A Son of the Middle Border

A Son of the Middle Border
by Hamlin Garland
With Illustrations By Alice Barber Stephens
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Copyright, 1914 and 1917 by P. F. Collier & Son
Copyright, 1917 by Hamlin Garland
Set up and electrotyped. Published August, 1917. Reprinted March,
1925, December, 1925. Reissued, January, 1927, February, 1928.
CONTENTS
I. HOME FROM THE WAR
II. THE McCLINTOCKS
III. THE HOME IN THE COULEE
IV. FATHER SELLS THE FARM
V. THE LAST THRESHING IN THE COULEE
VI. DAVID AND HIS VIOLIN
VII. WlNNESHEIK "WOODS AND PRAIRIE LANDS"
VIII. WE MOVE AGAIN
IX. OUR FIRST WINTER ON THE PRAIRIE
X. THE HOMESTEAD ON THE KNOLL

XI. SCHOOL LIFE
XII. CHORES AND ALMANACS
XIII. BOY LIFE ON THE PRAIRIE
XIV. WHEAT AND THE HARVEST
XV. HARRIET GOES AWAY
XVI. WE MOVE TO TOWN
XVII. A TASTE OF VILLAGE LIFE
XVIII. BACK TO THE FARM
XIX. END OF SCHOOL DAYS
XX. THE LAND OF THE DAKOTAS
XXI. THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT
XXII. WE DISCOVER NEW ENGLAND
XXIII. COASTING DOWN MT. WASHINGTON
XXIV. TRAMPING, NEW YORK, WASHINGTON, AND
CHICAGO
XXV. THE LAND OF THE STRADDLE-BUG
XXVI. ON TO BOSTON
XXVII, ENTER A FRIEND
XXVIII. A VISIT TO THE WEST
XXIX. I JOIN THE ANTI-POVERTY BRIGADE
XXX. MY MOTHER is STRICKEN

XXXI. MAIN TRAVELLED ROADS
XXXII. THE SPIRIT OF REVOLT
XXXIII. THE END OF THE SUNSET TRAIL
XXXIV. WE GO TO CALIFORNIA
XXXV. THE HOMESTEAD IN THE VALLEY

CHAPTER I
Home from the War
AX of this universe known to me in the year 1864 was bounded by the
wooded hills of a little Wis consin coulee, and its center was the
cottage in which my mother was living alone my father was in the war.
As I project myself back into that mystical age, half lights cover most
of the valley. The road before our doorstone begins and ends in vague
obscurity and Granma Green's house at the fork of the trail stands on
the very edge of the world in a sinister region peopled with bears and
other menacing creatures. Beyond this point all is darkness and terror.
It is Sunday afternoon and my mother and her three children, Frank,
Harriet and I (all in our best dresses) are visiting the Widow Green, our
nearest neighbor, a plump, jolly woman whom we greatly love. The
house swarms with stalwart men and buxom women and we are all
sitting around the table heaped with the remains of a harvest feast. The
women are " telling fortunes" by means of tea-grounds. Mrs. Green is
the seeress. After shaking the cup with the grounds at the bottom, she
turns it bottom side up in a saucer. Then whirling it three times to the
right and three times to the left, she lifts it and silently studies the
position of the leaves which cling to the sides of the cup, what time we
all wait in breathless suspense for her first word.
"A soldier is ccnu ng to you!" she says to my mother. "See," and she

points into the cup. We all crowd near, and I perceive a leaf with a stem
sticking up from its body like a bayonet over a man's shoulder. "He is
almost home," the widow goes on. Then with sudden dra matic turn she
waves her hand toward the road, "Heav ens and earth ! " she cries.
"There's Richard now !"
We all turn and look toward the road, and there, indeed, is a soldier
with a musket on his back, wearily plodding his way up the low hill
just north of the gate. He is too far away for mother to call, and besides
I think she must have been a little uncertain, for he did not so much as
turn his head toward the house. Trem bling with excitement she hurries
little Frank into his wagon and telling Hattie to bring me, sets off up the
road as fast as she can draw the baby's cart. It all seems a dream to me
and I move dumbly, almost stupidly like one in a mist. . . .
We did not overtake the soldier, that is evident, for my next vision is
that of a blue-coated figure leaning upon the fence, studying with intent
gaze our empty cottage. I cannot, even now, precisely divine why he
stood thus, sadly contemplating his silent home, but so it was. His
knapsack lay at his feet, his musket was propped against a post on
whose top a cat was dream ing, unmindful of the warrior and his folded
hands.
He did not hear us until we were close upon him, and even after he
turned, my mother hesitated, so thin, so hollow-eyed, so changed was
he. "Richard, is that you?" she quaveringly asked.
His worn face lighted up.