Chapter 7 of Plough Stories by Claire D. Pearson, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, the Pioneer Laird's. He was in the very early spring of 1870, that Stephen Laird, with his wife Rachel, his fifteen-year-old son Hugh, and his twelve-year-old daughter Mary, drove from eastern Michigan to Kansas to settle there. Mr. Laird had been a soldier in the Civil War, and because of that he had been away from his family for nearly four years. His wife had sold their farm and moved into town, but when he came back he wanted to begin farming again. At that time our government told the men who had fought in the Northern Army that they might earn Western farms for themselves by living on them for a certain length of time, long enough so that this added to that spent in the Army would make five years. Mr. Laird decided to earn such a farm. These farms were called Soldiers' Claims. They contained one hundred and sixty acres each, and Mr. Laird could earn his by living on it and raising crops on part of it for only a little over one year. It meant going far away from all their old friends, and it made them sad to do that, yet it seemed the wise thing to do. They had money enough left from the sale of their old farm to live on while raising their first crops on the new one. Hugh and Mary were glad to go, for they longed to see more of this beautiful great land which their father had fought to save. They stood about watching him while he rigged their old farm wagon for the trip to Kansas, for they were to drive all the way, camping at night beside the road. First Mr. Laird cut slender saplings of hickory to hold the canvas cover of the wagon in place. Hugh and Mary peeled these for him, and they looked very neat when the last bit of the bark had been removed. Mr. Laird fastened them to the sides of the wagon in such a way as to make a row of arches across it. Then Mrs. Laird came from her kitchen to help him stretch the canvas over the arches and fasten it down at the sides. At the front it was left open, and the forward arch was slanted out in such a way as to make a projecting roof over the driver's seat. The canvas flapped loosely beyond the back arch, and Mrs. Laird climbed into the wagon box to fix it. She carried a very stout needle and some twine, and gathered the canvas into such shape that there would be just room for the two children to look out of the small round opening which she left. This window let a breeze blow through the wagon, and yet it was so small that it could be easily covered in a storm. Now she said when she climbed down, I will get all my kettles and skillets ready for the children to bring out, and you shall pack the wagon tonight, Stephen. Then we can have an early breakfast at the home of our good neighbors and start soon after the sun rises. The next morning Mr. Laird harnessed the span of big grey horses to the wagon, and they all started west, their old friends and neighbors waving them goodbye and calling kindly messages after them. They had sold all of their belongings which they could not carry in the wagon or hang below it. Under the driver's seat where Mrs. Laird sat beside her husband was a trunk containing clothing for the family. There also were a large box filled with cooked food, and some bags of flour and potatoes. Behind the seat the wagon box was filled with hay, and set in this were two chairs, a small rocker of which Mrs. Laird was fond, and a quaint old armchair which had belonged to Mr. Laird's father and his grandfather. There were also grain bags containing bedding and more clothing. At night when the bedding was taken out to use the bags stuffed partly full of clothing made very fine pillows for the family. Mrs. Laird and the children always slept in the wagon, but Mr. Laird lay on the ground either under or beside the wagon. The horses were picketed out, tied by long ropes to stakes. At night and rover the brave shepherd dog lay between them and his master. There was always a loaded gun within reach of Mr. Laird when he slept and this was to protect them from horse thieves or wild beasts. They soon began driving along the old Chicago road which had been built where the Indian trail had run between the trading posts of Detroit and Chicago. The road passed through rich prairie land and Mr. Laird looked at it longingly. These are fine farms along here, he said, and the men who own them have good houses and barns already built. Our prairie will not look as this one does, Rachel. Never mind, Stephen answered his plucky wife. We will make our Kansas farm as good as these yet. Nothing can sadden me long. Now that I have you safe home from the war. Sea children, she added, those little old log cabins back of many of the fine farmhouses, you must remember that even these farmers had to start out poor as we are doing. We shall enjoy a good house all the more when we get it, if we have to live in a poor one first. In such ways the many days passed which they spent upon the road. At night they stopped by the wayside and Hugh and Mary gathered bits of wood from some forest for their campfire. Mrs. Laird managed to give them very good meals, cooking in the iron kettles and skillets which hung below the wagon among the water buckets. There they became so dusty that Hugh always had to rinse them in some brook or lake before they could be used. Sometimes they stopped to buy things in towns through which they passed and there they heard the people speaking of their canvas-covered wagon as a prairie schooner. More often they bought their supplies of the farmer's wives and these kind-hearted women frequently added the gift of a loaf of bread to the eggs, bacon, milk, or salt-pork which they had sold. All the Lairds became tanned from wind and sunshine and Hugh, who took turns with his father and mother in driving, also became quite a good shot. It was only the fat meats which they had to buy, for they caught fish and shot game from day to day. At last they reached Kansas, the new territory which Mr. Laird had helped to make a free state, where black men and women should have as fair a chance to work for themselves as the white people had. Here there were fewer trees than in Michigan and the level prairie stretched away as far as one could see, all covered with spring wild flowers, many of which were new to them. When they reached the place where they were to settle, they had to live in the wagon for a few days while Mr. Laird attended to business in the nearest town, to and from which he rode on the back of one of his horses. The day that he finished his business there, he drove his wagon after taking off its canvas cover and setting it up as a sort of tent. That night he returned with a strange kind of plow in the wagon-box. Mrs. Laird and the children came to look at it when it was unloaded, and Hugh did not approve of it. Look at its moldboard and point, he said. See how flat and wide they are in front. Was that the only kind of plow you could get out here, Father? It was the only kind I wanted to get out here, Mr. Laird