ttered in with smiling faces, we all stood
in the yard transfixed with amazement. "What's the meaning of all this?"
asked my father.

No one explained. The women calmly clambered down from their vehicles,
bearing baskets and bottles and knobby parcels, and began instant and
concerted bustle of preparation. The men tied their horses to the fence
and hunted up saw-horses and planks, and soon a long table was spread
beneath the trees on the lawn. One by one other teams came whirling into
the yard. The assembly resembled a "vandoo" as Asa Walker said. "It's
worse than that," laughed Mrs. Turner. "It's a silver wedding and a
'send off' combined."

They would not let either the "bride" or the "groom" do a thing, and
with smiling resignation my mother folded her hands and sank into a
chair. "All right," she said. "I am perfectly willing to sit by and see
you do the work. I won't have another chance right away." And there was
something sad in her voice. She could not forget that this was the
beginning of a new pioneering adventure.

The shadows were long on the grass when at the close of the supper old
John Gammons rose to make a speech and present the silver tea set. His
voice was tremulous with emotion as he spoke of the loss which the
neighborhood was about to suffer, and tears were in many eyes when
father made reply. The old soldier's voice failed him several times
during his utterance of the few short sentences he was able to frame,
and at last he was obliged to take his seat, and blow his nose very hard
on his big bandanna handkerchief to conceal his emotion.

It was a very touching and beautiful moment to me, for as I looked
around upon that little group of men and women, rough-handed, bent and
worn with toil, silent and shadowed with the sorrow of parting, I
realized as never before the high place my parents had won in the
estimation of their neighbors. It affected me still more deeply to see
my father stammer and flush with uncontrollable emotion. I had thought
the event deeply important before, but I now perceived that our going
was all of a piece with the West's elemental restlessness. I could not
express what I felt then, and I can recover but little of it now, but
the pain which filled my throat comes back to me mixed with a singular
longing to relive it.

There, on a low mound in the midst of the prairie, in the shadow of the
house we had built, beneath the slender trees we had planted, we were
bidding fare