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mole velvet, a blue serge suit with an absurdly and
agreeably broad turn-down linen collar, and frivolous ankles above
athletic shoes. The High Bridge crosses the Mississippi, mounting from
low banks to a palisade of cliffs. Far down beneath it on the St. Paul
side, upon mud flats, is a wild settlement of chicken-infested gardens
and shanties patched together from discarded sign-boards, sheets of
corrugated iron, and planks fished out of the river. Carol leaned over
the rail of the bridge to look down at this Yang-tse village; in delicious
imaginary fear she shrieked that she was dizzy with the height; and it
was an extremely human satisfaction to have a strong male snatch her
back to safety, instead of having a logical woman teacher or librarian
sniff, "Well, if you're scared, why don't you get away from the rail,
then?"
From the cliffs across the river Carol and Kennicott looked back at St.
Paul on its hills; an imperial sweep from the dome of the cathedral to
the dome of the state capitol.
The river road led past rocky field slopes, deep glens, woods
flamboyant now with September, to Mendota, white walls and a spire

among trees beneath a hill, old-world in its placid ease. And for this
fresh land, the place is ancient. Here is the bold stone house which
General Sibley, the king of fur-traders, built in 1835, with plaster of
river mud, and ropes of twisted grass for laths. It has an air of centuries.
In its solid rooms Carol and Kennicott found prints from other days
which the house had seen--tail-coats of robin's-egg blue, clumsy Red
River carts laden with luxurious furs, whiskered Union soldiers in slant
forage caps and rattling sabers.
It suggested to them a common American past, and it was memorable
because they had discovered it together. They talked more trustingly,
more personally, as they trudged on. They crossed the Minnesota River
in a rowboat ferry. They climbed the hill to the round stone tower of
Fort Snelling. They saw the junction of the Mississippi and the
Minnesota, and recalled the men who had come here eighty years
ago--Maine lumbermen, York traders, soldiers from the Maryland hills.
"It's a good country, and I'm proud of it. Let's make it all that those old
boys dreamed about," the unsentimental Kennicott was moved to vow.
"Let's!"
"Come on. Come to Gopher Prairie. Show us. Make the
town--well--make it artistic. It's mighty pretty, but I'll admit we aren't
any too darn artistic. Probably the lumber-yard isn't as scrumptious as
all these Greek temples. But go to it! Make us change!"
"I would like to. Some day!"
"Now! You'd love Gopher Prairie. We've been doing a lot with lawns
and gardening the past few years, and it's so homey--the big trees
and----And the best people on earth. And keen. I bet Luke Dawson----"
Carol but half listened to the names. She could not fancy their ever
becoming important to her.
"I bet Luke Dawson has got more money than most of the swells on
Summit Avenue; and Miss Sherwin in the high school is a regular

wonder--reads Latin like I do English; and Sam Clark, the hardware
man, he's a corker--not a better man in the state to go hunting with; and
if you want culture, besides Vida Sherwin there's Reverend Warren, the
Congregational preacher, and Professor Mott, the superintendent of
schools, and Guy Pollock, the lawyer--they say he writes regular poetry
and--and Raymie Wutherspoon, he's not such an awful boob when you
get to KNOW him, and he sings swell. And----And there's plenty of
others. Lym Cass. Only of course none of them have your finesse, you
might call it. But they don't make 'em any more appreciative and so on.
Come on! We're ready for you to boss us!"
They sat on the bank below the parapet of the old fort, hidden from
observation. He circled her shoulder with his arm. Relaxed after the
walk, a chill nipping her throat, conscious of his warmth and power,
she leaned gratefully against him.
"You know I'm in love with you, Carol!"
She did not answer, but she touched the back of his hand with an
exploring finger.
"You say I'm so darn materialistic. How can I help it, unless I have you
to stir me up?"
She did not answer. She could not think.
"You say a doctor could cure a town the way he does a person. Well,
you cure the town of whatever ails it, if anything does, and I'll be your
surgical kit."
She did not follow his words, only the burring resoluteness of them.
She was shocked, thrilled, as he kissed her cheek and cried, "There's no
use saying things and saying things and saying things. Don't my arms
talk to you--now?"
"Oh, please,