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DRIVING into the yard on a dull September day in an old democrat wagon which might have arrived on the Mayflower with his' distinguished ancestor, scowling and snarling at a * rack-a-bones of a horse, William Brewster nervously grasped the reins and slid gingerly to the ground. "Whoa! didn't I t^ll ye?" he shrieked, jerking on the reins and throwing his clumsy-weight on the tugs. "Back, you old fool! Do you want me to tear the whiffletrees out gettin' you onhitched!" When he stamped . into the kitchen a few .minutes later, the refined old gentlewoman by the window lifted her deep grey eyes for an instant from a pan of pie apples to drop again.before he could catch their subtle flash. "What'd you think has happened now, Anne Rutledge?" he growled throwing him self iqjo the big rocker. "Stone has sold to Bayton for fifteen thousand and oneV these durned furriners has bought the Jenkins' place." It was a piece of real news and the woman's industrious fingers halted for a moment as she looked him full in the face. The Stone place was directly east of the Brewster estate, the last farm owned by a "native" between them and beautiful Kildare, which, within a few years had been' bought up by millionaires from St. Louis and New York and converted into a sort of Bar Harbor of the granite hills. The Jenkins place was the next farm directly west. " AND of all kinds of course it had *» to be one of these crazy Rooshan Poles," the incensed "native" added. • "Maybe it will be all for the best, William," his wife softly ventured, resting her eyes on old Mount Maroonock rising dimly above the gathering clouds. ''Bayton has his millions and will probably convert the Stone Place -.,, into one of his model farms and as for the Jenkins place, I'm sure anything j ought to be better than an abandoned t farm all going to rack and ruin." —• j "Jest like you, Anne Rutledge!" he retorted, "Staring at the mountain! If your darned old mountain should bust, an' give us all a fire an' brimstone shower bath, you'd say the same. Bayton ain't a-goin' to set up another of his high-toned farms but jest hitch a bigger frontier on to his lordly serfdom. He'll have a barb wire fence twelve feet high all aroun' my farm, that'll scratch up my cattle like the old Harry an' spile my huntin' an' fishin', darn 'im! ,"An' the worst of it all is," he went on getting up and pacing the room in growing excitement, "Bayton swears that this is the last acre he is goin' to buy. Just imagine my luck, Anne! Stone sells for fifteen thousand and I couldn't sell for fifteen hundred an' my farm's twice as good as his'n. Jest imagine it Anne Rutledge, if you can! A barb wire fence on one side o* me an' a crazv Polack on the other!" «s j TELL ye what, Anne! I tell ye * what!" he cried as his flashing eyes fell on the beloved Winchester and fishing rod in a conspicuous corner, "1 ain't goin' to stan' this insult. A man of my name an' antecedents ain't called on to do it. My forefathers fought the injuns at Plymouth and chopped a home outen the wilderness, an' a hundred an' fifty years later they did the same thing all over again up here among the granite hills. An' now an insolent money-grubber buys up the whole country-side, postin' every wood and stream , an' fences me in on one side an' tells me to 'sociate with the scum o' the earth on the other! I'll sell out an' git out if I have t gnglwH^BP&«uft ||^ starting the ? â»alBEHB>^PB«SBk, horse down VjJnaaHBnaKaaaM ^naaaHKSiinBB 1 | y At Latt She Came I ! Home With a Story \ With a Real Thrill in It tor Everybody hill on the run and only the sudden ap- (jearance on the scene of the new neighbor, as, with a flying leap, he caught the horse's bridle, saved her from a serious accident. And—here was the thrill—the rescuer had greeted and soothed the fri ghtened girl in perfectly good French! She tried tp thank him in the same ḷanguage. All that followed was onl y partly revealed. At least so it seemed to the gentle mother when, left alone with her mountains, she thought it all over. Brewster listened to the story with flushed face and tingling ears but in thinking over the French feature of it, his resourceful hatred found additional cause for suspicion. "Like's not the critter is one o' these eddicated Nihilists that had to git up an' git for throwin' bombs!" > However, the deeper instincts of the gentleman prevailed, and he actually nodded to the foreigner the next time they passed on the road but the man's industry and enterprise continued to excite and irritate him beyond endurance. Every new venture of the young enthusiast seemed to strike him as an insulting challenge. The logging and lumbering, the shingling of the