Book 1, Chapter 1 of One of Ours This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tom Weiss. One of Hours by Willa Cather Book 1, on Lovely Creek, Chapter 1 Blood-Wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and vigorously shook his younger brother who lay in the other half of the same bed. Ralph! Ralph, get awake! Come down and help me wash the car. What for? Why, aren't we going to the circus today? Cars all right, let me alone.  Claude rose and dressed, a simple operation which took very little time. He crept down two flights of stairs, filling his way in the dusk, his red hair standing up in peaks, like a cox comb. He went through the kitchen into the adjoining washroom which held two porcelain stands with running water. Everybody had washed before going to bed, apparently, and the bowls were rained with a dark sediment which the hard alkaline water had not dissolved.   She smiled at him in the foolish fond way she often had with him when they were alone. Where are you getting up for already, boy? You going to the circus before breakfast?  All right, Mahaley. Claude caught up his cap and ran out of doors, down the hillside toward the barn. The sun popped up over the edge of the prairie like a broad smiling face. The light poured across the close crop, august pastures, and the hilly-tembered windings of Lovely Creek, a clear little stream with a sand bottom that curled and twisted playfully about through the south section of the big Wheeler Ranch. It was a fine day to go to the circus at Frankfurt, a fine day to do anything, the sort of day that must somehow turn out well. Claude backed the little Ford car out of its shed, ran it up to the horse tank, and began to throw water on the mud-crusted wheels and windshield. While he was at work the two hired men, Dan and Jerry, came shambling down the hill to feed the stock. Jerry was grumbling and swearing about something, but Claude rung out his wet rags and, beyond a nod, paid no attention to them. Somehow his father always managed to have the roughest and dirtiest hired men in the country working for him. Dan had a grievance against Jerry just now, because of his treatment of one of the horses. Molly was a faithful old mare, the mother of many colts. Claude and his younger brother had learned to ride on her. This man Jerry, taking her out to work one morning, let her step on a board with a nail sticking up in it. He pulled the nail out of her foot, saying nothing to anybody, and drove her to the cultivator all day. Now she had been standing in her stall for weeks, patiently suffering, her body wretchedly thin, and her legs swollen until it looked like an elephants. She would have to stand there, the veterinary said, until her hoof came off and she grew a new one, and she would always be stiff. Jerry had not been discharged, and he exhibited the poor animal as if she were a credit to him. Mahaley came out on the hilltop and rang the breakfast bell. After the hired men went up to the house, Claude slipped into the barn to see that Molly had got her share of oats.  When he stroked her neck and talked to her, she stopped grinding and gazed at him mournfully. She knew him, and wrinkled her nose and drew her upper lip back from her worn teeth to show that she liked being petted. She let him touch her foot and examine her leg. When Claude reached the kitchen, his mother was sitting at one end of the breakfast table, pouring weak coffee. His brother and Dan and Jerry were in their chairs, and Mahaley was baking griddle cakes at the stove. A moment later Mr. Wheeler came down the enclosed stairway and walked the length of the table to his own place. He was a very large man, taller and broader than any of his neighbors. He seldom wore a coat in summer, and his rumpled shirt bulged out carelessly over the belt of his trousers. His florid face was clean-shaven, likely to be a trifle tobacco stained about the mouth, and it was conspicuous both for good nature and coarse humor, and for an imperturbable physical composure. Nobody in the country had ever seen Nat Wheeler flustered about anything, and nobody had ever heard him speak with complete seriousness. He kept up his easygoing, jocular affability even with his own family. As soon as he was seated, Mr. Wheeler reached for the two pint sugar bowl and began to pour sugar into his coffee. Ralph asked him if he were going to the circus. Mr. Wheeler winked. I shouldn't wonder if I happened in town sometime before the elephants get away. He spoke very deliberately with a state of main drawl, and his voice was smooth and agreeable. You boys better start in early, though. You can take the wagon and the mules and load in the cow hides. The butcher has agreed to take them. Claude put down his knife. Can't we have the car? I've washed it on purpose. And what about Dan and Jerry? They want to see the circus just as much as you do, and I want the hides should go in. They're bringing a good price now. I don't mind about you washing the car. Mud preserves the paint, they say, but it'll be all right this time, Claude. The hired men ha-ha'd and Ralph giggled. Claude's freckled face got very red. The pancake grew stiff and heavy in his mouth and was hard to swallow. His father knew he hated to drive the mules to town and knew how he hated to go anywhere with Dan and Jerry. As for the hides, they were the skins of four steers that had perished in the blizzard last winter through the wanton carelessness of these same hired men, and the price they would bring would not half pay for the time his father had spent in stripping and curing them. They had lain in a shed loft all summer, and the wagon had been to town a dozen times. But today, when he wanted to go to Frankfurt clean and carefree, he must take these stinking hides and two coarse-mouthed men and drive a pair of mules that always braided and balked and behaved ridiculously in a crowd. Probably his father had looked out of the window and seen him washing the car and had put this up on him while he dressed. It was like his father's idea of a joke. His wheeler looked at Claude sympathetically, feeling that he was disappointed. Perhaps she, too, suspected a joke. She had learned that humor might wear almost any guys. When Claude started for the barn after breakfast, she came running down the path, calling to him faintly, hurrying always made her short of breath.   I can iron it while you're hitching," she said wistfully. Claude stood kicking at a bunch of mottled feathers that had once been a young chicken. His shoulders were drawn high, his mother saw, and his figure suggested energy and determined self-control.  He spoke rapidly, muttering his words. I'd better wear my old clothes if I have to take the hides. They're greasy, and in the sun they'll smell worse than fertilizer. The men can handle the hides, I should think. Weren't you feel better in town to be dressed? She was still blinking up at him. Don't bother about it. Put me out a clean-colored shirt if you want to. That's all right. He turned toward the barn, and his mother went slowly back the path up to the house. She was so plucky and so stooped, his dear mother. He guessed if she could stand having these men about, could cook and wash for them, he could drive them to town. Half an hour after the wagon left, Nat Wheeler put on an alpaca coat, and went off in the rattling buckboard in which, though he kept two automobiles, he still drove about the country. He said nothing to his wife. It was her business to guess whether or not he would be home for dinner. He and Mahaley could have a good time scrubbing and sweeping all day, with no men around to bother them. There were few days in the year when Wheeler did not drive off somewhere, to an auction sale, or a political convention, or a meeting of the farmer's telephone directors, to see how his neighbors were getting on with their work if there was nothing else to look after. He preferred his buckboard to a car because it was light, when easily over heavy or rough roads, and was so rickety that he never felt he must suggest his wife's accompanying him. Besides, he could see the country better when he didn't have to keep his mind on the road. He had come to this part of Nebraska when the Indians and the Buffalo were still about. Remembered the grasshopper year and the big cyclone, had watched the farms emerge one by one from the great rolling page where once only the wind wrote its story. He had encouraged new settlers to take up homesteads, urged on courtships, lent young fellows the money to marry on, seen families grow and prosper, until he felt a little as if all this were his own enterprise. The changes not only those the years made, but those the seasons made were interesting to him. People recognized Nat Wheeler and his carp a mile away. He sat massive and comfortable, weighing down one end of the slanting seat, his driving-hand lying on his knee. Even his German neighbors, the Yoders, who hated to stop work for a quarter of an hour on any account, were glad to see him coming. The merchants in the little towns about the county missed him if he didn't drop in once a week or so. He was active in politics, never ran for an office himself, but often took up the cause of a friend and conducted his campaign for him. The French saying, Joy of the street, sorrow of the home, was exemplified in Mr. Wheeler, though not at all in the French way. His own affairs were of secondary importance to him. In the early days he had homesteaded and bought and leased enough land to make him rich. Now he had only to rent it out to good farmers who liked to work. He didn't, and of that he made no secret. When he was at home he usually sat upstairs in the living room reading newspapers. He subscribed for a dozen or more. The list included a weekly devoted to scandal, and he was well informed about what was going on in the world. He had magnificent health and illness in himself or in other people struck him as humorous. To be sure, he never suffered from anything more perplexing than toothache or boils or an occasional filious attack. Wheeler gave liberally to churches and charities, was always ready to lend money or machinery to a neighbor who was short of anything. He liked to tease and shock diffident people and had an inexhaustible supply of funny stories. Everybody marveled that he got on so well with his oldest son, Bayless Wheeler. Not that Bayless was exactly diffident, but he was a narrow gauge fellow, the sort of prudent young man one wouldn't expect Nat Wheeler to like. Bayless had a farm implement business in Frankfurt, and though he was still under thirty he had made a very considerable financial success. Perhaps Wheeler was proud of his son's business acumen. At any rate, he drove to town to see Bayless several times a week, went to sales and stock exhibits with him, and sat about his store for hours at a stretch joking with the farmers who came in. Wheeler had been a heavy drinker in his day and was still a heavy feeder. Bayless was thin and dyspepsic and a virulent prohibitionist. He would have liked to regulate everybody's diet by his own feeble constitution. Then Mrs. Wheeler, who took the men God had apportioned her for granted, wondered how Bayless and his father could go off to conventions together and have a good time, since their ideas of what made a good time were so different. Once every few years Mr. Wheeler bought a new suit and a dozen stiff shirts and went back to Maine to visit his brothers and sisters, who were very quiet conventional people. But he was always glad to get home to his old clothes, his big farm, his buck board, and Bayless. Mrs. Wheeler had come out from Vermont to be principal of the High School, when Frankfurt was a frontier town and Nat Wheeler was a prosperous bachelor. He must have fancied her for the same reason he liked his son Bayless, because she was so different. There was this to be said for Nat Wheeler that he liked every sort of human creature. He liked good people and honest people, and he liked rascals and hypocrites almost to the point of loving them. If he heard that a neighbor had played a sharp trick or done something particularly mean, he was sure to drive over to see the man at once, as if he hadn't hitherto appreciated him. There was a large loafing dignity about Claude's father. He liked to provoke others to uncouth laughter, but he never laughed immoderately himself. In telling stories about him, people often tried to imitate his smooth, senatorial voice robust but never loud. Even when he was hilariously delighted by anything, as when poor Mahaley undressing in the dark on a summer night sat down on the sticky flypaper, he was not boisterous. He was a jolly, easygoing father, indeed, for a boy who was not thin-skinned. End of book 1, chapter 1, recording by Tom Weiss, book 1, chapter 2 of One of R's. