Is was a land of promise that they came to. The virgin soil bore
riotously. There were fruit-trees in the forest that Johnny
Appleseed had planted on his journeyings. The young husband
could stand in his dooryard and kill wild turkeys with his rifle.
They fed to loathing on venison, and squirrels, and all manner of
game, and once in a great while they had the luxury of salt pork.
They were well-nourished, but sometimes they pined for that which
was more than mere food. They hungered for that which should be
to the meals' victuals what the flower is to the plant.
"I whoosh't - I woosh't was so we could hev pie," sighed one such.
(Let us call him Uriah Kinney. I think that sounds as if it were
his name.
"Land's sakes!" snapped his wife, exasperated that he should be
thinking of the same thing that she was. "Land's sakes! Haow d'
ye s'pose I kin make a pie when I hain't got e'er a thing to make it
aout o'? You gimme suthirnn to make it aout o', an' you see haow
quick - "
"I ain't a-faultinn ye, Mary Ann," interposed Uriah gently. "I
know haow 't is. I was on'y tellin' ye. I git I git a kind o'
hum'sick sometimes. 'Pears like as if I sh'd feel more resigned
like . . . . Don't ye cry, Mary Ann. I know, I know. You feel
julluk I do 'baout back home, an' all luk that.
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