It was noon now, and so hot that the dog-
woods and scrub-oaks began to turn up the
silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the
foliage looked soft and wilted. I carried the
lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk
bluffs, where even on the calmest days there
was always a breeze. The flat-topped, twisted
little oaks threw light shadows on the grass.
Below us we could see the windings of the
river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its
trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swell-
ing gently until it met the sky. We could
recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills.
Each of the girls pointed out to me the di-
rection in which her father's farm lay, and
told me how many acres were in wheat that
year and how many in corn.

"My old folks," said Tiny Soderball, "have
put in twenty acres of rye. They get it ground
at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems
like my mother ain't been so homesick, ever
since father's raised rye flour for her."

"It must have been a trial for our mothers,"
said Lena, "coming out here and having to do
everything different. My mother had always
lived in town. She says she started behind in
farm-work, and never has caught up."

[[272]]

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