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tom Weiss. One of R's by Willa Cather, chapter 2. Claude and his mules rattled into Frankfurt just as the Calliopee went screaming down Main Street at the head of the Circus Parade. Getting rid of his disagreeable freight and his uncongenial companions as soon as possible, he elbowed his way along the crowded sidewalk, looking for some of the neighbor boys. Mr. Wheeler was standing on the farmer's bank corner, towering ahead above the throng, chafing with a little hunchback who was setting up a shell game. To avoid his father, Claude turned and went into his brother's store.  Bayless was seated in the little glass cage where he did his writing and bookkeeping. He nodded at Claude from his desk. Hello, said Claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry. Have you seen Ernest Havel? I thought I might find him in here. Bayless swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough catalog to the shelf. What would he be in here for? Better look for him in the saloon. He was in a hurry to put meaner insinuations into a slow, dry remark than Bayless. Claude's cheeks flamed with anger. As he turned away he noticed something unusual about his brother's face, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black eye. Ernest Havel was a bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of beer when he came to town, but he was sober and thoughtful beyond the want of young men. From Bayless's withdrawal one might have supposed that the boy was a drunken loafer. At that very moment Claude saw his friend on the other side of the street, following the wagon of trained dogs that brought up the rear of the procession. He ran across through a crowd of shouting youngsters and caught Ernest by the arm. Hello, where are you off to?  I left my wagon out by the pumping station on the creek. What about you? I've got no program. Can I go along? Ernest smiled. I expect I've got enough lunch for two. Yes, I know you always have. I'll join you later. Claude would have liked to take Ernest to the hotel for dinner. He had more than enough money in his pockets, and his father was a rich farmer. In the Wheeler family a new thrasher or a new automobile was ordered without a question, but it was considered extravagant to go to a hotel for dinner. If his father or Bayless heard that he had been there, and Bayless heard everything, they would say he was putting on airs and would get back at him. He tried to excuse his cowardice to himself by saying that he was dirty and smelled of the hides. But in his heart he knew that he did not ask Ernest to go to the hotel with him, because he had been so brought up that it would be difficult for him to do this simple thing. He made some purchases at the fruit stand and the cigar counter, and then hurried out along the dusty road toward the pumping station. Ernest's wagon was standing under the shade of some willow trees, on a little sandy bottom half enclosed by a loop of the creek which curved like a horseshoe. Claude threw himself on the sand beside the stream and wiped the dust from his hot face. He felt he had now closed the door on his disagreeable morning. Ernest produced his lunch basket. I've got a couple bottles of beer cooling in the creek, he said. I knew you wouldn't want to go in a saloon. Oh, forget it, Claude muttered, ripping the corner off a jar of pickles. He was nineteen years old, and he was afraid to go into a saloon, and his friend knew he was afraid. After lunch, Claude took out a handful of good cigars he had bought at the drugstore. Ernest, who couldn't afford cigars, was pleased. He lit one, and as he smoked he kept looking at it with an air of pride and turning it around between his fingers. The horses stood with their heads over the wagon box, munching their oats. The stream trickled by under the willow roots with a cool persuasive sound. Claude and Ernest lay in the shade, their coats under their heads, talking very little.  But for the most part, the silence of the warm, lazy summer noon was undisturbed. Claude could usually forget his own vexations and chagrins when he was with Ernest. The Bohemian boy was never uncertain, was not pulled in two or three ways at once. He was simple and direct. He had a number of impersonal preoccupations, was interested in politics and history, and in new inventions. Claude felt that his friend lived in an atmosphere of mental liberty to which he himself could never hope to attain. After he had talked with Ernest for a while, the things that did not go right on the farm seemed less important. Claude's mother was almost as fond of Ernest as he was himself. When the two boys were going to high school, Ernest often came over in the evening to study with Claude, and while they worked at the long kitchen table Mrs. Wheeler brought her darning and sat near them, helping them with their Latin and algebra. Even Old Mahaley was enlightened by their words of wisdom. Mrs. Wheeler said she would never forget the night Ernest arrived from the old country. His brother, Joe Hovel, had gone to Frankfurt to meet him, and was to stop on the way home and leave some groceries for the wheelers. The train from the east was late. It was ten o'clock that night when Mrs. Wheeler, waiting in the kitchen, heard Hovel's wagon rumble across the little bridge over lovely creek. She opened the outside door, and presently Joe came in with a bucket of salt fish in one hand and a sack of flour on his shoulder. While he took the fish down to the cellar for her, another figure appeared in the doorway. A young boy, short, stooped, with a flat cap on his head, and a great oil cloth of a lease such as peddler's carry strapped to his back. He had fallen asleep in the wagon, and on waking and finding his brother gone, he had supposed they were at home and scrambled for his pack. He stood in the doorway, blinking his eyes at the light, looking astonished, but eager to do whatever was required of him.  Ernest said afterwards that it was his first welcome to this country, though he had traveled so far, and had been pushed and hauled and shouted at for so many days he had lost count of them. That night he and Claude only shook hands and looked at each other suspiciously, but ever since they had been good friends. After their picnic the two boys went to the circus in a happy frame of mind. In the animal tent they met Big Leonard Dawson, the oldest son of one of the Wheeler's near neighbors, and the three sat together for the performance. Leonard said he had come to town alone in his car. Didn't Claude ride out with him? Claude was glad enough to turn the mules over to Ralph, who didn't mind the hired men as much as he did.  He and his father and two brothers not only worked their own big farm, but rented a quarter section from that Wheeler. They were master farmers. If there was a dry summer and a failure, Leonard only laughed and stretched his long arms and put in a bigger crop next year. Claude was always a little reserved with Leonard. He felt that the young man was rather contemptuous of the haphazard way in which things were done on the Wheeler place, and thought his going to college a waste of money. Leonard had not even gone through the Frankfurt High School, and he was already a more successful man than Claude was ever likely to be. Leonard did think these things, but he was fond of Claude all the same. At sunset the car was speeding over a fine stretch of smooth road across the level country that lay between Frankfurt and the Rufferland along lovely creek. Leonard's attention was largely given up to admiring the faultless behavior of his engine. Suddenly he chuckled to himself and turned to Claude. I wonder if you'd take it all right if I told you a joke on Bayless. I expect I would, Claude's tone was not at all eager. You saw Bayless today.  Did he tell you how he got it? No, I didn't ask him. Just as well, a lot of people did ask him, though, and he said he was hunting around his place for something in the dark and ran into a reaper. Well, I'm the reaper. Claude looked interested. You mean to say Bayless was in a fight? Leonard laughed. Lord, no, don't you know Bayless? I went in there to pay a bill yesterday, and Susie Gray and another girl came in to sell tickets for the fireman's dinner. An advanced man for this circus was hanging around, and he began talking a little smart, nothing rough, but the way such fellows will.  I couldn't see how Susie thought so quick what to say. The minute the girls went out, Bayless started knocking them, and all the country girls were getting too fresh and knew more than they ought to about managing sporty men, and right there I reached out and handed him one. I hit him harder than I meant to. I meant to slap him, not to give him a black eye. But you can't always regulate things, and I was hot all over. I waited for him to come back at me. I'm bigger than he is, and I wanted to give him satisfaction. Well, sir, he never moved a muscle. He stood there, getting redder and redder, and his eyes watered. I don't say he cried, but his eyes watered. All right, Bayless, said I, slow with your fists, if that's your principle. But slow with your tongue, too, especially when the parties mentioned aren't present. Bayless will never get over that, was Claude's only comment. He don't have to, Leonard threw up his head. I'm a good customer, he can like it or love it till the price of binding twine goes down. For the next few minutes the driver was occupied with trying to get up a long, rough hill on high gear. Sometimes he could make that hill, and sometimes he couldn't, and he was not able to account for the difference. After he pulled the second lever with some disgust and let the car amble on as she would, he noticed that his companion was disconcerted. I'll tell you what, Leonard, Claude spoke in a strange voice. I think the fair thing for you to do is to get out of here by the road and give me a chance. Leonard swung his steering wheel savagely to pass a wagon on the downside of the hill.  You think you've got our measure all right, but you ought to give me a chance first. Leonard looked down in amazement at his own big brown hands lying on the wheel.  