Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 47, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 July 1895 — A WESTERN WOOING. [ARTICLE]

A WESTERN WOOING.

PEOrLE had become rather tired of the romance. Perhaps in part because it had ceased to be romantic. When first Andulasia Stebbins had come out from Illinois to live * with her mother and stepfather on the Nebraska prairie it was considered by the neighboring farmer folk quite proper, probable, and desirable that Ira Harris, whose half-section joined that of her relatives, should fall in love with her—which he promptly did. Ira was 30, , stout, stolid, loutish, inethodial. He was a successful man. This is hardly to be explained of a person with the characteristics mentioned unless one includes selfishness. To be supremely selfish is so frequently to be successful. At the time of their meeting Andulasia was 27. There are •women of 27 and women of 27. She was one of the latter. Witk ber square figure, her unequivocal complexlon. hcr dull brown hair, and her calculating eyes she looked her years. One would never excuse her mistakes on the ground of immaturity. One could never condone them on that of impulse. Indeed, to attribute to her certain errors would be subtle flattery. She was not the kind of a woman who is ordinarily subjected to temptation. Harris, however, accepted her pro pinquity and her affection much as he accepted the drought or the price of hogs. He was willing she should decline the company of other men on his account He reasoned that If her stepfather, old man Solveriny, were to clear off the mortgage on his place and die, and If the two sickly young Solverinys died also, she would be wealthy in her own right as is estimated in the Philistine might prove a prudent proceeding to \fait for Aadulasia. So he waited. A year after their acquaintance began he gave her an inkling of his sentiments. Her concurrence with his views was almost pathetic. It was alert, reciprocal, conclusive. Matrimony at some indefinite date they might look forward to. Such an indiscretion at the present time would be a tremendous mistake. “Of course, Ira,” she said, “land's laud. And if my stepfather and your mother—who is mighty feeble, 1 notice —and the twins don’t die there won’t be any land for us. worth Mentioning, much less a-marryin’ on.” Nevertheless she felt as the years, two, three, four passed, that her acceptance of his suggestion had been a trifle overemphatic and unconsidered. Fate, she could not in justice rail against. One of the twins succumbed to ivy poisoning. The other, a few months later, was run down by the train. Andulasia’s stepfather went the way of the apoplectic, and Ira’s mother. with utter disregard for the sensation she might have caused, slipped from life in tjie most meek, genteel and unimpressive manner imaginable. Then these was only Ira on one farm, and Andulasia and her mother on the other. No apparent obstacle intervened. Still Ira did not speak, and it was seven years since Andulasia bad come from Illinois. He frequently visited her, helped her, and deferred to her. lie carried her butter and eggs into town and “traded” them; when the circus was at the county scat, he drove her there; he took her into the side show where the fat woman was on exhibition; be bought her pink lemonade, and peanuts, and hot candy made on the grounds. He escorted her to the merry-go-round at Mahaska and rode side by side with her on the spotted ponies. He drove her into town twice a week. They attended prayer meeting together. They both professed religion at the revival. lie bought eleven tickets for her crazy quilt rullie. He was in all things her constant and dependable cavalier, but he never once mentioned marriage—never once. In this manner eight mote years passed. She was 42. He was 43. lie was stouter, more stolid. She had some wrinkles, gold fillings in her teeth, a reputation for irascibility—also a comfortable bank account. The two continued to drive across the majestic prairies in all kinds of marvelous nights and days. Bat the prose of life had so eaten Into their hearts they saw nothing of the beauty surrounding them, heard none of Nature’s music- For them there was no charm In the blossoming miracle of dawn, the yellow sweep of the ripe corn, the translucence of the moonlight, the blue Infinity of space, the meadowlark’s gay vest, the fugitive radiance on the bluffs, the restless shiver of the cottonwoods, the ocean shadows of the wheat, the swiftness of the roplier, the snow of wild plum blooms by the creek, the rank and file of goldenrod flanking the dusty roads. And they never heftrd the pattering flight of the quail, nor the swallow’s swerving wing, nor the scurry of the rabbit, nor the murmur of the maples, nor the rus-

tie of the sunflowers, nor the first crackle of the frost, nor the breaking of the ice, nor the gossip of the wild grass, never—never. Theirs were the years the majority of prairie people khow. Always vague, unrestful, apprehensive, material. Never gay, never edncatlonal. If hopeful, elated; if despairing, sullen; If contented'bovlne. It is rather hard to be philosophical in a country the conditions of which one day promise prosperity and leisure, and after the next hall or wind storm express starvation. One day Ira brought Andulasia a letter. It was from hey mother's brother who lived in lowa. He was dying. He wished to. see her. Sho handed Ira the letter. : ’ . • “Shall I go?” she asked. Harris deliberated. “Has ho money?” he questioned. “Yes.” —“Then go," He 6aw her off the next day. She wore a new dress that didn’t fit In the back. The skirt was too short at the sides. Her shoes were dusty. The heat had taken the curl out of her bangs. She had forgotten to bring the piece of chamois skin with the powder on it. which she was In the habit of using surreptitiously. Her nose shone as if polished. She wore kid gloves which were too large. The train was late. As they walked up and down the platform she talked to Ira steadily and monotonously. She warned, him about the brindle cow, and advised him concerning a piece of his fence which needed repairing. Ho heard her, but all the time he was watching a girl who played with the agent’s children In a green patch near the station. She was a little blonde sprite who had come from Omaha to visit the agent’s wife. “Of course,” he said. “And you won’t forget about the chopped feed?” He gave her an Intense glance. “How could I?” - - - ~ “You’ll see that Star gets well watered ?” “I’ll attend to it” „ . - “You’ll have Alvy Markham pull parsley for the young pigs?” “I will.”

