e bad years in
succession--we'll surely have a crop next year. I won't surrender so
long as I can run a team."

"Then, let me tell you something else," I resumed. "I will never visit
you on this accursed plain again. You can live here if you want to, but
I'm going to take mother out of it. She shall not grow old and die in
such surroundings as these. I won't have it--it isn't right."

At last the stern old Captain gave in, at least to the point of saying,
"Well, we'll see. I'll come down next summer, and we'll visit William
and look the ground over.--But I won't consider going back to stay till
I've had a crop. I won't go back to the old valley dead-broke. I can't
stand being called a failure. If I have a crop and can sell out I'll
talk with you."

"Very well. I'm going to stop off at Salem on my way East and tell the
folks that you are about to sell out and come back to the old valley."

* * * * *

This victory over my pioneer father gave me such relief from my gnawing
conscience that my whole sky lightened. The thought of establishing a
family hearth at the point where my life began, had a fine appeal. All
my schooling had been to migrate, to keep moving. "If your crop fails,
go west and try a new soil. If disagreeable neighbors surround you,
sell out and move,--always toward the open country. To remain quietly in
your native place is a sign of weakness, of irresolution. Happiness
dwells afar. Wealth and fame are to be found by journeying toward the
sunset star!" Such had been the spirit, the message of all the songs and
stories of my youth.

Now suddenly I perceived the futility of our quest. I felt the value, I
acknowledged the peace of the old, the settled. The valley of my birth
even in the midst of winter had a quiet beauty. The bluffs were draped
with purple and silver. Steel-blue shadows filled the hollows of the
sunlit snow. The farmhouses all put forth a comfortable, settled, homey
look. The farmers themselves, shaggy, fur-clad and well-fed, came into
town driving fat horses whose bells uttered a song of plenty. On the
plain we had feared the wind with a mortal terror, here the hills as
well as the sheltering elms (which defended almost every roof) stood
against the blast like friendly warders.

The village life, though rude and slow-moving, was hearty and cheerful.
As I went about the streets with my uncle William--gray-haired old
pioneers whose names were startlingly f