barn, sides and all, with his own shingles, the re-modelling of the old farmhouse, the installation of modern improvements with second hand materials donated by one of the millionaires on the hill seemed to Brewster little short of a «Iap in the face. it'T'HEidea of that scum o' the earth with * a bathroom in his house," he snarled. "A dry sink's been good enough for us." But even this was not the end for what should this insatiate foreigner do but revive an old sugar orchard which had not been tapped for twenty-five years, the spicy smoke and fragrant steam rising like incense over the hill day and night. After that he attacked an unsightly cider apple orchard, trimming and pruning so close that the natives declared the trees looked "for all creation like sheared sheep with their hind legs and tails stickin' up in the As the snowline kept rising higher and higher on Mount Maroonock, William Brewster tossed the foreigner and his impertinent innovations to the glorious spring breezes and started with plow and harrow for the fields. And it was with the devout feeling that all the stars in their courses were fighting for him that, just as old Maroonock was putting away its winter night cap and all the streams were breaking into their spring songs, he hailed a "lowery day threatenin' rain." Filling his pocket with worm ' s released by the plow and enlisting the dextrous fingers of Anne Rutledge on his snarled lines, he was soon off toward the mountain filled with fisherman's joy. He cut across the Stone place up through the woods to the east side of old Maroonock where the descent jriras the greatest and the pools the deepest . " ASFINEadayasever broke," he said to ** himself as he made a bee line for the big hole under a mighty hemlock, But there was nothing doing there, much to his disappointment, although he bobbed his bait with patient persistence. And when the next pool and the next yielded no greater returns, the main stream being still too \ high and boisterous, he began to be |bitterly suspicious that somebody had 3 out-guessed him and sneaked in ahead. "If that's what's up, it's no use my fiddlin' any more," he muttered, as he threw down the rod and produced his pipe and tobacco. Then he noticed footprints in the mud. "It's probably Zeke," he said to himself. "I beat him good an' hard last year, do it four years out of five an' if I skin along now I can maybe get the double cross on him down at the big bend." Alas for his hopes! There at the I big curve his enemy appeared—and it ¦ was not Zeke! , Astounded and maddened, William \ Brewster muttered imprecations at the unconscious offender standing out in the open and getting ready for the cast. The high-brow affectation of fly fishing added insult to injury. "The low, miserable furriner!" said Brewster under his breath. A little above six feet, straight as a pine and handsome as a Greek athlete, the young man turned on his heel, threw his head backward and swung the rod into position for the cast. "Cuss him!" hissed the spectator as the fisher's sinewy wrist started the mighty whir! that was to shoot the dancing coachman into the boiling eddy twenty-fivuflft away. But suddenly something happened for the quivering rod stood poised in the air, the line floating down and curling up limp on the ground. "He's seen me an' thinks I'm Bayton's warden," muttered Brewster but suddenly catching sight of the object which had fCovriNTF.D ON PAGE 32:1)
DAN McCARTY'S GLORIOUS LE Royally His Big Irish Heart Found a Legitimate Screen for Mother and Babe D AVID H. T ALMADGE people who know Typica at MOST all know it as a railway station where local main-line trains stop to load or unload milk cans and where the limited trains do not even hesitate. The town kindles not a spark of interest in these people. They glance from the car windows at the dingy hotel with its barn and cowshed across the tracks from the depot and, on the other side, direct a bored look at the row of one-story business buildings which outline Main street. Then they return to their newspapers.or their naps. But there are a few people—a very few in comparison with the great total population—who love Typica and find a keener joy in returning to it than in getting away from it. Back of the dingy hotel, back of the row of little business buildings, there are homes set upon green lawns among the trees, and there are two small church spires, and beyond these stretch grain fields and pasture lands and orchards. Over all hovers a sweet and abiding peace. Yet life, in its varying changes of joy and grief , is the same in Typica as elsewhere. IN THE days not so long gone, many boys, deep-chtsted and clear-eyed, as was to be expected from their environment, had come out