I never thought you got on too well with Bayless yourself. I don't, but I won't have you thinking you can slap the men in my family whenever you feel like it. Claude knew that his explanation sounded foolish, and his voice, in spite of all he could do, was weak and angry. Young Leonard Dawson saw he had hurt the boy's feelings.  Bayless never was. I went to school with him. The ride ended amicably. But Claude wouldn't let Leonard take him home. He jumped out of the car with a curt good night and ran across the dusky fields toward the light that's shown from the house on the hill. At the little bridge over the creek he stopped to get his breath and to be sure that he was outwardly composed before he went in to see his mother. Ran against a reaper in the dark. He muttered aloud, clenching his fists. Listening to the deep singing of the frogs and to the distant barking of the dogs up at the house, he grew calmer. Nevertheless he wondered why it was that one had sometimes to feel responsible for the behavior of people whose natures were wholly antipathetic to one's own. CHAPTER III The circus was on Saturday. The next morning Claude was standing at his dresser, shaving. His beard was already strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin. His eyebrows and long lashes were a pale corn color, made his blue eyes seem lighter than they were, and he thought gave a look of shyness and weakness to the upper part of his face. He was exactly the sort of looking boy he didn't want to be. He especially hated his head, so big that he had trouble in buying his hats, and uncompromisingly square in shape, a perfect blockhead. His name was another source of humiliation, Claude. It was a chump name, like Elmer and Roy, a hasty name trying to be fine. In country schools there was always a red-headed, warty-handed, runny-nosed little boy who was named Claude. His good physique he took for granted, smooth muscular arms and legs, and strong shoulders a farmer boy might be supposed to have. Unfortunately he had none of his father's physical repose, and his strength often asserted itself inharmoniously. The storms that went on in his mind sometimes made him rise or sit down or lift something more violently than there was any apparent reason for his doing. The household slept late on Sunday morning. Even Mahaley did not get up until seven. The general signal for breakfast was the smell of donuts frying. This morning Ralph rolled out a bent at the last minute and callously put on his clean underwear without taking a bath. This cost him not one regret, though he took time to polish his new ox-blood shoes tenderly with a pocket handkerchief. He reached the table when all the others were half through breakfast, and made his feast by genially asking his mother if she didn't want him to drive her to church in the car. I'd like to go if I can get the work done in time," she said, doubtfully glancing at the clock. Can't Mahaley tend to things for you this morning? Mrs. Wheeler hesitated. Everything but the separator she can, but she can't fit all the parts together. It's a good deal of work, you know. Now mother, said Ralph good humorly, as he emptied the syrup pitcher over his cakes. You're prejudiced. Nobody ever thinks of skimming milk nowadays. Every up-to-date farmer uses a separator. Mrs. Wheeler's pale eyes twinkled. Mahaley and I will never be quite up-to-date, Ralph.  I could see the advantage of a separator if we milk half a dozen cows. It's a very ingenious machine, but it's a great deal more work to scald it and fit it together than it was to take care of the milk in the old way. It won't be when you get used to it, Ralph assured her. He was the chief mechanic of the Wheeler Farm, and when the farm implements and the automobiles did not give him enough to do, he went to town and bought machines for the house. As soon as Mahaley got used to a washing machine or a churn, Ralph to keep up with the bristling march of invention brought home a still newer one. The mechanical dishwasher she had never been able to use and patent flat irons and oil stoves drove her wild. Claude told his mother to go upstairs and dress. He would scald the separator while Ralph got the car ready. He was still working at it when his brother came in from the garage to wash his hands.   Of course I have. If Mrs. Dawson can manage it, I should think mother could. Mrs. Dawson is a younger woman. Anyhow, there's no point in trying to make machinists of Mahaley and mother. Ralph lifted his eyebrows to excuse Claude's bluntness. See here, he said persuasively. Don't you go encouraging her into thinking she can't change her ways? Here's entitled to all the labor-saving devices we can get her. Claude rattled the thirty odd graduated metal funnels which he was trying to fit together in their proper sequence. Well, if this is labor-saving, the younger boy giggled and ran upstairs for his Panama hat. He never quarreled. Mrs. Wheeler sometimes said it was wonderful how much Ralph would take from Claude.  Dan and Jerry were pitching horseshoes down behind the barn. Claude told Mahaley he was going to the cellar to put up the swinging shelf she had been wanting so that the rats couldn't get at her vegetables. Thank you, Mr. Claude. I don't know what does make the rats so bad. The cat catches one most every day, too. I guess they come up from the barn. I've got a nice wide bore down at the garage for your shelf. The cellar was cemented, cool and dry, with deep closets for canned fruit and flour and groceries, bins for coal and cobs, and a dark room full of photographers' apparatus. Claude took his place at the carpenter's bench under one of the square windows. Mysterious objects stood about him in the gray twilight, electric batteries, old bicycles and typewriters, a machine for making cement, fence posts, a vulcanizer, a stereo opticon with a broken lens. The mechanical toys Ralph could not operate successfully, as well as those he had got tired of, were stored away here. If they were left in the barn, Mr. Wheeler saw them too often, and sometimes, when they happened to be in his way, he made sarcastic comments. Claude had begged his mother to let him pile this lumber into a wagon and dump it into some washout hole along the creek, but Mrs. Wheeler said he must not think of such a thing. It would hurt Ralph's feelings. Nearly every time Claude went into the cellar, he made a desperate resolve to clear the place out some day, reflecting bitterly that the money this wreckage cost would have put a boy through college decently. While Claude was cleaning off the board he meant to suspend from the joist, Mahaley left her work and came down to watch him. She made some pretense of hunting for pickled onions, then seated herself upon a cracker-box. Close at hand there was a plush spring rocker with one arm gone, but it wouldn't have been her idea of good manners to sit there. Her eyes had a kind of sleepy contentment in them as she followed Claude's motions. She watched him as if he were a baby playing. Her hands lay comfortably in her lap. Mr. Ernest ain't been over for a long time. He ain't mad about nothing, is he? Oh no, he's been awful busy this summer. I saw him in town yesterday. We went to the circus together. Mahaley smiled and nodded. That's nice. I'm glad for you two boys to have a good time. Mr. Ernest's a nice boy. I always liked him first grade. He's a little feller, though.  I guess he ain't as tall as Mr. Ralph, even. Not quite, said Claude between strokes. He's strong, though, and gets through a lot of work. Oh, I know. I know he is. I know he works hard. All them foreigners works hard, don't they, Mr. Claude? I reckon he'd like the circus. Maybe they don't have circuses like Aaron over where he come from. Claude began to tell her about the clown elephant and the trained dogs, and she sat listening to him with her pleased, foolish smile. There was something wise and far-seeing about her smile, too. Mahaley had come to them long ago when Claude was only a few months old. She had been brought west by a shipless Virginia family which went to pieces and scattered under the rigors of pioneer farm life. When the mother of the family died, there was nowhere for Mahaley to go, and Mrs. Wheeler took her in. Mahaley had no one to take care of her, and Mrs. Wheeler had no one to help her with the work. It had turned out very well. Mahaley had had a hard life in her young days, married to a savage mountaineer who often abused her and never provided for her. She could remember times when she sat in the cabin beside an empty meal-barrel and a cold iron pot, waiting for him to bring home a squirrel he had shot, or a chicken he had stolen.  She thought herself well off now, never to have to beg for food or go off into the woods to gather firing, to be sure of a warm bed and shoes and decent clothes. Mahaley was one of eighteen children. Most of them grew up lawless or half-witted, and two of her brothers, like her husband, ended their lives in jail. She had never been sent to school and could not read or write. Claude, when he was a little boy, tried to teach her to read, but what she learned one night she had forgotten by the next. She could count and tell the time of day by the clock, and she was very proud of knowing the alphabet and of being able to spell out letters on the plarsacks and coughing packages. That's a big A, she would murmur, and that there's a little A. Mahaley was shrewd in her estimate of people, and Claude thought her judgment sound in a good many things. He knew she sensed all the shades of personal feeling, the accords and antipathies in the household as keenly as he did, and he would have hated to lose her good opinion.  If the leg of the kitchen table got wobbly, she knew he would put in new screws for her. When she broke a handle off her rolling pin, he put on another, and he fitted a half to her favorite butcher knife after everyone else said that it must be thrown away. These objects, after they had been mended, acquired a new value in her eyes, and she liked to work with them. When Claude helped her lift, or carry anything, he never avoided touching her, this she felt deeply. She suspected that Ralph was a little ashamed of her, and would prefer to have some brisk young thing about the kitchen. On days like this, when other people were not about, Mahaley liked to talk to Claude about the things they did together when he was little. The Sundays, when they used to wander along the creek, hunting for wild grapes and watching the red squirrels, or trailed across the high pastures to a wild plum picket at the north end of the Wheeler Farm, Claude could remember warm spring days when the plum bushes were all in blossom, and Mahaley used to lie down under them and sing to herself, as if the honey-heavy sweetness made her drowsy. Songs without words for the most part, though he recalled one mountain deers which said over and over, and they laid Jesse James in his grave. End of book 1, chapter 3, Recording by Tom Weiss. The time was approaching for Claude to go back to the struggling denominational college on the outskirts of the state capital, where he had already spent two dreary and unprofitable winters. Mother, he said one morning when he had an opportunity to speak to her alone, I wish she would let me quit the temple and go to the state university. She looked up from the mass of dough she was needing. But why, Claude? Well, I could learn more for one thing. The professors at the temple aren't much good. Most of them are just preachers who couldn't make a living at preaching. The look of pain that always disarmed Claude came instantly into his mother's face. Son, don't say such things. I can't believe but teachers are more interested in their students when they are concerned for their spiritual development, as well as the mental. Brother Weldon said many of the professors at the state university are not Christian men. They even boast of it in some cases. Oh, I guess most of them are good men, all right. At any rate, they know their subjects. These little pinheaded preachers like Weldon do a lot of harm running about the country talking. He's sent around to pull in students for his own school. If he didn't get them, he'd lose his job. I wish he'd never got me. Most of the fellows who flunk out at the state come to us just as he did. But how can there be any serious study where they give so much time to athletics and frivolity? They pay their football coach a larger salary than their president. And those fraternity houses are places where boys learn all sorts of evil. I've heard that dreadful things go on in them sometimes. Besides, it would take more money, and you couldn't live as cheaply as you do at the chaplains. Claude made no reply. He stood before her frowning and pulling at a callous spot on the inside of his palm. His wheeler looked at him wistfully. I'm sure you must be able to study better in a quiet, serious atmosphere, she said. He sighed and turned away. If his mother had been the least bit unctuous like Brother Weldon, he could have told her many enlightening facts.  