replied. This is a prairie plow. It has to cut through and turn over sod that has never been disturbed. Look at the long and easy curve of the moldboard. It is made so to turn the sod. The plow must be kept very sharp, and it needs an extremely strong team, like our Bob and Joe, to pull it. Oh, said Hugh, I begin to understand. This is made for a different sort of job from the plows we used in Michigan. I believe this is similar to the kind that my father used before I was born, said Mrs. Laird thoughtfully. He came to Michigan from New York State and had to break the old, old sod to plant his crops. He used to tell me about it when I was a little girl, but by that time he could use the kind of plow which Hugh and Mary knew. Well, said Mr. Laird, we must have supper now and get to bed, for we have to start early in the morning. I want to plow up a whole house for you tomorrow. When morning came the plowing began. Hugh followed behind his father with a hatchet, chopping out good square-cornered strips of sod, which had been first marked off and cut by the jointer, then lifted by the share, and then turned over by the moldboard. Mary followed Hugh and piled these in neat little stacks beside the furrows. At noon, after they had eaten their dinner of prairie chicken and potatoes, with a surprise in the shape of boiled greens, everybody set to work to begin the building of a sod house. Their first home was to stand beside a pretty little creek which flowed through their land. There were cottonwood trees growing beside it, and Mrs. Laird had chosen a spot where the land was a bit higher than the rest. See, Stephen, she said, we shall have shade in the summer heat, I shall have water nearby for my cooking and washing, and the gentle slope of the land will carry rain away from the house. And I, added Hugh, can sit on the bank and fish and throw my catch right into the kitchen. Please don't throw them into the frying pan until you have cleaned them, said Mrs. Laird. Then they all laughed heartily and set to work piling walls of sod. Stakes showed where the corners were to be, and also where openings were to be left for a door and a window. The sods were laid in the same way the bricks or hewn stone would be, so that each layer of them showed whole sods covering the breaks in the layer below. It will be very small, exclaimed Mary, why, mother, the whole house won't be any bigger than our kitchen was in Michigan. It will be large enough for a stove, a table, and some ticks filled with straw, on which we can sleep, said Mrs. Laird. On pleasant days all but I will be busy in the fields, and we can eat outside the kitchen door. When it rains we will pile the ticks on top of each other and bring in the chairs. Oh, we shall manage. Hurrah for mother, cried Mr. Laird, driving up with another load of sod. She has the real pioneer spirit. Hurrah for father, cried Mrs. Laird, he was a brave soldier and now he is a brave pioneer. Hurrah for everybody, cried Hugh, Mary and I are rather brave ourselves. Before it was dark the sod walls at one end were fairly high and the canvas from the wagon had been stretched over the top as far as it would go. I have left you a skylight, said Mr. Laird. It is not every family that can have a skylight in its kitchen. Parlor, you mean, said Mrs. Laird. Bedroom, you mean, cried Hugh. Dining room, you mean, added Mary. Enjoy it all you can, said Mr. Laird. I'll have just a plain roof on here before long and after our crops are planted we will build another room and a stable for the team. A little later they were all stretched out on their straw ticks, tired, very, very tired, but feeling that they had a home. At last, after their long journey, Hugh murmured something when he was half asleep which only his father and his mother heard. Queer land, he was saying. Get the right kind of plow and you can turn up most anything, even houses. The boy speaks the truth, even if he is dreaming, said his father gravely. Everything we have comes first or last from the soil and the plow is the most important invention that we have, the only one without which we could not live now. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Plow Stories by Clare D. Pearson. The sleeper box recording is in the public domain. The Laird's fight, a prairie fire. Hugh Laird, a tall youth of eighteen, sat near the kitchen table on which the lighted tallow candle stood, cleaning his father's gun. As he worked, he talked through the open door with the rest of the family who sat around the kerosene lamp in the living room. It was a scene of quiet happiness and the family looked comfortable and well. Mary was a sweet-faced girl of fifteen, now studying the lessons which she would recite the next day in the little schoolhouse, a mile away, on the prairie. Mrs. Laird was sewing and Mr. Laird was looking over a catalogue of farm tools. At last he laid down the catalogue with a laugh. Guess I might as well think about something else for a while, he said, for I can't buy another implement until house and barn are paid for. But there's a gangplow just invented that will be a great thing for us. Think of what it does. It plows several furrows at once, and they even say that by using a traction engine several gangplows can be drawn across the field side by side. Think about what you will have to eat tomorrow, father, called Hugh. It makes a fellow wish that he could have a dozen stomachs in the fall when he thinks of all the game there is to be had. Huh! said Mary raising her eyes from her problems. It makes a girl think that she would need two dozen hands to prepare all that game for eating. Mrs. Laird laid down the apron that she was making, and walked to the window for a look across the prairie. The moon is almost full, she said. It is pleasant to glance about and think of the changes which the last three years have brought. It was true that the Laird farm looked quite different from what it did in 1870, when the family and the stock had only sod buildings for shelter. Now they had a five-room frame house, with good stoves and real bedsteads, even though the floors and walls were still bare, and there was little furniture besides what they were obliged to have. A fair-sized barn stood nearby, with a tool shed built against it. Mr. Laird was too wise and careful a man to spend his money for good implements, and then leave them out in the sunshine and rain to rust and ruin. There were also neat buildings for hogs and chickens, and Mrs. Laird thought, with satisfaction of the fat swine and plump poultry now asleep inside of them. It looks like a Michigan farmyard, she said. I know something that does not look like Michigan, remarked Mary. Oh, what is that, asked her father. The woodpile, answered Mary. Good reason why Hugh called out from the kitchen. There isn't any. After they had laughed a bit over the way in which Hugh had said this, Mr. Laird sighed and remarked, If for the next fortnight I could do anything in the whole world that I might choose, I'd chop and haul wood for winter fuel. I miss the Michigan forests. I'd like some of the trees that they fell and burn in clearing their fields. A man never knows the worth of trees until he has to live without them. We have some cottonwoods along the creek, said Mrs. Laird. They shade the house in summer and make a windbreak in the winter. Yes, and they shelter the stock from the hot summer sun, added Mr. Laird. They are too precious to cut for fuel. Never mind, Mrs. Laird. We cannot have everything at once. If we had been forced to clear away the forest before planting our crops, we could never have done what we have. Bought our stock and put up our buildings in three years. After a while, we will send east for some young trees and plant them around the house.  