understand a word she said, but I know that she was
magnificent. She looked like a statue of Justice that had suddenly
jumped off its pedestal and was doing its best to put a Daniel Webster
out of business!

_Friday the Twenty-eighth_

The weather is still very dry. But Dinky-Dunk feels sure it will not
affect his crop. He says the filaments of a wheat-plant will go almost
two feet deep in search for moisture. Yesterday Percy appeared in a
flannel shirt, and without his glasses. I think he is secretly
practising calisthenics. He said he was going to cut out this afternoon
tea, because it doesn't seem to fit in with prairie life. I fancy I see
the re-barbarianizing influence of Olga at work on Percival Benson
Woodhouse. Either Dinky-Dunk or Olie, I find, has hidden my saddle!

_Saturday the Twenty-ninth_

To-day has been one of the hottest days of the year. It may be good for
the wheat, but I can't say that it seems good for me. All day long I've
been fretting for far-away things, for foolish and impossible things. I
tried reading Keats, but that only made me worse than ever. I've been
longing for a glimpse of the Luxembourg Gardens in spring, with all the
horse-chestnuts in bloom. I've been wondering how lovely it would be to
drift into the Blue Grotto at Capri and see the azure sea-water drip
from the trailing boat-oars. I've been burning with a hunger to see a
New England orchard in the slanting afternoon sunlight of an early June
afternoon. The hot white light of this open country makes my eyes ache
and seems to dry my soul up. I can't help thinking of cool green
shadows, and musky little valleys of gloom with a brook purling over
mossy stones. I long for the solemn greenery of great elms, aisles and
aisles of cathedral-like gloom and leaf-filtered sunlight. I'd love to
hear an English cuckoo again, and feel the soft mild sea-air that blows
up through Louis's dear little Devonshire garden. But what's the use!

I went to the piano and pounded out _Kennst Du Das Land_ with all my
soul, and I imagine it did me good. It at least bombarded the silence
out of Casa Grande. The noise of life is so far away from you on the
prairie! It is not utterly silent, just that dreamy and disembodied sigh
of wind and grass against which a human call targets like a leaden
bullet against metal. It is almost worse than silence.

_Sunday the Thirtieth_

My mood is over. Early, early this morning I slipped out