They could shock her and make her fear the world even more than she did, but he could never make her understand. His mother was old-fashioned. She thought dancing and card-playing dangerous pastimes, only rough people did such things when she was a girl in Vermont, and worldliness only another word for wickedness. According to her conception of education, one should learn, not think. And above all one must not inquire. The history of the human race as it lay behind one was already explained, and so was its destiny which lay before. The mind should remain obediently within the theological concept of history. Nat Wheeler didn't care where his son went to school, but he too took it for granted that the religious institution was cheaper than the State University, and that because the students there looked shabbier they were less likely to become too knowing and to be offensively intelligent at home. However, he referred the matter to Bayless one day when he was in town. Claude's got some notion he wants to go to the State University this winter. Bayless at once assumed that, wise, better be prepared for the worst expression which had made him seem shrewd and seasoned from boyhood. I don't see any point in changing unless he's got good reasons. Well, he thinks that bunch of Parsons at the temple don't make first-rate teachers. I expect they can teach Claude quite a bit yet. If he gets in with that fast football crowd at the State, there'll be no holding him. For some reason Bayless detested football. This athletic business is a good deal overdone. If Claude wants exercise, he might put in the fall week. That night Mr. Wheeler brought the subject up at supper, questing Claude, and tried to get at the cause of his discontent. His manner was jocular as usual, and Claude hated any public discussion of his personal affairs. He was afraid of his father's humor when it got too near him. Claude might have enjoyed the large and somewhat gross cartoons with which Mr. Wheeler in live and daily life had they been of any other authorship, but he unreasonably wanted his father to be the most dignified, as he was certainly the handsomest and most intelligent man in the community. Moreover, Claude couldn't bear ridicule very well. He squirmed before he was hit, saw it coming, invited it. Mr. Wheeler had observed this trait in him when he was a little chat, called it false pride, and often purposely outraged his feelings to harden him, as he had hardened Claude's mother, who was afraid of everything but school books and prayer meetings when he first married her. She was still more or less bewildered, but she had long ago got over any fear of him and any dread of living with him. She accepted everything about her husband as part of his rugged masculinity, and of that she was proud in her quiet way. Claude had never quite forgiven his father for some of his practical jokes. One warm spring day when he was a boisterous little boy of five playing in and out of the house, he heard his mother entreating Mr. Wheeler to go down to the orchard and pick the cherries from a tree that hung loaded. Claude remembered that she persisted rather complainingly, saying that the cherries were too high for her to reach and that even if she had a ladder it would hurt her back. Mr. Wheeler was always annoyed if his wife referred to any physical weakness, especially if she complained about her back. He got up and went out. After a while he returned. All right now, Evangeline, he called cheerily as he passed through the kitchen, cherries won't give you any trouble, you and Claude can run along and pick them as easy as can be. Mrs. Wheeler, trustfully put on her sun-bonnet, gave Claude a little pail and took a big one herself, and they went down the pasture hill to the orchard, fenced in on the low land by the creek. The ground had been plowed that spring to make it hold moisture and Claude was running happily along in one of the furrows when he looked up and beheld the sight he could never forget. The beautiful round-top cherry tree, full of green leaves and red fruit, his father had sawed it through. It lay on the ground beside its bleeding stump. With one scream Claude became a little demon. He threw away his tin pail, jumped about howling and kicking the loose berth with his copper-toed shoes, until his mother was much more concerned for him than for the tree. Son, son, she cried, it's your father's tree. He has a perfect right to cut it down if he wants to. He's often said that the trees were too thick in here. Maybe it will be better for the others. Tain so.  His mother dropped on her knees beside him. Claude, stop. I'd rather have the whole orchard cut down than hear you say such things. After she got him quieted they picked the cherries and went back to the house.  Even then his flexible lips were only too well adapted to hold the picture of that feeling. For days afterward Claude went down to the orchard and watched the tree grow sicker, wilt and wither away. God would surely punish a man who could do that, he thought. A violent temper and physical restlessness were the most conspicuous things about Claude when he was a little boy. Ralph was docile and had a precocious sagacity for keeping out of trouble. But in manner he was fertile in devising mischief and easily persuaded his older brother, who was always looking for something to do, to execute his plans. It was usually Claude who was caught red-handed. Sitting mild and contemplative on his quilt on the floor, Ralph would whisper to Claude that it might be amusing to climb up and take the clock from the shelf or to operate the sewing machine. When they were older and played out of doors, he had only to insinuate that Claude was afraid to make him try a frosted axe with his tongue or jump from the shed roof. The usual hardships of country boyhood were not enough for Claude. He imposed physical tests and penances upon himself. Whenever he burned his finger he followed Mahaley's advice and held his hand close to the stove to draw out the fire. One year he went to school all winter in his jacket to make himself tough.  As soon as he got out of sight of the house he pulled up his coat, rolled it under his arm, and scutted along the edge of the frozen fields, arriving at the framed schoolhouse, panting and shivering, but very well pleased with himself. CHAPTER V Claude waited for his elders to change their mind about where he should go to school, but no one seemed much concerned, not even his mother. Two years ago the young man whom Mrs. Wheeler called Brother Weldon had come out from Lincoln, preaching in little towns and country churches, and recruiting students for the institution at which he taught in the winter. He had convinced Mrs. Wheeler that his college was the safest possible place for a boy who was leaving home for the first time. Claude's mother was not discriminating about creatures. She believed them all chosen and sanctified, and was never happier than when she had one in the house to cook for and wait upon. She made young Mr. Weldon so comfortable that he remained under her roof for several weeks, occupying the spare room, where he spent the mornings in study and meditation. He appeared regularly at mealtime to ask a blessing upon the food and to sit with devout, downcast eyes while the chicken was being dismembered. His top-shaped head hung a little to one side, but then hair was parted precisely over his high forehead and brushed in little ripples. He was soft-spoken and apologetic in manner and took up as little room as possible. His migness amused Mr. Wheeler, who liked to ply him with food and never failed to ask him gravely what part of the chicken he would prefer, in order to hear him murmur, a little of the white meat, if you please, while he drew his elbows close as if he were adroitly sliding over a dangerous place. In the afternoon, Brother Weldon usually put on a fresh lawn neck tie and a hard, glistening straw hat, which left a red streak across his forehead, tucked his Bible under his arm, and went out to make calls. If he went far, Ralph took him in the automobile. Claude disliked this young man from the moment he first met him and could scarcely answer him civilly. Mrs. Wheeler, always absentminded, and now absorbed in her cherishing care of the visitor, did not notice Claude's scornful silences until Mahaley, whom such things never escaped, whispered to her over the stove one day. Mr. Claude, he don't like the preacher.  As a result of Brother Weldon's sojourn at the farm, Claude was sent to the temple college. One had come to believe that the things and people he most disliked were the ones that were to shape his destiny. When the second week of September came round, he threw a few clothes and books into his trunk and said good-bye to his mother and Mahaley. Ralph took him into Frankfurt to catch the train for Lincoln. After settling himself in the dirty day-coach, Claude fell to meditating upon his prospects. There was a Pullman car on the train, but to take a Pullman for a daylight journey was one of the things a Wheeler did not do. Claude knew that he was going back to the wrong school, that he was wasting both time and money. He sneered at himself for his lack of spirit. If he had to do with strangers, he told himself, he could take up his case and fight for it. He could not assert himself against his father or mother, but he could be bold enough with the rest of the world. Yet if this were true, why did he continue to live with the tiresome Chapins? The Chapin household consisted of a brother and a sister. Edward Chapin was a man of twenty-six, with an old, wasted face, and he was still going to school, studying for the ministry. His sister Annabelle kept house for him. That is to say, she did whatever housework was done. The brother supported himself and his sister by getting odd jobs from churches and religious societies. He supplied the pulpit when a minister was ill, did secretarial work for the college, and the Young Men's Christian Association. Claude's weekly payment for room and board, though a small sum, was very necessary to their comfort. Chapin had been going to the temple college for four years, and it would probably take him two years more to complete the course. He conned his book on trolley cars, or while he waited by the track on windy corners, and studied far into the night.  