from these homes and gone to war. Many had returned ; some had not. Throughout all the state there had been no response to the calls for aid in war work so prompt as Typica's. The town did not boast of this; it did what it considered its duty quite as a matter of course, being thus constituted, and it never for an instant lost touch with the world, though it was to the world unknown. As is the case in all communities, Typica had its outstanding figures in community thought arid action. Of these Henry Branson,, was the radical leader, Jason Cloud the conservative, and between these, sometimes radical, sometimes conservative, always with an eye to the human side, a bit rough, somewhat unconventional, was old Dan McCarty. He smoked a pipe, did Dan. Occasionally he used strong language. He was careless in his dress. But years, many years, ago Typica had penetrated this outwardness and found Well, what it found gaveinspiration for many stories, not one of which did Dan himself recount. For the most part his life was lived silently but when he listened, the eyes under their bushy brows gave out light. And he was ever ready to listen. When he chose to speak therefore he was given careful heed. One winter night when the rain was driving in on a south wind and the lights of Main street casting weird swinging shadows, he and Henry Bronson and Jason Cloud had foregathered with other lingerers about the stove in the corner store, "Ye Come Home a Night Like Thi, With '• Your Babyl Why?" ~3 B Dan entered momentarily into the talk pertaining to the ending of the war. u pRAISE be, 'tis all over," he said. 1 " 'T has been hard on us in Typica to plan all thim priparations and fight all thim battles and draw up all thim terms and things and at the same time take care of our little troubles here at home % 'Tis a wonder intirely our minds have stood up under the strain of it—maylike they wouldn't, had we not gone a bit easy for the time 'bein' on the problims that are within reachin' distance of our hands and within seem.' distance of our eyes." Henry Bronson, interrupted in a voluble statement as to "what the government should now do and why, looked quickly at Dan. He saw no guile there. But for some reason he changed the subject. A gold star in the front window of the McCarty cottage across the tracks—young Dan had been killed at the Marne—rendered Dan immune from controversial attack upon matters pertaining to the war. This at least was the excuse the wise ones gave themselves. There were other reasons for this immunity. It was the winter custom of the three leaders to go from supper to the postoffice , there to get the daily papers from the city a hundred miles down the line. The bundle of ^dailies was tossed from the limited which roared through the town each evening and thence to the corner store. The three men remained together until another train, known as Number 13 and due shortly after nine o'clock, had passed, then they went home. On this night when war talk ceased, town talk flourished. Grandpa Green, totally paralyzed in both legs and one arm, was planning to go onto a homestead in the spring. Ed Either had bought a new car for spring delivery; he might get his old car paid for by that time but it seemed doubtful. This was Lily May Foster's fourth week in the hospital at White River, rather a mysterious case; had been reported as Spanish influenza at first , with complications; appeared to be all complications now; likely an operation of some sort ; her folks were reticent about the matter. So the gossip ran on, touching many things*—Dan McCarty's eyes closed, and the paper, which he had dropped into his lap with a sigh, slid to the floor. At length, aroused by the whistle of Number 13, he rose from his place behind the stove, put the paper into his pocket, turned up his coat collar and pulled down his hat. " 'Tis a fine lullaby the rain and wind is playin' tonight," he observed, "for thim with soft bids and tight roofs but the divii's tattoo for thim that hasn't." "And the devil's tattoo for the guilty conscience, however soft the bed or tight the roof," added Jason Cloud. "Mebby so, Jason; but 'tis many the guilty conscience that could be stilled by a bit of hilp from the outside. Good night to all of ye!" "Good night, Dan!" Number 13, its long line of lighted windows shining dimly through the rain, was still standing at the station when Dan, his head tilted to the wind, reached the graveled platform. But, as if his coming were the signal for departure, in that moment the train, grinding and puffing, went on its way. Dan, waiting at the crossing, watched it go. He liked for some reason to watch the tail-lights fade, to lose little by little the grinding sound of the wheels and the voice of the engine. "Ye're off into the dark," he murmured, "but if ye stick to the narrow way ye'll surely come to where ye're wantin' to go. Like us—yis, enough like us to make it worth thinkin' of. What " Something touched him lightly on the arm, and he turned quickly. "Mister—Mister McCarty?" The voice was familiar to him and he strained his eyes in the darkness to see the face of the girl. She was wrapped in a long garment of some sort which covered her head like a hood. In her arms she carried a bundle. "Is it," Dan spoke as one who doubts deeply, wishes to doubt, "is it Lily May?" 