s the other upholds it, and all inexorably pointing to
the destiny of the Harvey that is, and to the many other Harveys yet to
rise upon the townsite--the Harveys that shall be. There was, of course,
heredity before the town was; the strong New England strain of blood
that was mixed in the Ohio Valley and about the Great Lakes and changed
by the upheaval of the Civil War. Then came the hegira across the
Mississippi and the infant town in the Missouri Valley--the town of the
pioneers--the town that only obeyed its call and sought instinctively
the school house, the newspaper, orderly government, real estate
gambling and "the distant church that topt the neighboring hill." In the
childhood of the town the cattle trail appeared and with the cattle
trade came wild days and sad disorder. But the railroad moved westward
and the cattle trail moved with the railroad and then in the early
adolescence of the town came coal and gas and oil. And suddenly Harvey
blossomed into youth.

It was a place of adventure; men were made rich overnight by the blow of
a drill in a well. Then was the time for that equality of opportunity to
come which the pioneers sought if ever it was coming. But alas, even in
matters of sheer luck, the fates played favorites. In those fat years it
began raining red-wheeled buggies on Sundays, and smart traps drawn by
horses harnessed gaudily in white or tan appeared on the streets. Morty
Sands often hired a band from Omaha or Kansas City, and held high revel
in the Sands opera house, where all the new dances of that halcyon day
were tripped. The waters of the Wahoo echoed with the sounds of boating
parties--also frequently given by Morty Sands, and his mandolin
twittered gayly on a dozen porches during the summer evenings of that
period. It was Morty who enticed Henry Fenn into the second suit of
evening clothes ever displayed in Harvey, though Tom Van Dorn and George
Brotherton appeared a week later in evening clothes plus white gloves
and took much of the shine from Henry and Morty's splendor. Those were
the days when Nate Perry and young Joe Calvin and Freddie Kollander
organized the little crowd--the Spring Chickens, they called
themselves--and the little crowd was wont to ape its elders and peek
through the fence at the grandeur of the grown-ups. But alas for the
little crowd, month by month it was doomed to see its little girls
kidnaped to bloom in the upper gardens. Thus Emma Morton went; thus Ave
Calvi