After years of reverential study, he could not read the Greek Testament without a lexicon and grammar at his elbow. He gave a great deal of time to the practice of elocution and oratory. At certain hours, their frail domicile, it had been thinly built for the academic poor, and sat upon concrete blocks in lieu of a foundation, re-echoed with his hoarse, overstrained voice, declaiming his own orations for those of Wendell Phillips. Annabelle, Chapin, was one of Claude's classmates. She was not as dull as her brother. She could learn a conjugation and recognize the forms when she met with them again. But she was a gushing, silly girl who found almost everything in their grubby life too good to be true, and she was, unfortunately, sentimental about Claude. Annabelle chanted her lessons over and over to herself while she cooked and scrubbed. She was one of those people who could make the finest things seem tame and flat merely by alluding to them. Last winter she had recited the Oaths of Horus about the house. It was exactly her notion of the student-like thing to do, until Claude feared he would always associate that poet with the heaviness of hurriedly prepared luncheons. Mrs. Wheeler liked to feel that Claude was assisting this worthy pair in their struggle for an education. He had long ago decided that since neither of the Chapins got anything out of their efforts but a kind of messy inefficiency, the struggle might better have been relinquished in the beginning. He took care of his own room, kept it bare and habitable, free from Annabelle's attentions and decorations, but the flimsy pretenses of lighthouse-keeping were very distasteful to him. He was born with a love of order, just as he was born with red hair. It was a personal attribute. The boy felt bitterly about the way in which he had been brought up and about his hair and his freckles and his awkwardness. When he went to the theater in Lincoln he took a seat in the gallery because he knew that he looked like a green country boy. His clothes were never right. He bought collars that were too high and neckties that were too bright and hid them away in his trunk. His one experiment with a tailor was unsuccessful. The tailor saw at once that his stammering client didn't know what he wanted, so he persuaded him that as the season was spring he needed light-checked trousers and a blue-surge coat and vest. When Claude wore his new clothes to St. Paul's Church on Sunday morning the eyes of everyone he met followed his smart legs down the street. For the next week he observed the legs of old men and young men and decided there wasn't another pair of checked pants in Lincoln. He hung his new clothes up in the closet and never put them on again, though Annabelle Chapin watched for them wistfully. Nevertheless Claude thought he could recognize a well-dressed man when he saw one. He even thought he could recognize a well-dressed woman. If an attractive woman got into the streetcar when he was on his way to or from Temple Place he was distracted between the desire to look at her and the wish to seem indifferent. Claude is on his way back to Lincoln with a fairly liberal allowance which does not contribute much to his comfort or pleasure. He has no friends or instructors whom he can regard with admiration, though the need to admire is just now uppermost in his nature. He is convinced that the people who might mean something to him will always misjudge him and pass him by. He is not so much afraid of loneliness as he is of accepting cheap substitutes, of making excuses to himself for a teacher who flatters him, or waking up some morning to find himself admiring a girl merely because she is accessible. He has a dread of easy compromises and he is terribly afraid of being fooled. End of Book 1, Chapter 5, Recording by Tom Weiss Book 1, Chapter 6, of One of Hours Three months later on a gray December day, Claude was seated in the passenger coach of an accommodation freight train going home for the holidays. He had a pile of books on the seat he sighed him and was reading when the train stopped with a jerk that sent the volumes tumbling to the floor. He picked them up and looked at his watch. It was noon. The freight would lie here for an hour or more until the eastbound passenger went by. Claude left the car and walked slowly up the platform toward the station. A bundle of little spruce trees had been flung off near the freight office and sent a smell of Christmas into the cold air. A few drays stood about, the horses blanketed. The steam from the locomotive made a spreading, deep violet stain as it curled up against the gray sky. Claude went into a restaurant across the street and ordered an oyster stew.  While he was eating his oysters, she told him that she had just finished roasting a chicken with sweet potatoes, and if he liked, he could have the first brown cut off the breast before the trainmen came in for dinner. Asking her to bring it along, he waited, sitting on a stool, his boots on the lead pipe footrest, his elbows on the shiny brown counter, staring at a pyramid of tough-looking bun sandwiches under a glass globe. I've been looking for you every day, said Mrs. Boyd, when she brought his plate. I've put plenty good gravy on them sweet potatoes, yeah? Thank you, you must be popular with your borders, she giggled. Yeah, all the trainmen is friends with me. Sometimes they bring me a little schrader case from one of them big saloons in Omaha, what the German bayobles patronize.  She stood nursing her stumpy hands under her apron, watching every mouthful he ate so eagerly that she might have been tasting it herself. The train crew trooped in, shouting to her and asking what there was for dinner, and she ran about like an excited little hen, chuckling and cackling. Claude wondered whether working men were as nice as that to old women the world over. He didn't believe so. He liked to think that such geniality was common only in what he broadly called the West. He bought a big cigar and strolled up and down the platform, enjoying the fresh air until the passenger whistled in. After his freight train got under steam, he did not open his books again, but sat looking out at the gray homesteads as they unrolled before him, with their stripped, dry cornfields and the great, plowed stretches where the winter wheat was asleep. A starry sprinkling of snow lay like whorefrost along the crumbly ridges between the furrows. Claude believed he knew almost every farm between Frankfurt and Lincoln. He had made the journey so often on fast trains and slow. He went home for all the holidays, and had been again and again called back on various pretexts, when his mother was sick, when Ralph overturned the car and broke his shoulder, when his father was kicked by a vicious stallion. It was not a wheeler custom to employ a nurse. If anyone in the household was ill, it was understood that some member of the family would act in that capacity. Claude was reflecting upon the fact that he had never gone home before in such good spirits. Two fortunate things had happened to him since he went over this road three months ago. As soon as he reached Lincoln in September, he had matriculated at the State University for special work in European history. The year before, he had heard the head of the department lecture for some charity, and resolved that even if he were not allowed to change his college, he would manage to study under that man. The course Claude selected was one upon which a student could put as much time as he chose. It was based upon the reading of historical sources, and the professor was notoriously greedy for full notebooks. Claude's were of the fullest. He worked early and late at the university library, often got his supper in town, and went back to read until closing hour. For the first time, he was studying a subject which seemed to him vital, which had to do with events and ideas, instead of with lexicons and grammars. How often he had wished for earnest during the lectures, he could see earnest drinking them up, agreeing or descending in his independent way. The class was very large, and the professor spoke without notes. He talked rapidly, as if he were addressing his equals with none of the coaxing persuasiveness to which temple students were accustomed. His lectures were condensed like a legal brief, but there was a kind of dry fervor in his voice, and when he occasionally interrupted his exposition with purely personal comment, it seemed valuable and important. Claude usually came out from these lectures with the feeling that the world was full of stimulating things, and that one was fortunate to be alive and to be able to find out about them. His reading that autumn actually made the future look brighter to him, seemed to promise him something. One of his chief difficulties had always been that he could not make himself believe in the importance of making money or spending it. If that were all, then life was not worth the trouble. The second good thing that had befallen him was that he had got to know some people he liked. This came about accidentally after a football game between the Temple Eleven and the State University team, merely a practice game for the latter. Claude was playing half back with the Temple. Toward the close of the first quarter, he followed his interference safely around the right end, dodged the tackle, which threatened to end the play, and broke loose for a 90-yard run down the field for a touchdown. He brought his Eleven off with a good showing. The State men congratulated him warmly, and their coach went so far as to hint that if he ever wanted to make a change, there would be a place for him on the university team. Claude had a proud moment, but even when Coach Ballinger was talking to him, the Temple students rushed howling from the grandstand, and Annabelle Chapin, ridiculous in a sports suit of her own construction, bedecked with the Temple colors and blowing a child's horn, positively threw herself upon his neck. He disengaged himself, not very gently, and stalked grimly away to the dressing shed. What was the use if you were always with the wrong crowd? Julius Erlich, who played quarter on the State team, took him aside and said affably, Come home to supper with me tonight, Wheeler, and meet my mother. Come along with us, and dress in the armory. You have your clothes in your suitcase, haven't you? There are hardly clothes to go visiting in, Claude replied doubly. Oh, that doesn't matter. We're all boys at home. Mother wouldn't mind if you came in your track things. Claude consented before he had time to frighten himself by imagining difficulties. The Erlich boy often sat next to him in the history class, and they had several times talked together. Hitherto, Claude had felt that he couldn't make Erlich out, but this afternoon, while they dressed after their shower, they became good friends all in a few minutes. Claude was perhaps less tied