Mr. Cleaver laid his fur glove on the shoulder of Dick’s canvas coat. “I can’t understand why two nice people like Mrs. Cleaver and me couldn’t have had four nice kids like you,” he said.
In the house Mrs. Cleaver was helping Joan set the table, while Becky thickened the cream sauce for the gravy. “Put on the tablecloth with the monogram,” ordered Becky. “Get the Swope plate for the bread, open the jar of spiced cherries from home, and throw the nicked cup into the ash can. Let us dine as befitting our station in life—school-teacher for another year, and almost-owners of a claim! I wish I didn’t have to open another can. When we have proved up, and get our homestead receipts I shall never eat another canned pea.”
“Peas aren’t so bad as turnips,” observed Joan.
“Well, perhaps I won’t renounce the pea until I know how the crops turn out, next year. But oh, Mrs. Cleaver, I’ve eaten my way through a billion tin cans this year. I have real admiration for the grit and persistence of the goat.”
Mrs. Cleaver laughed, but there was a note of sympathy in her voice.
“I felt just that way, too, when I first came to Dakota. But things won’t be so unappetizing after you get your own garden. Shall I mash the potatoes now?”
“Rap on the window for the men, Joan,” said Becky. “We’ll be ready by the time Dick washes his hands.”
“Dick’s not a man,” said the little girl.
“He seems that way to me,” said Becky. “Knock hard, so they’ll hear you.”
Joan stepped to the window. “Who’s that driving by?” she asked. “Look at the load of goods. Someone’s freighting on Sunday. Why, Becky, it’s the Welps!”
Mrs. Cleaver and the three children looked out of the window between the sash curtains. Two thin horses were pulling the Welp wagon over the trail. It was loaded with shabby household goods. Mr. Welp and his two boys sat on the front seat; in the wagon box were Mrs. Welp and the two other children. The little girls looked wistfully at the house as they passed. Mrs. Welp kept her eyes fastened on the chair she was steadying, the boys looked straight ahead, and Mr. Welp aimed a blow at Bronx as they passed.
“I’d like to aim a turnip at him!” said Joan.
The horses strained under the load, the wagon jolted over the ruts in the frozen trail, and across the gray prairie the Welps passed out of the sight and the life of the Linvilles.
“Good-by to nothing,” remarked Phil, as the wagon melted into the trail.
“I’m sorry for that poor woman,” said Becky. “We’re rid of him, but she’s got him for life.”
“It’s her own fault,” said Joan. “You got to stop and think before you pick out a husband.”
Dinner, and dishes, and a gay afternoon with the Cleavers.
“It’s just like Platteville when you come,” said Joan. “Wish you could stay here. Then it would seem like home.”
“Seems like home to us,” said Mr. Cleaver. “Every time we get lonesome for kids we’re coming out here. Look out for us every ten days or so.”
When the guests were ready to go they called Becky’s attention to a basket that they were leaving behind. “Can’t you come without bearing gifts?” asked Becky.
“It’s nothing but junk,” was Mrs. Cleaver’s comment.
“Don’t miss the photograph in the white envelope,” said Mr. Cleaver. “I found it going through my old films last week; I’d forgotten that I ever took it.”
“Who is it?” inquired Becky curiously. “Hope it’s Mrs. Cleaver.”
“You’ll see,” said her guest. “Come on out, you young fry, and open the gate for us.”
THE sun was low in the sky when their visitors drove away, and Becky ceased to wave from the window. The children had stayed in the barn to gather the eggs, and Dick was milking Red Haw. That would give her a chance to open the basket before the family came in. She carried it to the window to get the light of the sun. It was sinking fast now, the clouds were white islands in a sea of fire.
Becky opened the hamper. A layer of oranges and apples, each one wrapped to prevent freezing; some “ready-to-sew” dresses for Joan; a puzzle game; a pile of magazines; two late novels, and a box of real Omaha chocolates. And down in the bottom the white envelope. Becky took out the kodak picture and held it close up to the window.
It was Uncle Jim; not the Uncle Jim of Platteville, but the Uncle Jim of the prairies. He was standing near the creek-bed, against a background of leafless wild plum branches. His flannel shirt was open at the throat, and the wind was blowing his hair. There were smile wrinkles around his eyes, but he was not smiling. He was looking away across the sea of grass with an expression on his face that was intense, tender, and almost rapt. It was as though someone he loved had called to him, and he had lifted his head to reply.
Tears shut away the picture, but they were not tears of bitterness. For as Becky looked, she knew that the prairie was Uncle Jim’s home. He, too, had heard its call to stay, and she knew from his face what his answer would be.
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