"... _In da guut alt Suumer-zeit_," Martha's voice joined him. As they jolted along the path through the pine trees, heading toward Datura-village, near which their homestead stood, they sang the other homey songs to the music of the old guitar. "_Drawk Mich Zrick zu Alt Virginye_," nostalgic for the black-garbed Plain-Folk left at home. Then Aaron's fingers danced a livelier tune on the strings: "_Ich fang 'n neie Fashun aw_," he crowed, and Martha joined in: "A new fashion I'll begin," they sang, "The hay I'll cut in the winter; "When the sun-heat beats, I'll loaf in the shade. "And feast on cherry-pie. "I'll get us a white, smearkase cow, "And a yard full of guinea-hen geese; "A red-beet tree as high as the moon, "And a patent-leather fence. "The chickens I'll keep in the kitchen," they sang; whereupon Martha broke down laughing. "It's a new world, and for now a cold world; but it's God's world, with home just up ahead," Aaron shouted. He pulled the wagon up next to the arctic tent that was to be their temporary farmhouse, beside the wagon loads of provision he'd brought before. He jumped down and swung Martha to earth. "Light the stove, woman; make your little kitchen bright, while I make our beasts feel welcome." The Amishwoman pushed aside the entrance flap of the tent. Enclosed was a circle some twelve feet wide. The floor was bare earth. Once warmed by the pump-up "naptha" lantern and the gasoline hotplate, it would become a bog. Martha went out to the wagon to get a hatchet and set out for the nearby spinny of pines to trim off some twigs. Old Order manner forbid decorative floor-coverings as improper worldly show; but a springy carpet of pine-twigs could be considered as no more than a wooden floor, keeping two Plain Folk from sinking to their knees in mud. The pots were soon boiling atop the two-burner stove, steaming the tent's air with onion-tangy _tzvivvele Supp_ and the savory pork-smell of _Schnitz un Knepp_, a cannibal odor that disturbed not a bit Wutzchen, snoring behind the cookstove. Chickens, penned beneath the bed, chuckled in their bedtime caucus. The cow stood cheek-by-jowl with Yonnie, warming him with platonic graciousness as they shared the hay Aaron had spread before them. Martha stirred her soup. "When the bishop married me to you," she told Aaron, "he said naught of my having to sleep with a pig." "Ah, but I thought you knew that to be the purpose of Christian marriage, woman," Aaron said, standing close. "It's Wutz I mean," she said. "Truly, I mind not a bit living as in one of those automobile-wagons, since it's with you, and only for a little while." "I'll hire a crew of our neighbors to help with the barn tomorrow," Aaron said. "That done, you'll have but one pig to sleep with."