up in mind and body than usual. He was so astonished at finding himself on easy, confidential terms with Erlich that he scarcely gave a thought to his second day shirt and his collar with a broken edge. Wretched economies he had been trained to observe. They had not walked more than two blocks from the armory when Julius turned in at a rambling wooden house with an unfenced terraced lawn. He led Claude around to the wing and threw a glass door into a big room that was all windows on three sides above the wainscoting. The room was full of boys and young men seated along the vans or perched on the arms of easy chairs, and they were all talking at once. On one of the couches, a young man in a smoking jacket lay reading as compositely as if he were alone. Five of these are my brothers, said his host, and the rest are friends. The company recognized Claude and included him in their talk about the game. When the visitors had gone, Julius introduced his brothers. They were all nice boys, Claude thought, and had easy, agreeable manners. The three older ones were in business, but they too had been to the game that afternoon. Claude had never before seen brothers who were so outspoken and frank with one another. To him they were very cordial. The one who was lying down came forward to shake hands, keeping the place in his book with his finger. On a table in the middle of the room were pipes and boxes of tobacco, cigars in a glass jar, and a big Chinese bowl full of cigarettes. This provisionment seemed the more remarkable to Claude, because at home he had to smoke in the cow shed. The number of books astonished him almost as much. The wainscoting all around the room was built up in open bookcases, stuffed with volumes fat and thin, and they all looked interesting and hard used. One of the brothers had been to a party the night before, and on coming home had put his dress tie about the neck of a little plaster bust of Byron that stood on the mantel. This head, with the tie at a rakish angle, drew Claude's attention more than anything else in the room, and for some reason instantly made him wish he lived there. Julius brought in his mother, and when they went to supper, Claude was seated beside her at one end of the long table. Mrs. Ehrlich seemed to him very young to be the head of such a family. Her hair was still brown, and she wore it drawn over her ears and twisted in two little horns, like the ladies in old daguerreotypes. Her face, too, suggested a daguerreotype. There was something old-fashioned in picturesque about it. Her skin had the soft whiteness of white flowers that had been drenched by rain. She talked with quick gestures, and her decided little nod was quaint and very personal. Her hazel-colored eyes peered expectantly over her nose-glasses, always watching to see things turned out wonderfully well, always looking for some good German fairy in the cupboard or the cake box, or in the steaming vapor of washday. The boys were discussing an engagement that had just been announced, and Mrs. Ehrlich began to tell Claude a long story about how this brilliant young man had come to Lincoln and met this beautiful young girl, who was already engaged to a cold and academic youth, and how after many heartburnings the beautiful girl had broken with the wrong man and become betrothed to the right one, and now they were so happy, and everyone, she asked Claude to believe, was equally happy. In the middle of her narrative, Julius reminded her smilingly that since Claude didn't know these people, he would hardly be interested in their romance, but she merely looked at him over her nose-glasses and said, and that is so herchurious, one could see that she was a match for them. The conversation went racing from one thing to another. The brothers began to argue hotly about a new girl who was visiting in town, whether she was pretty, how pretty she was, whether she was naive. To Claude, this was like talk in a play. He had never heard a living person discussed and analyzed us before. He had never heard a family talk so much, or with anything like so much zest. Here there was none of the poisonous reticence he had always associated with family gatherings, nor the awkwardness of people sitting with their hands in their lap, facing each other, each one guarding his secret or his suspicion, while he hunted for a safe subject to talk about. Their fertility of praise, too, astonished him. How could people find so much to say about one girl? To be sure, a great deal of it sounded far-fetched to him, but he sadly admitted that in such matters he was no judge. When they went back to the living room Julius began to pick out heirs on his guitar, and the bearded brother sat down to read. Otto, the youngest seeing a group of students passing the house, ran out to the lawn and called them in. Two boys and a girl with red cheeks and a fur stole. Claude had made her a corner and was perfectly content to be an onlooker, but Mrs. Ehrlich soon came and seated herself beside him. When the doors into the parlor were open, she noticed his eyes straying to an engraving of Napoleon which hung over the piano, and made him go and look at it. She told him it was a rare engraving, and she showed him a portrait of her great-grandfather, who was an officer in Napoleon's army. To explain how this came about was a long story. As she talked to Claude, Mrs. Ehrlich discovered that his eyes were not really pale, but only looked so because of his light lashes. They could say a great deal when they looked squarely into hers, and she liked what they said.  When the three who had been called in from the sidewalk took their leave, Claude rose also. They were evidently familiars of the house, and their careless exit with the gay, good night everybody, gave him no practical suggestion as to what he ought to say or how he was to get out. Julius made things more difficult by telling him to sit down, as if it wasn't time to go yet. But Mrs. Ehrlich said it was time. He would have a long ride out to temple place. It was really very easy. She walked to the door with him and gave him his hat, patting his arm in a final way. You will come often to see us. We are going to be friends. Her forehead, with its neat curtains of brown hair, came something below Claude's chin, and she peered up at him with that quaintly hopeful expression, as if even he might turn out wonderfully well. Certainly nobody had ever looked at him like that before. It's been lovely, he murmured to her, quite without embarrassment, and in happy unconsciousness he turned the knob and passed out through the glass door. While the freight train was puffing slowly across the winter country, leaving a black trail suspended in the still air, Claude went over that experience minutely in his mind, as if he feared to lose something of it on approaching home. He could remember exactly how Mrs. Ehrlich and the boys had looked at him on that first night. Could repeat, almost word for word, the conversation which had been so novel to him. Then he had supposed the Ehrlich's were rich people, but he found out afterwards that they were poor.  They merely knew how to live, he discovered, and spent their money on themselves instead of on machines to do the work, and machines to entertain people. Machines, Claude decided, could not make pleasure whatever else they could do. They could not make agreeable people either. Insofar as he could see, the latter were made by judicious indulgence in almost everything he had been taught to shun. Since that first visit he had gone to the Ehrlich's not as often as he wished, certainly, but as often as he dared. Some of the university boys seemed to drop in there whenever they felt like it, were almost members of the family. But they were better looking than he, and better company. To be sure, Long Baumgartner was an intimate of the house, and he was a gawky boy with big red hands and patched shoes. But he could at least speak German to the mother, and he played the piano and seemed to know a great deal about music. Claude didn't wish to be a bore. Sometimes in the evening when he left the library to smoke a cigar, he walked slowly past the Ehrlich's house, looking at the lighted windows of the sitting room, and wondering what was going on inside. Before he went there to call, he racked his brain for things to talk about, if there had been a football game, or a good play at the theatre. That helped, of course. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he tried to think things out and to justify his opinions to himself so that he would have something to say when the Ehrlich boys questioned him. He had grown up with the conviction that it was beneath his dignity to explain himself, just as it was to dress carefully, or to be caught taking pains about anything. Ernest was the only person he knew who tried to state clearly just why he believed this or that, and people at home thought him very conceited and foreign. It wasn't American to explain yourself. You didn't have to. On the farm, you said you would, or you wouldn't. That Roosevelt was all right, or that he was crazy. You weren't supposed to say more unless you were a stump speaker. If you tried to say more, it was because you liked to hear yourself talk, since you never said anything. You didn't form the habit of thinking. If you got too much bored, you went to town and bought something new. But all the people he met at the Ehrlich's talked. If they asked him about a play or a book, and he said it was no good, they at once demanded why. The Ehrlich's thought him a clam, but Claude sometimes thought himself amazing. Could it really be he who was airing his opinions in this indelicate manner? He caught himself using words that had never crossed his lips before, that in his mind were associated only with the printed page, when he suddenly realized that he was using a word for the first time, and probably mispronouncing it, he would become as much confused as if he were trying to pass a lead dollar, would blush and stammer, and let someone finish his sentence for him. Claude couldn't resist occasionally dropping in at the Ehrlich's in the afternoon. Then the boys were away, and he could have Mrs. Ehrlich to himself for half an hour. When she talked to him, she taught him so much about life, he loved to hear her sing sentimental German songs as she worked. Spin, spin, Bruth hock her mind. He didn't know why, but he simply adored it. Every time he went away from her, he felt happy and full of kindness, and thought about beach woods and walled towns, or about Karl's shirts and the Romantic Revolution. He had been to see Mrs. Ehrlich just before starting home for the holidays, and found her making German Christmas cakes. She took him into the kitchen and explained the almost holy traditions that govern this complicated cookery. Her excitement and seriousness as she beat and stirred were very pretty, Claude thought. She told off on her fingers the many ingredients, but he believed there were things she did not name, the fragrance of old friendships, the glow of early memories, belief in wonder-working rhymes and songs. Surely these were fine things to put into little cakes. After Claude left her, he did something a Wheeler didn't do. He went down to O Street and sent her a box of the reddest roses he could find. In his pocket was the little note she had written to thank him. End of Book 1, Chapter 6, Recording by Tom Weiss Book 1, Chapter 7 of One of Ours This LibriVox recording is In the Public Domain, Recording by Tom Weiss One of Ours by Willa Cather, Chapter 7 It was beginning to grow dark when Claude reached the farm. While Ralph stopped to put away the car, he walked on alone to the house. He never came back without emotion, try as he would to pass lightly over these departures and returns which were all in the day's work. When he came up the hill like this, toward the tall house with its lighted windows, something always clutched at his heart. He both loved and hated to come home. He was always disappointed, and yet he always felt the rightness of returning to his own place. Even when it broke his spirit and humbled his pride, he felt it was right that he should be thus humbled. He didn't question that the lowest state of mind was the truest, and that the less a man thought of himself, the more likely he was to be correct in his estimate. Approaching the door, Claude stopped for a moment and peered in at the kitchen window. The table was set for supper, and Mahaley was at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot, cornmeal mush, probably. She often made it for herself, now that her teeth had begun to fail. She stood leaning over, embracing the pot with one arm, and with the other she beat the stiff contents, knotting her head in time to this rotary movement. Confused emotions surged up in Claude. He went in quickly and gave her a bearish hug. Her face wrinkled up in the foolish grin he knew so well. Lord, how you scared me, Mr. Claude! A little more not I had my mush all over the floor.  