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Show 7 VW-T Vli. WN.U. SERVICE THE STORY THUS FAR: Amos Croy and his wife, when first married settled on a farm In Missouri, where Homer was born. Every Sunday meant church, company com-pany for dinner, and steer weighing. Dehorning De-horning the calves, curing hams, wean-I wean-I ing calves and sausage making were all part of Homer's work. The Croys attended at-tended the Omaha Exposition, where Homer Ho-mer saw his first horseless carriage, motion mo-tion picture and "hula" dancer. 'Renzo, former hired -hand, returned ' and purchased pur-chased a farm nearby and was welcomed wel-comed by everyone. Homer started high school, the first of the Croys to attend. At first he felt out of place but soon began be-gan to make friends. Other students always al-ways made first advances. CHAPTER XVI It was not long until I was back on the farm for my summer work. My mother was sitting out on the porch, with a quilt over her knees. I was shocked to see how frail and hollow-eyed she was. When I spoke of it, she said, "I'll soon be feeling better." After a few minutes she said, "That's the hill your Pa -and came over the first time I ever saw I this farm." The idea was still in my father's mind that maybe I would stay, and be hinted around. But, much as I liked the farm, I must go on with the thing that was deepest in me. He tried to interest me by asking my advice about this and that; but my heart was not In it He was beginning be-ginning to realize that the day was coming when I would pull away from the old farm. I was Impatient with the farm; work, work, work. City life for me. As inconvenient as it was for Pa, and the necessity for keeping a hand Pa was proud that he had a son "off at the university." When he went to town on Saturday, he took my last letter along and would casually get it out to check some statement he had made. "Yes, that's what Homer writes me from the university." univer-sity." Or "I guess they have a pret-ry pret-ry good school down there. At least my boy seems to think so." When he spoke to me in person it always was, "You must get all you can out of it Lots of boys don't have the chance you have." That indeed was true, for I was the only one from Knabb who had gone. One day there was a telegram on the mail table in the halL and I knew. "Your mother Is failing," it said. Uncle AL instead of Pa, came to meet me. But when we got to the farm. Pa was standing by the gate, waiting. He held out his work-scarred work-scarred hand. "I guess your Uncle Al has told you." "Yes," I said thickly. "We did all we could for her," he continued. "We can go in and look at her." We went in together and stood beside be-side the coffin. "She was a good mother to you," he said. The next day Pa and Phebe and I got in our hack, the neighbors fell in behind, and the procession start-i start-i ed for the Cain Cemetery. When we came to the lane that leads off the main road, someone opened the gate for the hearse, and we drove through the pasture to the knoll where so many of the pioneers lay. The neighbors, who had dug the grave, were standing there, waiting, wait-ing, still holding their shovels. A clod was tossed on the box, then the men began to work their shovels. Finally, Final-ly, Pa and Phebe and I walked back to where the horses had been hitched to the racks. Two or three of the neighbors stayed and helped get supper. Pa bent his head, as I had seen him do so many times, and thanked God for our blessings. The next day I went back to the university and again took up my schoolwork. After I was through with school I went to St. Louis and applied for a job on the St Louis Post-Dispatch and, since they had been active in launching the school of Journalism, I pretty well had them. They offered $20 a week and I went to work for that I now realize it was a mistake not to ask for more, for it is much easier to get an extra five dollars a week when you are bargaining than after you're established on the pay-Toll. pay-Toll. Some way or other, when you get fixed at a certain figure, it takes an act of God to lift you out of it. In addition to my Job, I was writing writ-ing stuff "on the side," and some of It sold. Just enough to keep me running after it, like a mule with a nubbin dangling In front of it. Things I wrote seemed good to me, although al-though now I realize how simple and nnlve they must have been. In fact, all my life the things I have written seemed good to me at the time I wrote them. Some people seem to have the ability of seff-critlclsm. seff-critlclsm. But I haven't and it has cost me many a heartbreak. The things I hove slaved over and believed