der.

To us "Mandy" and "Bud Means," "Ralph Hartsook," the teacher, "Little
Shocky" and sweet patient "Hannah," were as real as Cyrus Button and
Daddy Fairbanks. We could hardly wait for the next number of the paper,
so concerned were we about "Hannah" and "Ralph." We quoted old lady
Means and we made bets on "Bud" in his fight with the villainous drover.
I hardly knew where Indiana was in those days, but Eggleston's
characters were near neighbors.

The illustrations were dreadful, even in my eyes, but the artist
contrived to give a slight virginal charm to Hannah and a certain
childish sweetness to Shocky, so that we accepted the more than mortal
ugliness of old man Means and his daughter Mirandy (who simpered over
her book at us as she did at Ralph), as a just interpretation of their
worthlessness.

This book is a milestone in my literary progress as it is in the
development of distinctive western fiction, and years afterward I was
glad to say so to the aged author who lived a long and honored life as a
teacher and writer of fiction.

It was always too hot or too cold in our schoolroom and on certain days
when a savage wind beat and clamored at the loose windows, the girls,
humped and shivering, sat upon their feet to keep them warm, and the
younger children with shawls over their shoulders sought permission to
gather close about the stove.

Our dinner pails (stored in the entry way) were often frozen solid and
it was necessary to thaw out our mince pie as well as our bread and
butter by putting it on the stove. I recall, vividly, gnawing, dog-like,
at the mollified outside of a doughnut while still its frosty heart made
my teeth ache.

Happily all days were not like this. There were afternoons when the sun
streamed warmly into the room, when long icicles formed on the eaves,
adding a touch of grace to the desolate building, moments when the
jingling bells of passing wood-sleighs expressed the natural cheer and
buoyancy of our youthful hearts.

CHAPTER XII

Chores and Almanacs

Our farm-yard would have been uninhabitable during this winter had it
not been for the long ricks of straw which we had piled up as a shield
against the prairie winds. Our horse-barn, roofed with hay and banked
with chaff, formed the west wall of the cowpen, and a long low shed gave
shelter to the north.

In this triangular space, in the lee of shed and straw-rick, the cattle
passed a dolorous winter. Mostly they burrowed