All we had was corn stalks and rose and weed for every day with pieces of dead cottonwood that we picked up and saved for extra times, like Sunday afternoons and holidays. I used to think that being really warm all over at once was the best part of Sunday, said Hugh. Father wouldn't let us use the wood until mother could sit down and enjoy it with us. While she was working around, we had to burn stalks and weeds. Hugh stood in the doorway. The gun is cleaned, he said, and I am off to bed.  I'll get me a bite from the pantry before I start. Keep your eyes open for fires, my son, warrant his father. They will begin soon. When the hunters from the east come out here for game, have the days fun that I promised you when the crops were in, and then we must protect our place from the fires that are sure to come. Hugh promised to do so, and then he went upstairs. The next day he was off hunting prairie chicken and all sorts of small game while Mary was in school and his parents were busy around the home. At four o'clock Mr. Laird came into the house, Rachel, he called. The fires have started. Oh, Stephen, she said, what can we do? Plough and backfire, he answered grimly. You will have to help. Then he went off to the barn for a team. The early settlers on western prairies knew what to expect each fall. Eastern hunters set fires to start the game, and then the fires swept over the level land, leaving only fine black cinders, where the dry brown prairie grass had been. The fires travelled fast, and settlers often lost their buildings in stock, unless they had prepared strips of bare or burnt over land which the flames could not cross. Mrs. Laird knew what must be done and went quickly to work. She had hardly exchanged her dress for an old suit of her husbands when Mary came flying through the door. Isn't it dreadful, she cried. I saw the smoke cloud as soon as I left school, and I've come just as fast as I could. Put on some of Hugh's old clothes, said her mother. We must help, Father. I wish that Hugh were here. It was like Rachel Laird always to waste no time on talk when there was work to be done. She made a pot full of coffee, using real coffee, which they bought at the store instead of the usual browned rye. And she made a great stack of bread and meat sandwiches, which she packed into a large tin pail, together with tin cups for the coffee. By this time Mary had come downstairs, looking very much like a younger brother of Hugh's. Close all the windows and doors tight, before the smoke grows stronger, said Mrs. Laird, and help me take the washing from the line and bring it inside. This is hardly done when Hugh came in, laden with game, and quite out of breath. I was so near home when I saw the smoke cloud rolling up, he cried, that I thought I could hurry and carry my game too. Mother, I ought not to have gone until we were ready for the fires. I'll never forgive myself if our buildings burn. He almost broke down, as he said this, for he had worked hard with his father for three summers, and he knew what the loss would mean to them all. Do not stop to think of that now, said his mother. Father was willing, that you should go, and you had earned the right. Another year we can plan more wisely, but the fires have never before started so early. Hugh arose from his chair, with a look of courage. He drank a cup of coffee, put some sandwiches into his pocket, and ran outside. I'll fetch up the cattle, he called back. Hugh had seen enough fall fires to know that, when they came near, the cattle become crazed with fright, until they run wildly ahead of the flames, exhaust themselves, and are burned to death. The hogs were in their pen, so Mary and her mother went at once, for the hens calling loudly, chik chik chik, and scattering corn for them from a pan. It was then so near the end of the late fall afternoon, that most of them were already gathering about the farmyard, and it did not take long to get them safely locked up, where they would have to stay in spite of smoke and fright. When this was done Mrs. Laird sent Mary with coffee and sandwiches to her father, while she went to the barn, and began harnessing the second work team. She thought that she would have them ready for Hugh to use when the cattle were housed.  This could be done by burning the grass or stubble in the path of the flames, so that they would find nothing to feed upon. This is called backfiring, and backfires, although started for protection against the greater ones, sometimes became dangerous themselves. It was necessary to keep them under careful control, and from sweeping too far by plowing, so that there would be a strip of bare ground that the smaller fires could not cross. The plowing was too heavy work for women and girls, but if they were protected by snuggle and garments, they could tend and control the backfire. Mrs. Laird had the team already harnessed when Hugh brought up the cattle. He had not had to go far, for they had been standing by the creek, chewing their cud, after a day in the meadow beyond it. Now he herded them into the barn, and took the team from his mother. I suppose father has the stubble plow, he said, as he turned his horse towards the tool shed. That would work better in the cornfields, but I'll hitch to the prairie plow, and do all that I can. Mr. Laird was turning furrows north of the house, and Hugh began turning the soil east of it, to keep the backfire from the stubble fields. The creek which ran along the south side would stop the flames there. The smoke was growing thicker, and birds flew about uttering strange cries, while queer sounds came from the hens in the poultry house. In the barn the cows were stirring uneasily. Mary clung close to her mother, and began to cry. Tears stood in Rachel Laird's eyes also, but she dashed them aside, and reproved both her daughter and herself, like the brave pioneer woman that she was. