"I didn't do no more than ivery true American will do--fight an' die to protect his home; or if not his'n, some other man's. Whin the day av choosin' comes we can't do no more 'n to take our places. We all do it. Whin Jean put it on me to lay there helpless an' die o' thirst, I know'd I could do it. Same as you know'd you'd outwit that gang ready to burn an' kill, that I'd run from. I just looked straight up at Jean--the light was gettin' dim--an' I says, 'You--may--go--plum--to--the--divil, --but--you--can't--hurt--that--part--av--me--that's--never--hungry--nor --thirsty.' When you git face to face wid a thing like that," O'mie spoke reverently, "somehow the everlastin' arms, Dr. Hemingway's preaches of, is strong underneath you. The light wint out, an' Jean in his still way had slid off, an' I was alone. Alone wid me achin' and me bonds, an' wid a burnin' longin' fur water, wid a wish to go quick if I must go; but most av all--don't never furgit it, Phil, whin the thing overtakes you aven in your strength--most av all, above all sufferin' and natural longin' to live--there comes the reality av the words your Aunt Candace taught us years ago in the little school: "'Though I walk through the valley av the shadow av death, I will fear no evil.' "I called for you, Phil, in my misery, as' I know'd somehow you'd hear me. An' you did come." His thin hand closed over mine, and we sat long in silence--two boys whom the hand of Providence was leading into strange, hard lines, shaping us each for the work the years of our manhood were waiting to bring to us. CHAPTER XI GOLDEN DAYS There are days that are kind As a mother to man, showing pathways that wind Out and in, like a dream, by some stream of delight; Never hinting of aught that they hold to affright; Only luring us on, since the way must be trod, Over meadows of green with their velvety sod, To the steeps, that are harder to climb, far before. There are nights so enchanting, they seem to restore The original beauty of Eden; so tender, They woo every soul to a willing surrender Of feverish longing; so holy withal, That a broad benediction seems sweetly to fall On the world. We were a busy folk in those years that followed the close of the war. The prairies were boundless, and the constant line of movers' wagons reaching out endlessly on the old trail, with fathers and mothers and children, children, children, like the ghosts of Banquo's lineal issue to King Macbeth, seemed numerous enough to people the world and put to the plough every foot of the virgin soil of the beautiful Plains. With the downfall of slavery the strife for commercial supremacy began in earnest here, and there are no idle days in Kansas.