Windy McPherson\'s Son
CHAPTER I At the beginning of the long twilight of a summer evening, Sam McPherson, a tall big-boned boy of thirteen, with brown hair, black eyes, and an amusing little habit of tilting his chin in the air as he walked, came upon the station platform of the little corn-shipping town of Caxton in Iowa. It was a board platform, and the boy walked cautiously, lifting his bare feet and putting them down with extreme deliberateness on the hot, dry, cracked planks. Under one arm he carried a bundle of newspapers. A long black cigar was in his hand. In front of the station he stopped; and Jerry Donlin, the baggage-man, seeing the cigar in his hand, laughed, and slowly drew the side of his face up into a laboured wink. "What is the game to-night, Sam?" he asked. Sam stepped to the baggage-room door, handed him the cigar, and began giving directions, pointing into the baggage-room, intent and business- like in the face of the Irishman's laughter. Then, turning, he walked
one on the wood and struck it with the heavy one. In this way he slowly
cut the roots in two.
On the fifth day there was yet left one big root, bigger than any of
the others. Robinson got up early in the morning. He worked the whole
day. Finally it gave a crack and it, too, was broken.
Robinson had only now to remove the loose earth inside the cleft. He
found the opening could be made large and roomy. It was choked up with
dirt. He dug out enough to allow him room enough to make a place to
lie down. "In the future," he thought, "I will take out all the dirt
and then I shall be comfortable."
It was then dark and the moon shone bright in the heavens. Robinson
gathered a heap of dry grass and made himself a safe bed. But as he
lay there he saw the moonbeams shining into his cave. He sprang up.
"How easy," he thought, "for wild animals to creep in here upon me."
He crawled out and looked around. Not far from the cave he saw a large
flat stone. With great trouble he rolled it to the opening of his
cave, but before this the morning began to dawn. He went inside the
shelter, seized the stone with both hands and rolled it into the
opening till it almost closed it. "I have now a closed home. I can
again stretch my legs. Wind and rain cannot get at me, nor wild
animals."
CHAPTER I At the beginning of the long twilight of a summer evening, Sam McPherson, a tall big-boned boy of thirteen, with brown hair, black eyes, and an amusing little habit of tilting his chin in the air as he walked, came upon the station platform of the little corn-shipping town of Caxton in Iowa. It was a board platform, and the boy walked cautiously, lifting his bare feet and putting them down with extreme deliberateness on the hot, dry, cracked planks. Under one arm he carried a bundle of newspapers. A long black cigar was in his hand. In front of the station he stopped; and Jerry Donlin, the baggage-man, seeing the cigar in his hand, laughed, and slowly drew the side of his face up into a laboured wink. "What is the game to-night, Sam?" he asked. Sam stepped to the baggage-room door, handed him the cigar, and began giving directions, pointing into the baggage-room, intent and business- like in the face of the Irishman's laughter. Then, turning, he walked