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, she said. There will be time enough for tears, when we have lost our home, if we lose it. But I think that there is more to be done right now. We will fetch water from the creek, to fill all our tubs and pails, and then we will get all the green sacks we can, and soak them before we begin backfiring. If we have more time, we will milk the cows, and carry water to the men. They did this, putting tubfuls of water near the different buildings, and laying the wet bags beside them, and then bringing foaming pails of milk to the kitchen. Near the kitchen door, but inside it, Mrs. Laird lay there four woollen blankets, and some clothing. This last she crammed into the same bags, which had held it and served as pillows, when they drove west, in a prairie schooner, three years before. Their money she put into her pocket, and pinned the opening of it together. Mary saw and understood these preparations. It is a good thing to live near a creek, she said. Yes, replied Mrs. Laird, your father and I thought of that long ago. If we cannot make ourselves safe by backfiring, we will wrap ourselves with our bags of clothing in wet blankets, and we will stay in the creek until the fire passes us. And then, asked Mary. Then, said Mrs. Laird, we will be thankful that we have each other left, and we will build another sod house, and begin all over again. Just then he rushed up to them. Father sent me to help you backfire, he shouted. We have plowed a strip four furrows wide to stop the backfire, and will plow more to protect the stubble field, if we have time, after we have burnt around the buildings. Carefully they lighted the dry grass to windward, and while the flames were starting, each tied a wet towel over his nose and mouth, in order that they might not breathe in too much smoke. Then they took wet sacks in their hands, and stood ready to beat out any flames, that seemed likely to set their buildings afire. The sun was setting, and smoke darkened the sky, their eyes were red from the smarting it caused, and their hands were blackened by their work. Little flickering flames ran here and there, until the west wind fanned them into bigger ones, and when they blazed too high and sent up too many sparks, someone beat them down quickly with a wet sack. Swiftly the flames crept to the buildings, stopped, at the stone foundations, and died down. First they burnt out around the new barn and tool shed, for that was the way Mrs. Laird said, that it should be, and the fires had been lighted nearest to that. Next they burned out around the house, and around the hog house, and the poultry house, then around the cottonwoods, and passed on to the plowed strip, beyond which they were not strong enough to pass. Are we safe now? asked Mary, whose face, like the faces of her mother and brother, was coloured a deep brown by smoke. Perhaps, said her mother, Hugh returned to your father and your horses, Mary and I will start more fires farther back. So Hugh returned to his plowing, for they hoped to save the stubble, which stood in their fields. If it could be saved to turn under before planting their spring crops, it would rot there and turn into humus in the soil, you know? The smoke clouds grew thicker and thicker, in the sky redder and redder, soon frightened jackrabbits came leaping away from the fires behind them, while prairie chickens, quails, partridges, and all sorts of little wild creatures flew or scurried by, once a pair of coyotes lopped along, paying no attention to the queer-looking people whom they passed. Come, Mary, cried Mrs. Laird, when they had lighted the last backfire, we will run ahead of the fire to our burned-over dooryard, once Mary tripped on an exhausted jackrabbit, and would have gone down if her mother had not caught her. But they got safely to their home, just as Mr. Laird and Hugh stumbled in from the barn, where they had shut in their frightened horses, now nearly crazed by the strong smell of smoke. Do you think it will pass us by, Stephen, asked Mrs. Laird? Yes, unless the cotton-woods near the house get a fire, he said. If they do, we must run down the treeless part of the bank and lie in the creek. On swept the fire, and they watched it from the west windows of their home. The smoke clouds were heavier and heavier, more and more game-hurried passed, or huddled on the ground near the buildings, which had so recently been backfired. A low wall aflame showed to the west, blazed higher than lower than died out. Mr. Laird went outside to watch, lest some spark be blown onto the barn. Hugh watched the house. The cotton-woods did not catch fire. The smoke clouds thinned, and at last the great silvery moon could shine down upon the earth. Their buildings and their stock were safe. All were so tired that they dared not try to talk much about the danger just passed. Instead, as usually happens in such cases, they began to talk of something else. Hugh, true boy that he was, felt hungry, and his tired red-rimmed eyes twinkled a bit as he said, Mother, isn't it about time that you started supper? Mr. Laird said, Bread and milk, Rachel. Nothing but bread and milk tonight. If the boy once roasted prairie chicken, I think he can find some outside. Mrs. Laird and Mary set out a loaf of bread for bowls and a great pitcher of milk. While the rest washed in some of the water from the last tubful, and ran their fingers through their hair. Hugh, said Mr. Laird, we must get our shares sharpened tomorrow, ready for fall plowing. I noticed tonight that the stubble plow needs it, and I'm sure that the old prairie plow does. It's a good thing that we saved our corn stubble to turn under. You can use the pointed stubble plow with the light team for that, and I will use the old prairie plow with the heavy horses to get more new land ready for planting. It's fine to have the right sort of tool for each purpose, and someday, when our land is older, if we have good harvests, we will have one of those new gang plows that have just been invented and sit down while we drive. Don't you dare to let the old prairie plow go, said Mrs. Laird, that gave us our first house here, and it helped to save the second. All right, replied Mr. Laird, keep it or sell it just as you choose. It all goes to prove what I have always said.  End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Plow Stories by Clara D. Pearson This Lieber-Box recording is in the public domain. The Big Day Samuel Alden used to tell his children as they gathered close to the fire on winter evenings when Dakota blizzards were raging outside, that his people had plowed their way clear across the United States, from Plymouth, Massachusetts to South Dakota. At first the children could not understand what he meant, and once the eldest son Nathan had asked him about it. I don't see how they could, Nathan had said the winter that he was ten. If they went straight west all the time, how could they ever get back to their homes to eat and sleep? And how, asked Alvira, who was a year and a half younger, did they ever get any crops from the land they had plowed, if they didn't go back to plant and harvest them? You can see from this, that the Alden children were very wide awake, and that they meant to understand about the interesting work which their forefathers had done, as well as that by which their father supported his family. And Sammy will Alden threw back his head and laughed