l concerning anything really important, but she
assumed all the rights of an individual and being the only child left in
the family, went about her affairs without remark or question, serene,
sweet but determined.

The furniture and pictures of the house were quite as humble as I had
remembered them to be, but mother wore with pride the silk dress I had
sent to her and was so happy to have me at home that she sat in silent
content, while I told her of my life in Boston (boasting of my success
of course, I had to do that to justify myself), and explaining that I
must return, in time to resume my teaching in September.

Harvest was just beginning, and I said, "Father, if you'll pay me full
wages, I'll take a hand."

This pleased him greatly, but he asked, "Do you think you can stand it?"

"I can try," I responded. Next day I laid off my city clothes and took
my place as of old on the stack.

On the broad acres of the arid plains the header and not the binder was
then in use for cutting the wheat, and as stacker I had to take care of
the grain brought to me by the three header boxes.

It was very hard work that first day. It seemed that I could not last
out the afternoon, but I did, and when at night I went to the house for
supper, I could hardly sit at the table with the men, so weary were my
bones. I sought my bed early and rose next day so sore that movement was
torture. This wore away at last and on the third day I had no difficulty
in keeping up my end of the whiffletree.

The part of labor that I hated was the dirt. Night after night as I came
in covered with dust, too tired to bathe, almost too weary to change my
shirt, I declared against any further harvesting. However, I generally
managed to slosh myself with cold water from the well, and so went to my
bed with a measure of self-respect, but even the "spare room" was hot
and small, and the conditions of my mother's life saddened me. It was so
hot and drear for her!

Every detail of the daily life of the farm now assumed literary
significance in my mind. The quick callousing of my hands, the swelling
of my muscles, the sweating of my scalp, all the unpleasant results of
severe physical labor I noted down, but with no intention of exalting
toil into a wholesome and regenerative thing as Tolstoi, an aristocrat,
had attempted to do. Labor when so prolonged and severe as at this time
my toil had to be, is warfare. I was not working as a visitor but as a
hired