He knew Mahaley was gladder to see him come home than anyone except his mother. Hearing Mrs. Wheeler's wandering on certain steps in the enclosed stairway, he opened the door and ran halfway up to meet her, putting his arm about her with the almost painful tenderness he always felt, but seldom was it liberty to show. She reached up both hands and stroked his hair for a moment, laughing as one does to a little boy, and telling him she believed it was redder every time he came back. Have we got all the corn in, mother? No, Claude, we haven't. You know, we're always behind. It's been fine open weather for husking, too, but at least we've got rid of that miserable Jerry, so there's something to be thankful for. He had one of his fits of temper in town one day, when he was hitching up to come home, and Leonard Dawson saw him beat one of our horses with a neck yoke. Leonard told your father and spoke his mind, and your father discharged Jerry. If you or Ralph had told him, he most likely wouldn't have done anything about it, but I guess all fathers are the same. She chuckled confidingly, leaning on Claude's arm as they descended the stairs. I guess so. Did he hurt the horse much? Which one was it? The little black, Pompey. I believe he is rather a mean horse. The men said one of the bones over the eye was broken, but he would probably come round, all right. Pompey isn't mean. He's nervous. All the horses hated Jerry, and they had good reason to.  He had seen things happen in the barn that he positively couldn't tell his father. Mr. Wheeler came into the kitchen and stopped on his way upstairs long enough to say, Hello, Claude. You look pretty well. Yes, sir. I'm all right. Thank you. Bayless tells me you've been playing football a good deal. Not more than usual. We played half a dozen games, generally got licked. The state has a fine team, though. I expect Mr. Wheeler drawled as he strode upstairs. Supper went as usual. Dan kept grinning and blinking at Claude, trying to discover whether he had already been informed of Jerry's fate. Ralph told him the neighborhood gossip. Gus Yoder, their German neighbor, was bringing suit against the farmer who had shot his dog. Leonard Dawson was going to marry Susie Gray. She was the girl on whose account Leonard had slapped Bayless, Claude remembered. After supper Ralph and Mr. Wheeler went off in the car to a Christmas entertainment at the country's schoolhouse. Claude and his mother sat down for a quiet talk by the hard coal burner in the living room upstairs. Claude liked this room, especially when his father was not there. The old carpet, the faded chairs, the secretary bookcase, the spotty engraving with all the scenes from Pilgrim's progress that hung over the sofa, these things made him feel at home. Ralph was always proposing to refurnish the room in Mission Oak, but so far Claude and his mother had saved it.  She listened, but he could see that she was much more interested in hearing about the Chapins, and whether Edward's throat had improved, and where he had preached this fall. That was one of the disappointing things about coming home. He could never interest his mother in new things or people unless they in some way had to do with the church. He knew too she was always hoping to hear that he at last felt the need of coming closer to the church. She did not harass him about these things, but she had told him once or twice that nothing could happen in the world which would give her so much pleasure as to see him reconciled to Christ. He realized as he talked to her about the Ehrlich's, that she was wondering whether they weren't very worldly people and was apprehensive about their influence on him. The evening was rather a failure, and he went to bed early. Claude had gone through a painful time of doubt and fear when he thought a great deal about religion. For several years, from 14 to 18, he believed that he would be lost if he did not repent and undergo that mysterious change called conversion, but there was something stubborn in him that would not let him avail himself of the pardon offered. He felt condemned, but he did not want to renounce a world he as yet knew nothing of. He would like to go into life with all his vigor, with all his faculties free. He didn't want to be like the young men who said in prayer meeting that they leaned on their Savior. He hated their way of meekly accepting permitted pleasures. In those days, Claude had a sharp physical fear of death.  He used to lie awake in the dark, plotting against death, trying to devise some plan of escaping it, angrily wishing he had never been born. Was there no way out of the world but this?  There had never been a man so strong or so good that he had escaped. And yet he sometimes felt sure that he, Claude Wheeler, would escape, that he would actually invent some clever shift to save himself from disillusion. When he found it, he would tell nobody. He would be crafty and secret, cutrification, decay. He could not give his pleasant warm body over to that filthiness. What did it mean that, verse in the Bible, he shall not suffer his holy one to see corruption? If anything could cure an intelligent boy of morbid religious fears, it was a denominational school like that to which Claude had been sent. Now he dismissed all Christian theology as something too full of evasions and sophisticies to be reasoned about. The men who made it, he felt sure, were like the men who taught it. The noblest could be damned according to their theory, while almost any mean-spirited parasite could be saved by faith. Faith, as he saw it, exemplified in the faculty of the temple school, was a substitute for most of the manly qualities he admired. Young men went into the ministry because they were timid or lazy and wanted society to take care of them because they wanted to be pampered by kind, trusting women like his mother. Though he wanted little to do with theology and theologians, Claude would have said that he was a Christian. He believed in God and in the spirit of the four gospels and in the sermon on the mount. He used to halt and stumble that, blessed are the meek, until one day he happened to think that this verse was meant exactly for people like Mahaley, and surely she was blessed. Chapter 8 On the Sunday after Christmas, Claude and Ernest were walking along the banks of Lovely Creek. They had been as far as Mr. Wheeler's timber claim and back. It was like an autumn afternoon, so warm that they left their overcoats on the limb of a crooked elm by the pasture fence. The fields and the bare treetops seemed to be swimming in light. A few brown leaves still clung to the bushy trees along the creek. In the upper pasture, more than a mile from the house, the boys found a bittersweet vine that wound about a little dogwood and covered it with scarlet berries. It was like finding a Christmas tree growing wild out of doors. They had just been talking about some of the books Claude had brought home in his history course. He was not able to tell Ernest as much about the lectures as he had meant to, and he felt that this was more Ernest's fault than his own. Ernest was such a literal-minded fellow. When they came upon the bittersweet, they forgot their discussion and scrambled down the bank to admire the red clusters on the woody, smoke-colored vine and its pale, gold leaves ready to fall at a touch. The vine and the little tree it honored, hidden away in the cleft of a ravine, had escaped the stripping winds and the eyes of school children who sometimes took a shortcut home through the pasture. At its roots, the creek trickled thinly along, black between two-jagged crusts of melting ice. When they left the spot and climbed back to the level, Claude again felt an itching to prod Ernest out of his mild and reasonable mood. What are you going to do after a while, Ernest? Do you mean to farm all your life? Naturally. If I were going to learn a trade, I'd be at it before now. What makes you ask that? Oh, I don't know. I suppose people must think about the future sometime, and you're so practical. The future, eh? Ernest shut one eye and smiled. That's a big word. After I get a place of my own and have a good start, I'm going home to see my old folks some winter. Maybe I'll marry a nice girl and bring her back. Is that all? That's enough if it turns out right, isn't it? Perhaps. It wouldn't be for me. I don't believe I can ever settle down to anything. Don't you feel that at this rate there isn't much in it? In what? In living at all, going on as we do. What do we get out of it? Take a day like this. You awaken up in the morning, and you're glad to be alive. It's a good enough day for anything, and you feel sure something will happen. Well, whether it's a work day or a holiday, it's all the same in the end.  