with them, in the pleasant way that he had, and called out to his wife that she would have to help him explain it all. She had been a teacher, and he thought that she could do it better than he. So when she had tucked Billy, Tom, and the small Margaret into bed, she brought her mending to the table, where the lamp stood, for an extra hour was to be permitted to Nathan and Alvira that night. It began in the Plymouth Colony, she said, when they used rude wooden plows, no to exactly alike, which were built after the fashion of those which they had seen used in England and in Holland. Perhaps they had seen the better ones in Holland, for the Dutch people had such soil to work that they gave much thought to their plows. The pilgrims used to cut down trees that had been twisted by the wind, and shape their moldboards from them. You know what the moldboard is, the part that turns over and breaks apart the slice of soil, which has been cut by the share. Those old plows had iron shares and colters, and sometimes the edges of these were of steel. Sometimes the land side was shod with steel also, and they used to nail bits of old iron to the wooden moldboard, to keep it from wearing out too fast. I knew they went back to their houses to eat, said Nathan. Teacher told us all about them last Thanksgiving. They ate turkeys and corn and fish and venison and cranberries and all sorts of things. So they had to harvest their crop, or they wouldn't have any corn, exclaimed Alvira. Yes, said Mrs. Alden, the colness stayed there in their rude log cabins and plowed and sowed and harvested. John Alden, who lived there, was one of your forefathers. He was your great, great, great, many times great grandfather. And he stayed right there in Massachusetts, added Mr. Alden. As the country became more settled, however, his descendants, that is his children's children and their children, began to settle in places farther west, First New York, then Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and so on. Wherever they went, they took their plows. For pioneers, for settlers, always have to be farmers. And the most important tool a farmer has is his plow. They plowed their way because they were farmers, living on what their plows enabled them to raise. Our plows haven't wooden moldboards, remarked Nathan. No, said Mr. Alden. It is three hundred years since the Pilgrims first felled twisted trees for us to use in that way. Since that time your forefathers have used better and better implements, wise men have improved the old patterns, and every improvement has meant better crops and a richer nation. Sometimes it has been a plain farmer who has made the improvements, sometimes a blacksmith, sometimes a statesman. But whatever they were, whether they made much money from their inventions or became poor because of them, they were benefactors of their race. Always remember that. Nathan and Elvira sat on the edge of their chairs, awed by their father's earnestness, and did not quite understand what they were expected to remember. Then Mrs. Alden spoke again. Father means that they were helpers of people, she said, even of people whom they had never seen. The weed for our bread, the beans which we ate at supper time, all were raised on plowed ground, and all those wise men helped to make our plow possible. The milk came from the cows that ate the corn stalks that grew on plowed ground, added Nathan.  And we wiped our fingers on linen, made from flax that grew on plowed ground, added Mrs. Alden. Almost everything that we eat or wear is better because of plow makers. And now you must go to bed. So the children went off to dream of their pilgrim forefathers, and Mr. Alden lighted his lantern and fought his way through the storm for one last look at his livestock, guided there and back by a stout rope, which ran from a ring beside the kitchen door to a ring beside the barn door. After this he too slept soundly, for his crops were harvested, and cared for, his stock were safe, and his family were well housed. It was over ten years after that blizzardy night on which Nathan and Elvira had thus heard the story of the Aldens, that they again discussed plows and plowing. This time it was not indoors by the fire, but outside, over the foaming milk-pales in the soft twilight of a Dakota evening. Nathan was now twenty, and Elvira was a tall, sturdy girl of eighteen and a half. They had stopped to talk outside the crowd-shed, where others could not hear them, for they were worried and perplexed. Mr. Alden had been delayed in his plowing until he now had several fields untouched, while all his neighbors had theirs completed. It was the first time that this had ever happened, but he had had a sprained ankle, and one of his best spans of work horses had been killed by lightning. The loss of money had been bad enough, but the loss of time had been worse, for everybody knows that unless crops are planted in time they do not mature before frost. When the horses were killed Mr. Alden had done what he had long wished to do, ordered a tractor plow. Gang plows, drawn by three or four horses each, had long been used in the neighborhood, and it had seemed for a long while that improvement could go no farther than it had gone, in a plow which could be managed by one man, and yet turn three fresh furrows each time across the field. In some places they had used tractor engines instead of horses, and had hitched the gang plows behind them in such a way that strips 65 feet wide had been turned at once. Farmers had soon found, however, that this could be done on only the largest farms, and that the turning at the end of the field wasted much time, so these very large outfits were generally given up. After that the papers began to tell of tractor plows, suitable for farms of the usual size, which could be managed by one man only. It was such a one that Mr. Alden had ordered, and Nathan had in his pocket a notice of its arrival at the nearest railroad station. A man will be here tomorrow, he said to Alvira, to show us how to run it, and to get us started. Of course he wants us to succeed with it, so that our neighbors will buy the same sort of implement. Now I want to see whether we can make one grand rush of the plowing and get it done in time to celebrate, when they have their big day in town. Will you go in with me and take your share of the extra work? I don't know just what you mean, but I'll help, said Alvira. What I mean is this, said Nathan. Billy Tom and Margaret are fairly sick over the thought that the plowing is going to keep this family at home, when every other family for miles around will be in town for the celebration. There is to be the finest sort of circus, you know, and fireworks and pretty nearly everything that youngsters like. Tractors don't tire out like horses, and I figure that there are men enough in this family to keep one going day and night. Night! exclaimed Alvira. Why, Nathan, you can't work in the dark. I can work by such moonlight as we shall have this week, he said, and the lights on