“And—O yesl If mother seems to feel another fit coming on you'll get her a bottle of Indian relief cure at tbe drug store.” He assured her he wonld. And all the time he was thinking what a wonderful way her hair curled about her temples—not Andulasia’s. And hew slim her waist was—not Andulasia’s. * And how pretty were the twinkling feet In the tan slippers—not Ahdulnsia’s. How fluffy and blue her gown was—and how deliciously merry her laugh rang out And neither gown nor laugh was Andulasia’B. The train steemed In. Andulasia Went away. Ira did not kiss her. She was relieved—and disappointed. The conductor and the train boy might have laughed. Bat then he should have cared enough to risk that. When the train had pulled out and was well around the bend Harris, who ihad lingered on the platform, asked the agent to Introduce him to his visitor. The agent did so. Harris Joined in the games of the children. He made himself clumsily delightfuL Soda water was unknown in that particular small town, but Ira did the next best thing. He bought bananas and chocolate drops with a reckless liberality which would have made the absent Andulasia doubt his sanity could she but have been aware of his behavior.

He came to the depot the next day, the next, and the next The little visitor with the flax-flower eyes and yellow hair smiled divinely. “The, children,” she confided to the agent's wife, “are having such a good time. It Is all great fun.” She even thought it was great fun ’when she went buggy riding with Mr. Harris. “Take me past your farm,” she commanded. He grew red with ecstasy at the request He explained apologetically many conditions of his property as they drove by. “When I’m married,” he announced with much determination, “I intend to live in town.” “I have heard,” she ventured innocently, “that there is no bouse vacant In town.” “I shall build one,” he declared. Three weeks passed—four. Harris had several letters from lowa. The contents of the letters were chiefly relative to hogs, and pasturage, and baled hay, and discounts. Ira did not actually dread Andulasla’s return, but lie would have preferred to postpone it indefinitely. To be sure they had considered the possibility of an engagement once, but he had never been really engaged to her. He never could be now. It was only right she should understand that She was a sensible woman. She wonld understand that in such a matter a man bad a right to please himself. As for Alys, was there ever such an eye, such a hand, such a voice, such a foot, such a smile? To be sure bo had once met Alys walking home" from church with the lumberman. But then the lumberman was only young and good-looking. It was well known he was conducting the yard for an Eastern firm on a salary. To compare Vail to him—Harris—who was so “well fixed!” There could be no comparison. One evening in late summer, when Ira was Jogging into town, he settled mentally al' minor matters to his satisfaction. He decided to whom he would rent his farm, the kind of a house he wonld build in town, the direction his wedding journey would take, tho brotherly lettor he would leave for Andulasia. and the invitation he would send the lumberman to be present at bis wedding.

“Poor devil!” he concluded cornmlseratingly, “it will be tough, but he will have to stand it*U "

He dlamounted nt the postofllce, I which was also the general store and tin shop. There was a letter for him—a letter from Andulasia. “Dear Ira: Things Is all upset Uncle Jake died a week ago. They can’t find no will, and I’m tired waiting for dead men’s stockings. Meet me night after to-morrer. Your “ANDULASIA STEBBINS.’Harrls smiled curiously as he stuffed the letter in his pocket. He was thinking of the little Omaha girl. The next night Andulasia arrived. She was fatter than ever. Her Eton suit was crumpled. She wore a shirt waist It was voluminous and not immaculate. “Well, it’s you, Ira. I’m clean beat Put them things In the buggy, while I get some sody and yeast up-town.” ’ “Up-town.” Miss Stebblns learned several things, chief of which was that Ira Harris had transferred his affections to Miss Alys Lane. “I hear you reckon to marry Miss Lane.” Her composure, the loss of her expected fortune, the witchery of Alys, all gave Harris courage. “I—l was flggerin’ some on he avowed. He drove Andulasia to her home, but she did not again broach the subject He went back to town that evening, lie met Alys at an Ice cream sociable. He gained grace of heart and proposed. She laughed gently. • - “I —am honored, Mr. Harris, of course,” she said. “But I always supposed you were engaged to Miss Stebblns. lam to marry Mr. Yail at Christmas.”

The following evening, Ira, feeling exceedingly depressed, went to call on Andulasia. He found her talking with a brother farmer, a widower with three children. He asked to speak to her a moment alone.”

“Fact is, Andulasia,” he said, “it’s you I want I fancied for awhile I’d like that silly little thing. I must have been kind of kypternlzed. I’m sure now it’s you I want.” - Andulasia smiled—a peculiar smile. “I’ve Just promised to marry Mr. Muggs. He asked me last night before he found out what you know.” “What I know? Andulasia!” “Yes. The news that come in on the noon train about tho will bein’ found, and me getting $7,000, and—“Andulasia!” ° What a fine woman she was! Why had he never noticed that fact before ? “It’s true,” she declared triumphantly- “ But,” he fairly howled, “I’ve been meaning for fifteen years to marry you, Andulasia!” “Then, why didn’t you?” Inquired Andulasia. He remembered some lines he had once read. It would be quite safe to repeat them as original, for Andulasia never read anything. “I feared my fate too much,” he protested, striking his breast dramatically, “and my deserts was too small!” He did not impress Andulasia. She turned scornfully away to where Mr. Muggs waited. “Go back,” she counseled, “to that yeller-haired girl at the depot.” lie did go back, but not to the depot. “Eh?” said the saloonkeeper. “We don’t often see you, Mr. Harris.” “No. Bui I feel to-night as if I’d got a chill. I’ll take some straight”—Chicago Tribune.