e said, "knocked the 'possum' aff his mug thryin'
to achave the art." He fractured the bones of his nose, making his face
a degree more homely than it was before. Then there were the Mead boys
to be counted on everywhere. Dave went West years ago, made his fortune,
and then began to traffic with the Orient. His name is better known in
Hong-Kong now than it is in Springvale. He never married, and it used to
be said that a young girl's grave up in the Red Range graveyard held all
his hope and love. I do not know; for he left home the year I came up to
Topeka to enlist, and Springvale was like the bitter waters of Marah to
my spirit. But that comes later.

Bill Mead married Bessie Anderson, and the seven little tow-headed
Meads, stair-stepping down the years, played with the third generation
here as we used to play in the years gone by. Bill is president of the
bank on the corner where the old Whately store stood and is a
share-holder in several big Kansas City concerns. Bessie lost her rosy
cheeks years ago, but she has her seven children; the youngest of them,
Phil, named for me, will graduate from the Kansas University this year.
Lettie Conlow was always on the uncertain list with us. No Conlow could
do much with a horse except to put shoes under it. It was a trick of
hers to lag behind and call to me to tighten a girth, while Marjie raced
on with Dave Mead or Tell Mapleson. Tell liked Lettie, and it rasped my
spirit to be made the object of her preference and his jealousy. Once
when we were alone his anger boiled hot, and he shook his fist at me and
cried:

"You mean pup! You want to take my girl from me. I can lick you, and I'm
going to do it."

I was bigger than Tell, and he knew my strength.

"I wish to goodness you would," I said. "I'd rather be licked than to
have a girl I don't care for always smiling at me."

Tell's face fell, and he grinned sheepishly.

"Don't you really care for Lettie, Phil? She says you like Bess
Anderson."

Was that a trick of Lettie's to put Marjie out of my thought, I
wondered, or did she really know my heart? I distrusted Lettie. She was
so like her black-eyed father. But I had guarded my own feelings, and
the boys and girls had not guessed what Marjie was to me.

It was about this time that Father Le Claire, a French priest who had
been a missionary in the Southwest, began to come and go about
Springvale. His work lay mostly with the Osages farther down the Neosho,
but he labo