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The cabin faced a level plain with no tree in sight. A mile away to the west stood a low stone house, and immediately in front of us opened a half-section of unfenced sod. To the north, as far as I could see, the land billowed like a russet ocean, with scarcely a roof to fleck its lonely spread. I cannot say that I liked or disliked it. I merely marveled at it; and while I wandered about the yard, the hired man scorched some cornmeal mush in a skillet, and this, with some butter and gingerbread, made up my first breakfast in Mitchell County.
For a few days my brother and I had little to do other than to keep the cattle from straying, and we used our leisure in becoming acquainted with the region round about.
To the south the sections were nearly all settled upon, for in that direction lay the county town; but to the north and on into Minnesota rolled the unplowed sod, the feeding ground of the cattle, the home of foxes and wolves, and to the west, just beyond the highest ridges, we loved to think the bison might still be seen.
The cabin on this rented farm was a mere shanty, a shell of pine boards,which needed reinforcing to make it habitable, and one day my father said,“Well, Hamlin, I guess you’ll have to run the plow-team this fall. I must help neighbor Button reinforce the house, and I can’t afford to hire another man.”
This seemed a fine commission for a lad of ten, and I drove my horses into the field that first morning with a manly pride which added an inch t my stature. I took my initial “round” at a “land” which stretched from one side of the quarter section to the other, in confident mood. I was grown up
But alas! My sense of elation did not last long. To guide a team for a few minutes as an experiment was one thing—to plow all day like a hired hand was another. It was not a chore; it was a job. It meant moving to and fro hour after hour, day after day, with no one to talk to but the horses. It meant trudging eight or nine miles in the forenoon and as many more in the afternoon, with less than an hour off at noon. It meant dragging the heavy implement around the corners, and it meant also many shipwrecks; for the thick, wet stubble often threw the share completely out of the ground, making it necessary for me to halt the team and jerk the heavy plow backward for a new start.
Although strong and active, I was rather short, even for a ten-year-old, and to reach the plow handles I was obliged to lift my hands above my shoulders;and so with the guiding lines crossed over my back and my worn straw hat bobbing just above the cross-brace I must have made a comical figure. At any rate nothing like it had been seen in the neighborhood; and the people on the road to town, looking across the field, laughed and called to me, and neighbor Button said to my father in my hearing, “That chap’s too young to run a plow,” a judgment which pleased and flattered me greatly
Harriet cheered me by running out occasionally to meet me as I turned the nearest corner, and sometimes Frank consented to go all the way around,chatting breathlessly as he trotted along behind. At other times he brought me a cookie and a glass of milk, a deed which helped to shorten the forenoon.And yet plowing became tedious.
The flies were savage, especially in the middle of the day, and the horses,tortured by their lances, drove badly, twisting and turning in their rage. Their tails were continually getting over the lines, and in stopping to kick their tormentors they often got astride the traces, and in other ways made trouble for me. Only in the early morning or when the sun sank low at night were they able to move quietly along their way.
The soil was the kind my father had been seeking, a smooth, dark, sandy loam, which made it possible for a lad to do the work of a man. Often the share would go the entire “round” without striking a root or a pebble as big as a walnut, the steel running steadily with a crisp, crunching, ripping sound which I rather liked to hear. In truth, the work would have been quite tolerable had it not been so long drawn out. Ten hours of it, even on a fine day, made about twice too many for a boy.
Meanwhile I cheered myself in every imaginable way. I whistled. I sang.I studied the clouds. I gnawed the beautiful red skin from the seed vessels which hung upon the wild rose bushes, and I counted the prairie chickens as they began to come together in winter flocks, running through the stubble in search of food. I stopped now and again to examine the lizards unhoused by the share, and I measured the little granaries of wheat which the mice and gophers had deposited deep under the ground, storehouses which the plow had violated. My eyes dwelt enviously upon the sailing hawk and on the passing of ducks. The occasional shadowy figure of a prairie wolf made me wish for Uncle David and his rifle
On certain days nothing could cheer me. When the bitter wind blew from the north, and the sky was filled with wild geese racing southward with swiftly-hurrying clouds, winter seemed about to spring upon me. The horses’tails streamed in the wind. Flurries of snow covered me with clinging flakes,and the mud “gummed” my boots and trouser legs, clogging my steps. At such times I suffered from cold and loneliness—all sense of being a man evaporated. I was just a little boy, longing for the leisure of boyhood.
Day after day, through the month of October and deep into November, I followed that team, turning over two acres of stubble each day. I would not believe this without proof, but it is true! At last it grew so cold that in the early morning everything was white with frost, and I was obliged to put one hand in my pocket to keep it warm, while holding the plow with the other;but I didn’t mind this so much, for it hinted at the close of autumn. I’ve no doubt facing the wind in this way was excellent discipline, but I didn’t think it necessary then, and my heart was sometimes bitter and rebellious.
My father did not intend to be severe. As he had always been an early riser and a busy toiler, it seemed perfectly natural and good discipline that his sons should also plow and husk corn at ten years of age. He often told of beginning life as a “bound boy” at nine, and these stories helped me to perform my own tasks without whining.
At last there came a morning when by striking my heel upon the ground I convinced my boss that the soil was frozen. “All right,” he said; “you may lay off this forenoon.”
( Hamlin Garland )
Hamlin Garland (1860-1940) was born in Wisconsin. His father was a farmer-pioneer, who was always eager to be on the border line of the farming country; consequently, he moved from Wisconsin to Minnesota, from Minnesota to Iowa, and from Iowa to Dakota. The hope of cheaper land,better soil, and bigger crops led him on.
When Hamlin Garland turned his attention to literature, he decided to write truthfully of the western farmer’s life and its great hardships in pioneer days, as well as its hopes and joys. In A Son of the Middle Border, an autobiography, from which “My Boyhood on the Prairie” is taken, he has given a most interesting record of experiences in the development of the Middle West. Mitchell County, where this scene is laid, is in Iowa.
marvelled : found something to be amazing
scorched : burned very badly
skillet : a pan for cooking
habitable : able to live there
tormentors : people who make life difficult for others
tolerable : okay, not so bad
A) Answer the following questions.
1) What does the boy’s new home look like?
2) What work did the boy have to do?
3) Why did he start blowing?
4) Does a boy have to do marvellous things to be a hero?
5) How did the boy try to keep himself happy?
6) What made him wish for freedom?
B) Positive and negative—The boy in this story had both good and bad (positive and negative) experiences. Make a list of each. Examples are done for you.
C) Summary—Write a short summary for this story.