ord of my voice would serve admirably
as an instrument of blackmail. However, I thought at the time that I had
done moderately well, and my mother's shy smile confirmed me in the
belief.

Burton was white with stage-fright as he stepped from the wings but he
got through very well, better than I, for he attempted no oratorical
flights.

Now came the usual hurried and painful farewells of classmates. With
fervid hand-clasp we separated, some of us never again to meet. Our
beloved principal (who was even then shadowed by the illness which
brought about his death) clung to us as if he hated to see us go, and
some of us could not utter a word as we took his hand in parting. What I
said to Alice and Maud and Ethel I do not know, but I do recall that I
had an uncomfortable lump in my throat while saying it.

As a truthful historian, I must add that Burton and I, immediately after
this highly emotional close of our school career, were both called upon
to climb into the family carriage and drive away into the black night,
back to the farm,--an experience which seemed to us at the time a sad
anticlimax. When we entered our ugly attic rooms and tumbled wearily
into our hard beds, we retained very little of our momentary sense of
victory. Our carefree school life was ended. Our stern education in life
had begun.

CHAPTER XX

The Land of the Dakotas

The movement of settlers toward Dakota had now become an exodus, a
stampede. Hardly anything else was talked about as neighbors met one
another on the road or at the Burr Oak school-house on Sundays. Every
man who could sell out had gone west or was going. In vain did the
county papers and Farmer's Institute lecturers advise cattle raising and
plead for diversified tillage, predicting wealth for those who held on;
farmer after farmer joined the march to Kansas, Nebraska, and Dakota.
"We are wheat raisers," they said, "and we intend to keep in the wheat
belt."

Our own family group was breaking up. My uncle David of pioneer spirit
had already gone to the far Missouri Valley. Rachel had moved to
Georgia, and Grandad McClintock was with his daughters, Samantha and
Deborah, in western Minnesota. My mother, thus widely separated from her
kin, resigned herself once more to the thought of founding a new home.
Once more she sang, "O'er the hills in legions, boys," with such spirit
as she could command, her clear voice a little touched with the
huskiness of regret.

I confess