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A Breath Of Prairie
by
Guy Landers was glad that at last it was over and they were out in the sunshine once more. He turned into the carefully reserved place at the head of the procession with almost a sense of relief. He was tired, fiercely tired, of the well-meant but insistent pity which dogged him with a tenacity that drove him desperate. They would not even allow him to think.
He rode alone on the front seat of the open wagon. Behind him, his mother and Jim sat stiffly, hand in hand. They gazed dully at the black thing ahead, and sobbed softly, now singly, now together. Both–himself as well–were dressed in complete black; old musty black, gotten out of the dark, hurriedly, and with the close smell of the closet still upon it. Even the horses conformed to the sober shade. They had been supplied by a neighbor on account of their sombre color.
A heavy black tassel swung back and forth with the motion of the uneven road just ahead of the horses’ heads, and Landers sat watching it idly. He even caught himself counting the vibrations, as though it were a pendulum, dividing the beats into minutes. Very slow time it was; but somehow it did not surprise him. It all conformed so perfectly with the brown, quiet prairie, and the sun shining, slanting and sleepy.
The swinging tassel grew indistinct, and the patter, patter, patter of the teams behind came as from a distance. He closed his eyes, and the events of the past two days drifted through his mind. Already they seemed indistinct, as a dream. He wondered dully that they could be true and yet seem so foreign to his life, now. He even began to doubt their verity, and opened his eyes slowly, half expecting to see the cool, green campus, and the big college buildings. The slanting sunlight met him full in the face, and the black pendant swung monotonously, from side to side, as before. He wearily closed his eyes again.
Only two days since he had heard the taunting “Dance, freshy!” of the seniors, and felt the mighty rush of the freshman hosts; since the “rah, rah, rah, Landers!” had shook the old amphitheatre and the dozens of welcoming hands had greeted him; and then–the darkness–the hesitating leave-taking of the building, and the lingering walk across the deserted campus toward his room–the walk he knew so well he would take no more. A brief time of waiting–a blank–and then the bitter, thumping ride across two States toward his home, when he could only think, and think, and try to adjust himself–and fail; and at last the end. And again, at the little station, when he felt the touch of his mother’s hand, and heard her choking “Guy, my boy–” that spoke so much of love and of trust; when he heard his own voice answering cheerily, with a firmness which surprised him even then, speaking that which all through the long ride he had known he must speak–but could not: “It’s all right, mother; don’t worry; I’ll not leave you again!”–it all came back to him now, and he lived it over again and again.
The big, black tassel danced tantalizingly in front of him. Yes, he had said that he would never leave again. He dully repeated the words now to himself: “never again.” It was so fitting; quite in accordance with the rest of the black pageant. His dream of life, his new-felt ambitions–all were dead, dead, like his father before him, where the black plume nodded.
They passed up through the little town and the shop-keepers came out to look. Some were in their shirt sleeves; the butcher had his white apron tucked up around his belt. They gathered together in twos and groups, nodding toward the procession, their lips moving as in pantomime. One man walked out to the crossing, counting aloud as the teams went by. “One, two, three, four, five, six–” he intoned. To him it was all a thing to amuse, like a circus parade,–interesting in proportion to its length.