Kindling a fire in the range, he used the reservoir for a footrest and laced his shoes while the fire was growing hot enough to ignite a bucket of lignite. Pulling on overshoes, sheepskin overcoat, a fur cap and gloves, he threaded the milk pail over his arm and took the lantern in the same hand. Picking up the slop pail with the other, he stepped out on the back stoop. A cold wind smote him, and the yard was a dirty gray from drifting spirals of snow and dust. The windmill, apparently unable to make up its mind which way the wind was blowing, swung from side to side and reminded him that the turntable needed oil; the pull-out wire clanged harshly against the angle iron frame. A rooster, resenting the disturbance, crowed long and loud. * * * * * As Grahame crossed to the pigpen, he looked to the east, and the sun seemed to be coming up under a canopy decorated with streamers of crimson. The hogs were sluggish, and came forth doubtfully, one at a time, but when he hung the pail and lantern on a post and opened the granary door, they lost their indecision and came out with a rush. Passing the windmill, he threw it into gear and went on to the barn, where a long series of nickers and the lowing of a cow greeted him as he entered. From the feed-bin, he carried oats until the nickering changed to the crunching sound of horses eating, and the peculiar snapping, sucking sound of feeding cows. He milked and hung the pail on a peg while he walked to the edge of the field he was plowing. The ground was a little stiff, but not enough, he decided, to stop his work; so he went back to the barn and harnessed six horses. When he was halfway back to the house, Jane opened the door and called to breakfast. He detected the odor of frying ham and quickened his pace. She met him at the door, anxious to know if it had frozen enough to interfere with the plowing, but John reassured her. “The ground is a little stiff, but the horses can make it all right. I have no time to waste, you know, if I am to seed the whole hundred acres to wheat.” “If you should be a little late, don’t you suppose you could put the rest into flax? It’s a better money crop anyway, isn’t it?” “Yes, but there are too many weeds for flax. It’s got to be wheat, but if we get even a fair crop of wheat we can meet the mortgage on the home place anyway.” “We are going to get a crop this year. I feel it in my bones.” “Yep, your bones said the same thing last year, if I remember right; but I didn’t see any crop, did you?” “No, of course not; but listen, John: we can’t have a failure every year. There’s got to be a change sometime.” “True as preaching; but if you are talking to brace up my courage, honey girl, you just don’t have to. My courage is up and coming. I’ll work sixteen hours a day, but I’ll get that wheat in at the right time. Does that make you feel easier?”