end of the field he lifted the disks from the ground and turned for a last look over the field. There stretched an even hundred acres of newly seeded grain. Whether or not he and Jane were to keep the farm home in which they had staked so many golden dreams was a secret locked in the bosom of the freshly sown field, but he would not worry, would not be afraid: he would take Jane’s counsel to heart.

That night Jane awoke to hear the soft pattering of rain on the roof. She touched her husband, and together they looked from each window in turn. It was the same in every direction--not a star in sight, but just a lowering canopy of slate-gray clouds from which came the long slanting lines of life-giving moisture. John turned exultantly to his wife:

“Well, honey, we win the first round anyway.”

* * * * *

A few days later they saw the miracle of germinating grain. In seemingly endless rows, and but a few inches apart, the soil was breaking and lifting into tiny ridges, and in some places there were delicate leaves showing under scale-like canopies of soil. Every morning and every evening they made the same pilgrimage, watching the little plants break through and stand erect, the long lines like so many miniature evergreens. In two weeks the field was green again, and Grahame’s flaxfield became the Mecca of neighbors and real-estate men who wished to show a perfect stand.

There came now another lull during which Grahame and Jane replanted as much of their garden as they thought would have time to mature before the frost. Later came the haying, and in addition to the wild hay John cut and stacked, before turning under the stubble, the scattering growth of oats and spelts which had come up in wake of the storm. With no early harvest to take up his time, he helped around the neighborhood, for while there was no cash in it for him, there was always a day coming when he would need help himself.

One day in early August, when Jane and Grahame went to the field, they found the deep green was fading to a lighter shade, and the next morning, under a warm burst of sunshine, the flax had turned to an ocean of waving blue. Acre after acre, away into the West until their vision was lost amid the dancing heat waves, were countless millions of tiny blue blossoms nodding in the sun. Fleecy clouds threw light shadow-areas which moved slowly across the field, and currents of air, passing here and there, sent shimmering paths of alternating blue and green before their eyes. Again Grahame’s arm tightened about his wife, and this time he chuckled as he announced: “Round Number Two, and we’ve won again.”

“How long before it will be out of danger, John?”

“Depends on the weather. Say a month--six weeks, perhaps.”

“That’s a long time,” said Jane wistfully.

“Here, don’t you lose your grip, little wife. Where’d we land if you gave up, I’d like to know?”

Jane laughed. “Oh, I’m not losing my grip. I’m only getting a fresh start; but John, as the danger gets nearer and nearer, it takes a lot of nerve never to be afraid, doesn’t it?”

“You bet it does, honey; but me--I’m learning a lot these days. A man doesn’t have to flunk entirely because he is knocked out once. Let’s forget it and go fishing.”

And there was no need for worry. September came without frost following a season of ample moisture. The blue petals had withered long ago, and in their place had come tiny green bolls. That was the danger period, and night after night John had watched the thermometer, for the slightest trace of frost would destroy the delicate bolls and plunge their hopes once more into discouragement; but no frost came, and he watched the little grains pass from milk to dough and at last harden to the point where they were safe. Then came a time of windy weather and clear skies when the field slowly turned to gold and then brown, and the day arrived when Jane and Grahame stood and listened to the dry, metallic, rasping sound of ripe grain. He took off his hat and threw it out on the grain. The serried ranks of stems hardly bent, and the hat rode buoyantly above the field. That was a sign of twenty bushels to the acre! They returned to the house, too happy even to talk, and Grahame went to work on the big “header” or “push-binder,” as it is sometimes called by virtue of the fact that the horses are behind instead of in front of the cutting and binding mechanism.

* * * * *

There are two ways of cutting flax. One is to take off the binder attachment and allow the grain to pass to the carrier and be dumped in windrows. The other is to cut it like other grain and shock it. Grahame had decided to go to the additional expense of tying it, as he explained to Jane:

“Because it is so late in the season, there is a chance of snow before we can get it threshed. Even heavy rains would damage it. If it is shocked, you can see how we can save more of it than we could if it’s lying on the ground. It will cost more, but it’s worth it.”

“Yes, I see that; but--it’s a lot of work to put a hundred acres of grain into shocks.”

“Well, I have the time, and I can work--none better.”

And so early next morning he hitched his six horses to the big binder and drove to the field. When the sickle had almost reached the grain, he tilted the platform so the knife would work five or six inches above the ground. Then he kicked another lever, and the whole machine sprang to life, and the twelve-foot knife began its tireless sawing motion through the guards. The platform and elevator canvases began their endless revolutions, to the accompaniment of much flapping of free ends, while a multitude of chains and sprockets added their whirr and rumble to the ensemble.