be-lieved In s.0 deeply, have mndc no 4 Impression whniever. While some of the things I have tossed off, wilh hardly a thought, hnvc mixliva place for themselves. What mukrs one go and another full Is something I don't understand. And now I have n little philosophy of my own I do everything n.i well n.i I can and hope for the best. MomcUnicH I gel II ; often I don't. Once a week 1 would get n lelter from I'a. In (he upper left-timid corner cor-ner would he the return form wilh his name writler. In Intielil.le pencil. Everything was as well an could be i expected. There had been a washing wash-ing rain Thursday night which had extended well over into Friday morning. The water gap was out. Some hoof-and-mouth disease in eastern Kansas. Did I plan on coming com-ing home soon? . . . I was selling enough to give me some self-confidence, so I walked in and resigned ... a proud moment indeed when I announced I was going "East." Then I started home to see Pa and the old farm. He was at the depot, as always. "I'll carry your grip, Homer." How fast we talked, how much must be said all at once. "I expect you'll want to see some of your old friends." We walked up and down the street, visiting with those I knew, Pa standing stand-ing proudly a little to one side. His boy'd been off in St. Louis! Said they'd had considerable heat. We went to the grocery store, more friends there. Finally we got In the hack and spread a lap robe over our knees. When he came to town alone he didn't fool with a lap robe. When we got to the brow of the hill, my eyes swept over the farm. The white house and the red barn, the corncrlb and the granary and the hay barn with the cupola and the hayfork track extending out a little past the side of the barn. And there were the cattle and the hogs rvJ fiiii wjfem? Mi Dave with his big homely head and his churn feet. and the cows and a peaceful air of contentment. "I guess you see I've divided the hog lot!" We walked out across the farm, as he always wanted me to do when I got back. He had something he wanted to discuss with me. What did I think of changing to shorthorns? short-horns? I knew what that involved and realized how much It meant to him and tried to discuss it with him, but was soon mired down. He knew a thousand times more about farming farm-ing than I would ever know. What did I think of lespedcza? I had never nev-er heard of It. We came to Dave. There he was Dave with his big homely head and his churn feet and his wide saddle-scarred saddle-scarred back. His step had grown slow; his eyesight was bad and his teeth were going. He had trouble getting in and out of the barn, Pa said. He didn't shed right and long scraggly hair was on his underside and his back sagged. I patted him and rubbed his nose, but I am not sure he knew me. After a time we walked on. St. Louis had given me an outside out-side point of view and I could sec the changes that were taking place in our section. The "rond-drag" had come In and It had affected our roads greatly. The road-drag was only a sort of land sled. Each farmer farm-er had one and was held responsible for a length of road. As soon as a rain was over, the farmers would get out their road-drags and mash the clods and fill the ruts. This hastened the drying of the roads and allowed us to get to town two or three days earlier than otherwise. It was one indication of community effort; a working "lit of small-scale democracy. democra-cy. Another change was the rural free delivery, and the farmers' telephone. tele-phone. Slowly, lilt by bit, the farmers farm-ers were becoming part of a community; com-munity; the farmer who kept to himself him-self and co-operated with no one, was passing. A change was taking place In the farms too. The one-hnrsc fanner was disappearing, the farmer who tried to make a living off eighty acres. Threo houses, which once could bo seen from our front porch, had been pulled down. The big farmer farm-er was coming In, This was nug-menled nug-menled by the Increased part lhal machinery was playing. The hickory-handled three. 1 ined fork, was gone; a sweep r.