the tractor will count for a good deal. Billy could take his turn in the daytime. Tom is pretty husky too, and he's as bright a 15-year-old as there is in the state. It might be that he could take a turn now and then, especially if we can get that agent to stay. We'll try it, exclaimed Alvira, tossing her pretty head. I'll help mother cook the very best things he ever had offered him. He won't want to get away. There will have to be lunches for those who work at night, said Nathan warningly. Who cares, cried Alvira? Nathan, let us make a regular game of it. Brother and sister shook hands on it, like the good chums that they were, and then they carried the milk to the house and laid their plans before their parents. Mr. and Mrs. Alden were not sure that the plan would work, but they were pleased that their young people cared to try it. Mr. Olgavi, the agent, arrived in the morning by the time that Nathan had brought the new plow out from town. Mr. Alden said to him, our children want to keep this going steadily until the last furrow is turned. Do you think that they can do it? That depends on them, replied the agent. If they are as plucky and strong as they look, and if we have clear nights, I see no reason why they cannot. Tom and Margaret, who had been listening around the corner of the house, hugged each other silently and did a little war dance on the turf. Oh, Tom, cried Margaret, we'll go to that circus yet. You just see how good and helpful I will be. Watch me, retorted Tom. I'm going to be a model child for a week or so. Billy was standing by the new plow, listening to every word that Mr. Olgavi said, and wondering whether he would be allowed to ride on the tractor seat, to run the engine, and work the levers which raised and lowered the plow bottoms. The bottom, you know, is the part which really touches the soil. The combination of share, mold, board, and landside. He meant to listen, and watch, and be ready to make the most of his chance, if it came. Mr. Olgavi turned the first few furrows, and Mr. Alden then took his place. Next Nathan, and then, to his very great delight, Billy was allowed to climb into the tractor seat and try his hand. He made bad work of his first turn, but did better the next time, and showed that he really understood all that Mr. Olgavi said. Mr. Alden had always declared that Billy was the mechanic of the family. Margaret came to the door and shook a dusting cloth, just as Billy gave up his seat to Mr. Alden. Perhaps she shook it to free it from dust, perhaps to encourage Billy. Who can tell? Well, if it were possible for a tractor to get out of breath, the Alden tractor would surely have done so that day. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth it travelled, until the sun rose high in the heavens, and until it sank again in the west. Nathan ran it during the meal hours, and he took his place at the dining table, only after his father relieved him at the tractor. While he was splashing away at the kitchen sink before beginning his dinner, he said between a puff and a snort, What does Mr. Olgavi think about tomorrow? He thinks your plan is a good one, answered Mrs. Alden, as she piled a plate full of meat, potato, and other vegetables for him. He says that, if the plow is kept going constantly for 24 hours, and the furrows are straight, and the turn's good, he will send word all around to all the neighbors to come over in the afternoon to watch it at work, turning its four furrows at once. I'll wager that he gets more orders out of this, sputtered Nathan, I'll wager that he gets a big day out of this, whispered Alvira, as she passed him on her way to the dining room. All that afternoon Nathan slept, having arisen very early for his trip to town. Tom and Margaret helped, in many ways, such model children. At twilight, when Nathan awakened, fresh and ready to spend the first part of the night in the field, Tom was turning the cream separator and Margaret drying the last of the dishes, while Alvira made ready his belated meal. Outside, Billy was taking a short turn on the tractor plow. Which is this, sis, supper or breakfast? asked Nathan with a smile. Decide for yourself. I am giving you enough for both, answered Alvira, setting down a pitcher of fresh milk. Call it breakfast, son, suggested Mr. Alden, pausing on his way to bed. That will make it all right for you to eat dinner, when I take your place at two. It is going to be a fine night. There is not a cloud in the sky. Then he went to bed, tired and happy, and Nathan went out to take Billy's place. Alvira cleared off the table and laid it afresh for the night lunches of her father and her brother. Tom and Margaret hung around to talk over the day's work. Trust those children to be interested in the wonders of agriculture. I'd like to know how it strikes the horses, said Tom. They must think they've lost their job. They are only taking a vacation, said Alvira. There is plenty left for them to do. They can rest now and work the better for it afterward. That is what you must do. Play the game, for all you are worth, and go to bed early. Shoo, shoo! And they scampered off laughing. And Mr. Algavi, to whom they spoke in passing, looked after them with interest. You have some fine boys and girls, he said. Such young people as they are will be our finest men and women. They know how to work and enjoy it. What is this that I hear about a big day? So Mrs. Alden explained about it, and he nodded and said, Uh-huh, I see, I see. Well, they may be trying to earn a frolic now, but they learned how by good steady everyday work, when there was no treat in sight. The elder daughter of yours is no new hand at cooking. There is not much to tell about that night. The moon shone brightly, and Nathan worked steadily back, and forth, back, and forth, four furrows out, and four furrows back, eight for each round trip. With the faint calls of the night bird, sounding now and then, and the stars and the friendly moon lighting his path, his engine ran perfectly, his plough bottoms cut clean furrows, his combined rolling colter and jointer cut through old trash, which had grown on the ground and buried it in the bottom of the furrows to rot there and feed the new crop, and filled the air spaces in the soil, all things which have to be done to make the finest sort of seedbed. To raise the plough bottoms when making a turn, he had only to pull on a rope. This started the machinery to raising them from the soil into the silvery moonlight. When he had made his turn, another pull of the rope lowered them. Pretty easy, thought Nathan. I wonder what John Alden would have thought if he had seen this. I believe that he would have been too much amazed to hang on to his old plough handles of crooked white ash roots. You can see that Nathan's parents had told him much of the early history of our country, and he, and his brothers and sisters, realized how the present grows out of the past. Then another thought came to him. It is the same moon that shone down on the Mayflower, and on those first