'Yes,. Mister McCarty; I just came on the train." "And who have ye with ye, Lily May?" Dan put out a hand to the bundle. "My—my boy." Dan groaned ; he could not help it. "Ye come home—on a night like this— with your baby! Ẉhy?" "I had no more money and they would not let me stay. It was not raining when we left White River." "No, of course not; they wouldn't—no. If ye are out of money ye can do nothin'— nowhere." ""THE night telegraph operator at the de- *¦ pot, the train having been duly reported out, .began to sing to the accompaniment of a guitar. He was a stranger, the operator, and he was lonely. They could hear him quite plainly, despite the heavy drip of the rain fronvthe depot eaves. Dan drew a deep, long breath. "What are ye aimin' to do, Lily May?" "Go home, I suppose; I must go somewhere. My father will—I am afraid -I " She broke into sudden tears, sobbing with her whole frail body. "Wait, Lily May— don't—I can't think with this rain runnin' down me back—and I .must think a bit." He shook his head, looking here and there in the darkness. "We must git out of the storm." Gently he took the bundle from her arms. "Come with me, Lily May." He led the way across the tracks to the hotel cowshed, the interior of which was fitfully illumiuaieu irom we oepoc ngnis. There was clean straw here. A cow at the further end oe the shed snorted and clambered awkwardly to her feet, making a clatter of hoofs upon the board floor. "Put some straw in the feed box, Lily May; 'twill be a fine place for the b'y." She did as he directed and he put the bundle carefully in the box. And then, under the volition of < a'* sudden thought, he removed his hat and stood with his head bowed low. Child, he half whispered, the words laden with awe, "do ye see what we've done? 'Tis a manger he's in!" The girl sank limply upon a bale of straw, her face in her hands. "Lily May?" Dan swung about. "Yes?" Faintly. "We must find a way out of this. Ye've always been a good girl. Till me, Lily May—who—who was the man?" "Ronald Dean." «l_IIM!" Excitedly Dan put his hand to *^1 the pocket of his coat but withdrew it eTfrpty. "Do you know where he is?" She shook her head. "He went to the war," she quavered. "We were to be married when he came back. He promised." "He promised—yis, yis. Listen, Lily May—had Ronald Dean any folks? I know he drifted in here last year with the harvest crews and that he answered the call of the draft from here, but " "He told me his father and mother were both dead." ' "Yis? Thin there will be none to make a row." Dan spoke in an undertone asy'f he were alone and talking to himself. Then he was silent for a space, his hand gently rubbing the stubble on his chin. Presently he leaned over and patted the girl's head softly. "It will be all right, deary. Ronald will niver deny that he made the promise to ye." She looked up into his face, her hand clutching his coat. "0, 1 know he will be (CONTTNTOO 01 PAOI 341)
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Page 15 and 16: The Farmer's Wife , March, 1920 Pa&
Page 17 and 18: THE (iJESTIONOF WALL PAPER What to
Page 19 and 20: Deliciousness in Vegetables You who
Page 21 and 22: med it with lace and beading. The s
Page 23 and 24: HOME DEMONSTRATION AGENTS News of I
Page 25 and 26: PLANNING SIMPLE MENUS Three Basic P
Page 27 and 28: JUST AMONG US GIRLS A Frank Little
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Page 31 and 32: THE BOOK SHELF Let Us Help You Find
Page 33 and 34: SELECT YOUR SPRING STYLES NOW ¦sî
Page 35 and 36: îN YXAT Ih^V WPAr In I^Plil /A Rfl
Page 37 and 38: A ^ HANDICRAFT HELPS Design for a T
Page 39 and 40: ~^ ~" AWELL-KEPT hand is a comfort
Page 41 and 42: The Farmer's Wife , March, 1920 Pag
Page 43 and 44: BARNUM PUT ITSELF ON THE MAP Succes
Page 45 and 46: HOW I BUILT UP MY POULTRY BUSINESS
Page 47 and 48: The Farmer's Wife , March, 1920 iTO
Page 49 and 50: IN THE DAIRY What Feeding and Good
Page 51 and 52: The tears started in the girl s eye
Page 53 and 54: SCHOOL REBUILDS COMMUNITY (CONTINUI
Page 55 and 56: .y »ft '' '>'."j. '" y. ' ."" ' ""

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