-iltc, operated with two horses, was doing the Job. The sickle liar on Ihe Moline Mowing Machine had gnne f ruin four feet In live. A fanner and his hoy no longer long-er went out with pitchforks and Hupped Ihe hay over; n hay lediler was now kicking It around. When Toy f .1 1 hi' r hail Hi st einnu on the land, he had cut every wheat stalk with a cradle. The old cradle, with its warped arm, was hanging In the granary. The McCormick Reaper Reap-er was now doing the work. Combines, Com-bines, carrying six head of mules, clattered across the fields. A change had come for me, too. For when milking time came, I found I was not expected to take a bucket and march to the milk lot. I was becoming a "city man." In other words, just about useless! I found also a change in our family fam-ily life, a distinction that was subtle and important. My mother had always al-ways sat at the side of the table next to the kitchen, so she could "jump up and run in," but now, through some unspoken family arrangement, Phebe did not move into her place but sat at the foot of the table. At the end of supper, Pa spoke of something that was on his mind. Had I decided I wanted to come back to the farm? Simple as this seems, it moved me deeply; for I realized more sharply than ever the cleavage cleav-age had come. "I . . .1 want to go to New York." The old gentleman looked up to see if I was pranking. It was a moment mo-ment before he could speak. , "Have you fully made up your mind?" "Yes ..." I choked out He did not speak for a much longer long-er time. "I won't oppose it," be said finally. "I'd like you to go to your mother's moth-er's grave before you go," he said, later. We got in the buggy and drove to the knoll where the pioneers lie. The graveyard is In the middle of the old; Cain farm; cornfields come up on two sides, and on one side Is a pasture. pas-ture. There are maple trees which reach protectingly over the graves, and there Is a hog-tight fence to keep out the stock. In winter rabbits rab-bits skip across the graves. In summer sum-mer the corn whispers and the grass is exceedingly green. We stood beside the grave. "She was always a good mother to you," he said. It came time to go. "You drive and I'll shut the gate," he said. But unconsciously he did oppose my going during the following days.; Things were going well, he said; he had bought some land on the north and some on the east; the farm was expanding; his idea of swinging swing-ing over from corn to cattle farming farm-ing was working out City life was perilous. You could be fired out of a job; then where would you be? On a farm you could be independent. No man was your boss. If you 'worked hard and were honest you could build up a farm that would take care of you in your old days. The appeal was powerful, but there also was the desire to do the kind of work I wished to do. More and more my mind was filled with fancies; I seemed always to be thinking how I would write this sentence, sen-tence, or why that word wouldn't serve, or how I could describe the people I knew and, possibly, make readers see them as I did. And those people began to appear in stories in my mind. One day In Booth Tarkington I found something that expressed exactly ex-actly what I felt, but hadn't been able to put into words: "I try to write in such a way that there is no film between me and my reader." I knew instantly that was the way I wanted to write, so easily and naturally that the reader would not be conscious of any style at all, only of what I was trying to say. Going to New York meant more preparation than going to St. Joseph, or to the university, or to St. Louis, so we drove to town and bought a steamer trunk, and the old tin camel-backed trunk went into Pa's room. When the day came the three of us went to the depot and stood waiting wait-ing for the train to come. When it was time for me to get on, Pa held out his hand. "Let us hear from you whenever It's convenient." As I pressed my face to the window win-dow I could see the two standing alone on the platform. When I got to New York, I had the same sinking feeling of inadequacy inade-quacy that I had had when I had started to high school and when I had gone to St. Joseph and later to St. Louis. Maybe I had better return re-turn home and help on the farm. But again there was that Inner impulse to do what I so deeply wished to do. So I had some cards printed at a holc-ln-lhe-wall place and went to the address I knew so well on Lafayette La-fayette SI reel. I was surprised w hen I saw the Tuck building. Why, It was Just n big red brick building! Not an edifice at oil. But that was all right. It was Ihe habitat of an editor; a man who had been buying my contributions and printing them for nil the world to see. At the entrance were two stone columns, one on either side of the main door; and there was a most Impressive gold statue of Tuck looking look-ing down on a foolish world. However, when I stepped Inside, It wasn't quite so grand. I got Into nn ancient elevator, a man pumped n handle bad; and forth, and we started start-ed aloft. But Hint was all right. The editor of l'uclt could have had his olllce In n slieepshcd, and I would have thought It was Just his whimsical whim-sical way. CIO IU0 CON TINUKD) |