ploughed fields, which is shining on me now. It is the same one which shone on the Indians before the Mayflower landed, and which saw the tiny patches beside the wigwamps, which they tilled with their hose of shellbone or stone tied onto wooden handles with thongs or wives. Just then a light flashed in one of the upper windows of the house, and Nathan, big husky youth that he was, began to think joyfully of the good things awaiting him on the dining table. Presently Mr. Alden came out to finish the night. How does it go, son? he said. What have you been thinking about while the rest of us slept? It goes wonderfully, answered Nathan, and I have been thinking about John Alden and others. Good for you, cried his father. My forefathers were a fine, clean-lived, sturdy lot, and, here his eyes twinkled, I am pretty well satisfied with my descendants. The next day was fine, and Nathan, Mr. Alden and Billy, took turn and turn about, Tom being permitted to do the oiling and caring for the tractor plough during the very short halts in the work. Tom and Margaret were also sent out on horseback to ask the neighbouring farmers over to inspect the work. That afternoon, Mr. Olgavi took the lead, meeting all comers, handing out printed folders, mounting the tractor plough to show how absolutely straight it would run, and how clean the moldboards would scour by reason of the way in which they were made. They and the shares being chilled in the casting and shaped precisely right for the soil in which they worked. It is not so very many years, he said, since a manufacturer put a leather pocket on each plough beam to carry a paddle, and that paddle was to clear off the soil which kept sticking to the moldboard. And then you should have heard those farmers laugh. Nathan and Billy, remembering their father's favourite expression, decided that the man who made such devices needless was a benefactor of the race. Mr. Olgavi left that night, and he carried with him orders for three more tractor ploughs to be delivered to the neighbours of the Aldens. Before going, he had a private talk with Mrs. Alden and left her an envelope addressed to Ms. Elvira Alden Cook, an envelope which Mrs. Alden tucked carefully away in her top bureau drawer. Saturday noon came, and the rain clouds piled up in the west. Pile up, pile up, thou dark blue clouds, saying Margaret, thou hast come too late to scare us. Nathan, making his last turn, waved a joyful hand to her from the field. Billy ran to open the door of the tool shed where the place of honour stood empty, and Tom said, Gee, I believe that tractor pow is ready to stop. There is one good thing about it, isn't there? It doesn't eat when it isn't working. That is another difference between it and a horse. That's a difference between it and people, said Nathan, as he drove up hollow-eyed but happy.  And then what? asked Margaret, mischievously as the first raindrops fell, and Tom shut the door of the tool shed. Then, said Nathan, I'll eat another pie and go to sleep again. Beat you to the house. He didn't beat them. He was too stiff from long sitting, but they all tumbled into the kitchen door in a bunch as the rain came down in sheets. Come in here to celebrate, called Mrs. Alden from the living room. Father is here already, and we are having a regular Thanksgiving of our own. I have the feast ready, said Elvira, passing great plates of popcorn, and I have the proclamation, added Mrs. Alden, handing an envelope to her. What on earth exclaimed Elvira, turning it over and over in her hand? Open it, sis, advised Nathan. That is what I do with my letters. Elvira did, and read it aloud. My dear Miss Elvira, it ran, I have been greatly interested and pleased by the fine way in which you young people work together, and by the way in which you respect and understand the farmer's calling. I have also greatly enjoyed your excellent cookery. May I express my appreciation of your hospitality, and of the orders which you helped me secure by giving you the enclosed check to share with your brothers and sisters, and by wishing you the very biggest kind of a big day next Monday. Sincerely yours, Alexander Oglevy. Elvira unfolded the check. $25 she exclaimed in an odd tone. $5 apiece, think of it. That's great, exclaimed Billy. I know how I will spend mine. I know how I'll spend mine, said Margaret. That man, remarked Tom solemnly, is a benefactor of the race. Everyone laughed, but Nathan, dear, good, fine, tired Nathan. He smiled happily, but he said nothing. Nathan had done much thinking during those silent moonlit nights. He was thinking of the other benefactors of the race, men who were ahead of their time, who understood the needs of their people, who chose to work hard and think hard, and to spend their savings on experiments, in order that plows might draw better, cut cleaner, deeper furrows in all sorts of soil, bury the old vegetation more perfectly, and ensure better harvests. They were indeed benefactors of the race. End of Chapter 9 Glossary of plowstories by Clara D. Pearson The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. Glossary. Axel. The bar connecting the opposite wheels of a carriage wagon or implement. Baked kettle. A strong iron kettle, standing on short, stumpy legs. It was set among hot coals, and covered by a strong metal cover, on which coals were laid. Bread and other food were baked in it. Bed-cord. The long rope, which was laced back and forth between the head and the footboards of a bed, and between the two sideboards. It held the great ticks or bags filled with straw or feathers, on which people slept. There were no bedsprings in the olden days. Birch broom. A broom, such as the Indians made, by whittling one end of a birch sapling into fine, flat strips and fastening them together into a rude broom. The other end of the six-foot section of the sapling was whittled and smoothed into shape as a handle. Colter. A cutter attached to the plow beam. To cut a turf. Colters used to be straight, but now they're often sharp-edged small discs called rolling colters. Coyote. A prairie wolf. Charger. A contrivance for measuring and placing in a gun a certain quantity or charge of powder or shot. Chilled plowshares. Plowshares and moldboards of iron are chilled in the casting by having a place in the mold filled with very cold water. This makes them harder and better able to stand the scratching of sandy or stony soil. It makes them wear longer, rust less, and scour better. Where the soil is not sandy, it is better to use steel plows. About half of the farmlands in the United States are sandy. Crane. A swinging iron arm with a hook at the end fastened to the side of the fireplace. A kettle could be hung on the hook while the crane was swung out into the room it could then be pushed back to bring the kettle over the fire. Before this was invented by a Yankee all kettles were hung from hooks fixed in the top of the fireplace and cooking was much more difficult. First day the Quaker name for Sunday flint and steel the materials used for over 200 years for making fire.  