Nothing has happened. But what do you expect? What can happen to you except in your own mind? If I get through my work and get an afternoon off to see my friends like this, it's enough for me, is it? Well, if we've only got once to live, it seems like there ought to be something. Well, something splendid about life, sometimes. Ernest was sympathetic now. He drew nearer to Claude as they walked along and looked at him sidewise with concern. You Americans are always looking for something outside yourselves to warm you up, and it is no way to do. In old countries where not very much can happen to us, we know that, and we learn to make the most of little things. The martyrs must have found something outside themselves, otherwise they could have made themselves comfortable with little things. Why, I should say they were the ones who had nothing but their idea. It would be ridiculous to get burned at the stake for the sensation. Sometimes I think the martyrs had a good deal of vanity to help them along, too. Claude thought Ernest had never been so tiresome. He squinted at a bright object across the fields and said cuttingly, The fact is, Ernest, you think a man ought to be satisfied with his board and clothes and Sundays off, don't you? Ernest laughed rather mournfully. It doesn't matter much what I think about it. Things are as they are. Nothing is going to reach down from the sky and pick a man up, I guess. Claude muttered something to himself, twisting his chin about over his collar, as if he had a bridal bit in his mouth. The sun had dropped low, and the two boys, as Mrs. Wheeler watched them from the kitchen window, seemed to be walking beside a prairie fire. She smiled as she saw their black figures moving along on the crust of the hill against the golden sky. Even at that distance the one looked so adaptable, and the other so unyielding. They were arguing, probably, and probably Claude was on the wrong side. Chapter 9 After the vacation, Claude again settled down to his reading in the university library. He worked at a table next to the alcove where the books on painting and sculpture were kept. The art students, all of whom were girls, read and whispered together in this enclosure, and he could enjoy their company without having to talk to them. They were lively and friendly. They often asked him to lift heavy books and portfolios from the shelves, and greeted him gaily when he met them in the street or on the campus, and talked to him with the easy cordiality usual between boys and girls in a co-educational school. One of these girls, Miss Hitchie Millmore, was different from the others, different from any girl Claude had ever known. She came from Georgia and was spending the winter with her aunt on B Street. Although she was short and plump, Miss Millmore moved with what might be called a carriage, and she had altogether more manner and more reserve than the Western girls. Her hair was yellow and curly. The short ringlets about her ears were just the color of a new chicken. Her vivid blue eyes were a trifle too prominent, and a generous blush of color mantled her cheeks. It seemed to pulsate there. One had a desire to touch her cheeks to see if they were hot. The early brothers and their friends called her the Georgia Peach. She was considered very pretty, and the university boys had rushed her when she first came to town. Since then her vogue had somewhat declined. Miss Millmore often lingered about the campus to walk downtown with Claude. However he tried to adapt his long stride to her tripping gate, she was sure to get out of breath. She was always dropping her gloves for her sketchbook or her purse, and he liked to pick them up for her, and to pull on her rubbers which kept slipping off at the heel. She was very kind to single him out and be so gracious to him, he thought. She even coaxed him to pose in his track clothes for the life class on Saturday morning, telling him that he had a magnificent physique, a compliment which covered him with confusion. But he posed, of course. Claude looked forward to seeing Peachy Millmore, missed her if she were not in the alcove, found it quite natural that she should explain her absences to him, tell him how often she washed her hair and how long it was when she uncoiled it. One Friday in February, Julius Erlich overtook Claude on the campus and proposed that they should try the skating tomorrow. Yes, I'm going out, Claude replied. I've promised to teach Miss Millmore to skate. Won't you come along and help me? Julius laughed indulgently. Oh no, some other time, I don't want to break in on that. Nonsense, you could teach her better than I. Oh, I haven't the courage. What do you mean? You know what I mean. No, I don't. Why do you always laugh about that girl anyhow? Julius made a little grimace. She wrote some awfully slushy letters to Phil Bowen, and he read them aloud at the frat house one night. Didn't you slap him? Claude demanded, turning red. Well, I would have thought I would, said Julius smiling, but I didn't. They were too silly to make a fuss about. I've been wary of the Georgia peach ever since. If you touch that sort of peach ever so lightly, it might remain in your hand. I don't think so, replied Claude haughtily. She's only kind-hearted. Perhaps you're right, but I'm terribly afraid of girls who are too kind-hearted, Julius confessed. He wanted to drop Claude a word of warning for some time. Claude kept his engagement with Miss Milmore. He took her out to the skating pond several times, indeed, though in the beginning he told her he feared her ankles were too weak. Their last excursion was made by moonlight, and after that evening, Claude avoided Miss Milmore when he could do so without being rude. She was attractive to him no more. It was her way to subdue by clinging contact. One could scarcely call it design. It was a degree less subtle than that. She had already thus subdued a pale cousin in Atlanta, and it was on this account that she had been sent north. She had, Claude angrily admitted, no reserved, though when one first met her she seemed to have so much. Her eager susceptibility presented not the slightest temptation to him. He was a boy with strong impulses, and he detested the idea of trifling with them. The talk of the disreputable men his father kept about the place at home, instead of corrupting him, had given him a sharp disgust for sensuality. He had an almost hipholity and pride in Kandor, and the Book One, Chapter Nine, Recording by Tom Weiss. Book One, Chapter Ten of One of Hours. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Tom Weiss. One of Hours by Willa Cather, Chapter Ten The Ehrlich family loved anniversaries, birthdays, occasions. That spring, Mrs. Ehrlich's first cousin, Wilhelmina Schroer-Schatz, who sang with the Chicago Opera Company, came to Lincoln as soloist for the May Festival. As the date of her engagement approached, her relatives began planning to entertain her. The matinee musical was to give a formal reception for the singer, so the Ehrlichs decided upon a dinner. Each member of the family invited one guest, and they had great difficulty in deciding which of their friends would be most appreciative of the honor. There were to be more men than women, because Mrs. Ehrlich remembered that cousin, Wilhelmina, had never been partial to the society of her own sex. One evening when her sons were revising their list, Mrs. Ehrlich reminded them that she had not as yet named her guest. For me, she said with a decision, you may put down Claude Wheeler. This announcement was met with groans and laughter. You don't mean it, mother, the oldest son protested. Poor old Claude wouldn't know what it was all about, and one stick can spoil a dinner party. Mrs. Ehrlich shook her finger at him with conviction. You will see, your cousin, Wilhelmina, will be more interested in that boy than in any of the others. Julius thought if she were not too strongly opposed, she might still yield her point. For one thing, mother, Claude hasn't any dinner clothes, he murmured. She nodded to him. That has been attended to her, Julius. He is having some maid. When I sounded him, he told me he could easily afford it. The boys said if things had gone as far as that, they supposed they would have to make the best of it, and the eldest wrote down Claude Wheeler with a flourish. If the Ehrlich boys were apprehensive, their anxiety was nothing to Claude's. He was to take Mrs. Ehrlich to Madame Schroeder Schatz's recital, and on the evening of the concert when he appeared at the door, the boys dragged him in to look him over. Otto turned on all the lights, and Mrs. Ehrlich, in her new black lace over white satin, fluttered into the parlor to see what figure her escort cut. Claude pulled off his overcoat as he was bid, and presented himself in the sooty blackness of fresh broadcloth. Mrs.  She laughed and clapped her hands. Now all the girls will turn around in their seats to look and wonder where I got him. Claude began to bestow her belongings in his overcoat pockets, opera glasses in one, fan in another. She put a lornette into her little bag, along with her powder box, handkerchief, and smelling salts. There was even a little silver box of peppermint drops, in case she might begin to cough. She drew on her long gloves, arranged a lace scarf over her hair, and at last was ready to have the evening cloak which Claude held wound about her. When she reached up and took his arm, bowing to her sons, they laughed and liked Claude better.  The dinner party came off the next evening. The guest of honor, Madame Delhamino Churroschatz, was some years younger than her cousin, Augusto Ehrlich. She was short, stalwart, with an enormous chest, a fine head, and a commanding presence. Her great contralto voice, which she used without much discretion, was a really superb organ and gave people a pleasure as substantial as food and drink. At dinner, she sat on the right of the oldest son. Claude, beside Mrs. Ehrlich at the other end of the table, watched attentively the lady attired in green velvet and blazing rhinestones. After dinner, as Madame Churroschatz swept out of the dining room, she dropped her cousin's arm and stopped before Claude, who stood at attention behind his chair. If cousin Augusto can spare you, we must have a little talk together. We have been very far separated, she said. She led Claude to one of the window seats in the living room, at once complained of a draft, and sent him to hunt for her green scarf. He brought it and carefully put it about her shoulders, but after a few moments she threw it off with a slightly annoyed air, as if she had never wanted it. Claude, with solicitude, reminded her about the draft. Draft, she said, lifting her chin. There is no draft here. She asked Claude where he lived, how much land his father owned, what crops they raised, and about their poultry and dairy. When she was a child she had lived on a farm in Bavaria, and she seemed to know a good deal about farming and livestock. She was disapproving when Claude told her they read it half their land to other farmers. If I were a young man, I would begin to acquire land, and I would not stop until I had a whole country, she declared. She said that when she met new people, she liked to find out the way they made their living. Her own way was a hard one. Later in the evening, Madame Schroeder Schatz graciously consented to sing for her cousins. When she sat down to the piano, she beckoned Claude and asked him to turn for her. He shook his head, smiling woopily. I'm sorry, I'm so stupid, but I don't know one note from another. She tapped his sleeve. Well, never mind. I may want the piano moved yet. You could do that for me, eh? When Madame Schroeder Schatz was in Mrs. Ehrlich's bedroom, powdering her nose before she put on her wraps, she remarked, What a pity, Augusta, that you have not a daughter now to marry to Claude Melnole. He would make you a perfect son-in-law. Ah, if only I had, sighed Mrs. Ehrlich, or continued Madame Schroeder Schatz energetically pulling on her large carriage shoes. If you were but a few years younger, it might not yet be too late.  Such things have happened and will happen again.  But a husband to go home to, an eye, a woman in full vigor, Yas is ein Kreuz ich trage, she smote her bosom on the left side. Having put on first a velvet coat, then a fermentl, Madame Schroeder Schatz moved like a galleon out into the living room and kissed all her cousins, and Claude Wheeler, good night.


She might get run over. They just drop it between Good girl She's gonna get something you better pay attention because you're gonna do this too Good girl