Old linen was most often used for tinder and every scrap of it was carefully saved for this purpose. The early settlers tried never to let their fires go out because it was so hard to light them again. Gangplow. A plow which has several bottoms so arranged as to turn several furrows at once. Hummus. Rotting vegetation like grass weeds or grain stubble which makes the soil richer and is food for growing plants of all kinds. Jointer. A small metal point which is so placed as to turn a small furrow on top of the big furrow slice so that when this slice is turned over the sod, stubble, etc. may be turned to the bottom of the furrow. Landside. The flat side of the plow which presses against the unplowed land. Mouldboard. The curving part of a plow which is just back of the share or cutting part it turns over the furrow slice. Paté. The French word for pie. Pelt. The skin of a beast with the hair on. Plow beam. The horizontal part of a plow frame by which it is drawn. Plow share. That part of a plow which cuts the ground at the bottom of the furrow and raises the slice to the moldboard. Porringers. Shallow circular discs of different sizes with a single flat handle projecting from the upper edge. Powder horn. An old-fashioned contrivance for carrying gunpowder. It was usually made from the horn of an ox or cow. The larger end fitted with a metal or wooden bottom and the small end with a movable stopper or a device for measuring out the charge of powder. Prairie chicken. A kind of grouse which lives on the prairies of the central and western states and is much hunted for food. Punchins. Slabs split from tree trunks and with one or both sides smoothed with the axe or hatchet. They are used for flooring where it is impossible to get sawed lumber. Punchins are laid directly on a floor of beaten earth and rock more or less when walked upon. Scour. A plough is said to scour well when the soil does not stick to it but drops away from it, leaving it all the smoother and brighter for having been drawn through the earth. There was a time when ploughs were not expected to scour and farmers carried paddles along with which to clear away the clinging earth. Settle. A bench with high back and arms and long enough for two or more people. Sometimes the seat was hinged and formed the cover of a fair-sized chest. Stubble plough. Before people had their present fine implements they had different ways of plowing stubble under. Sometimes heavy chains were dragged ahead of the plough to break it and some stubble ploughs had small rollers in front of the shares to crush the stubble so that it could be turned under more easily. Tamp. To pack by frequent gentle strokes as when making loose damp sand into a firm hard mold. Thatch. A roof covering of straw or reeds which is used in place of shingles. It is often held in place by long poles which weigh it down. Thongs. Strips of leather used for fastening. Traction engine. This is the name commonly given to the large slowly moving engines which are used to run threshing machines and other heavy farm machinery and travel on country highways on their broad rough rimmed wheels usually drawing a water tank on wheels behind them. The smaller gasoline engines which draw implements or heavy loads behind them are commonly spoken of as tractors. Warping. Twisting or being twisted out of shape. Wives. Slender easily bent twigs or branches used as fastening or woven together into baskets. Daniel Webster. Daniel Webster who was born in 1782 was such a sickly little boy that he was unable to work and he was encouraged to play out of doors, fishing, watching the wild creatures and riding horseback when his father plowed. When he could go to school it was to a schoolhouse built of logs. And he had very poor teachers. Writing was very hard for him and he used to say that he thought his fingers were meant to guide the plow instead of the pen. Still he cared so much about becoming an educated man that he would walk nearly three miles to school in winter whenever he was allowed to. When he grew up he had a fine strong body and an especially fine chest and he lived to a good old age. As a boy he was laughed at for being awkward and wearing poor clothes. As a man he was one of the greatest American statesmen and a wonderful public speaker. He had a beautiful great home in Marshfield, Massachusetts where his famous friends often came to visit him. He was a great lover of nature and was nearly always up early enough in the morning to see the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. His farm was beside the ocean and he worked often in the fields. He was very fond of oxen and raised many of them being very proud of his finely matched pairs. When he was an old old man too sick to go out into the fields he had the oxen brought into his front yard to graze so that he might see them from his window. It is good to remember that all his wonderful successes in Washington where people pointed him out to strangers as one of the greatest men in America never made him lose interest in his farm, his neighbors or the simple little pleasures of life. Jethro Wood Jethro Wood was born in Dartmouth, Massachusetts in 1774 but moved to Scipio, New York when grown to manhood. When working on his wooden models he was nicknamed the Whittling Yankee. He was not the first man to make a cast iron plow in the United States but he was the first to patent one and make it practical and to get iron plows into general use. Plows had not improved in the early days of our country because England would not permit her colonies to have factories. In 1796 Charles Neubold a farmer of Bennington, Vermont made a cast iron plow and used it but he seems to have made no effort to share the results of his discovery with other people. Over in England also men were trying to make cast iron plows. Farmers were afraid to use them at first for they said that they would poison the soil so that good seed would not grow in it. Jethro Wood was a man who worked hard and was not afraid to be made fun of and to stand the loss of friends and money because he saw what it would mean to America to have good plows. He might have lived an easy lazy life for he had plenty of money instead of that he worked hard going into foundries to help cast his plows and improving his invention until he was able to patent a plow made of many different castings fastened together. That was a good thing because when the plow broke in use the farmer did not have to buy a whole new one but only a part. Jethro Wood was a man honored and respected by statesmen and kings. Thomas Jefferson who wrote the Declaration of Independence was interested in plows and exchanged letters with him but Jefferson did not see how necessary it was to have plows of different shapes for different kinds of soil so his own experiments did not always turn out well. He helped Jethro Wood by liking him and believing in him but he could not improve plows as Wood could. End of Glossary End of Plows Stories by Clarity Pearson