Another somber view of women and the homesteading experience, this story not only depicts the mental and physical cruelty some women suffered in the West, but also reveals the lack of quality medical care available. The character of the drunken and morphine-addicted doctor appears frequently in Cleary's stories and novels, perhaps reflecting her own experiences in childbirth. She adds another element to this short story--a murder mystery--a device frequently used by popular writers in the nineteenth century that still appeals to readers today.

The woman came to the door of the little, new-shingled log house, and stood looking over at the sod ruin across the road. There was a descent of several feet to reach the road. The ruin stood upon the softly swelling incline opposite. Afar to her right the sun was drooping down the sky--a blood-red, blinding sun. Its dazzling effulgence swept across the rugged and illimitable prairies in a veritable flood of flame. The wind came in hot, puffing breaths, as though even it could only grasp in its exhaustion like the humanity it had tortured. Save the labored painting of the wind there was no sound in all the world just then except the querulous sobbing of a child.

"Yes--yes," murmured the woman, "mother'll take you." She spoke in the hushed, abstracted tone of those who utter their thoughts aloud in solitude, knowing that none is near to hear or comprehend. She turned and reentered the house. When she reappeared she carried a child. It was gowned in a short, blue cotton frock, which left bare the dangling brown legs. There was nothing attractive about the baby. Its face was round and full, but of a sickly white, and there was a startling look of vacancy in the staring eyes. He seemed to heavy for the frail arms of the woman--if woman she could well be called.

The wind, fluttering back her scant print garment, revealed all the unlovely angularity of extreme youth. Her body had never reached its full and fair maturity, and now, with all that lay behind and before it, never would. The face from which sunbonnet had slipped back was touchingly youthful also. She had a delicate, freckled skin, small features, and a mass of untidy but beautiful reddish hair.

Staggering a little under the weight of her burden, she stepped carefully down the slope to the road, picked her way across the strip of sandy loam, and, climbing the hill beyond, set the child down in the shade of the sod wall. She leaned back, panting a little, and looking away down the road that went writhing and twisting out of sight among the innumerable draws and bluffs of southern Nebraska.

It was cooler there than in the little pine-covered shack where the boards crackled and shrunk apart in the fierce heat. The grass grew tall around the half-fallen walls of the old sod house. The child at her feet clutched at them with aimless hands, and made queer sounds of satisfaction--sounds lacking somehow intelligent joyousness.

Suddenly the woman started and leaned forward. Away off there--that moving speck upon the trail leading down the white side of the distant stone quarry--was that a horse? It was not a stray horse. It must have a rider. The trail was being followed. Could it be any one who was coming in this direction? No--of course not. The stranger--she could distinguish horse and rider quite separately and distinctly now--would branch off when he came to the bridge below. Everyone who had business in this part branched off at the bridge. Rarely did a team pass over the rough dirt road intervening between the pine shack and the sod ruin.

Presently the man and horse disappeared. When next she saw them they were coming up the winding path directly towards her. Nearer--nearer still.

"Hallo!" he called.

She moved a few steps forward and stood, waiting.

"Is this the main road to Gilead?" he cried, looking up. The next instant he had dropped from his horse, and was scrambling up the slope to where she stood.

"I--I beg your pardon!" he stammered. "But I--I was quite startled when I saw you. The resemblance is not so extraordinary now that I see you nearer. But you look so like a little sister of mine--that--that--" he repeated the words he had already said--"I was really startled when I saw you."

"Yes," she said. She was not fluent. She had had few to talk with in her life. She was looking with faint curiosity at the slender but well-knit young fellow, whose speech, appearance, and attire were of a kind vaguely suggestive of "towns," and almost wholly unfamiliar to her.

"She was never sad," he went on, quite as though he were not speaking to a stranger, and one singularly unresponsive at that, "seldom even serious. She--" he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his straight brown hair--"she died two months ago," he ended in a lower voice.

"Yes," she said again. She did not wonder at his confidence. She accepted events as she accepted a June cyclone or a January blizzard--as she accepted her life, with an indifference that was untinged by hope as untinctured by despair. She expected nothing, and with one exception she deplored nothing.

There was a brief silence. "This isn't the road to Gilead, then?" he asked.

"This isn't the road to anywhere. It only runs up a bit beyond the house." She pointed to the shack opposite. "Any one going to Gilead turns off at the bridge below."

"How far is Gilead from here?"

"It's a good eight miles."

"Phew!" He looked down at the steaming horse and then back at her. "I wonder if I could put up here over night. My horse is pretty well blown."

"You'll have to ask him when he comes home. He wants a hand, but--" She paused, her glance roving over his well-cut but dusty clothes.

"A hand?" He laughed. "I've never done farm work, but I don't know that it wouldn't be a good thing to try."

"You kin wait, then. I'm goin' to git supper now." She turned toward the child.

"Your little brother?" he asked pleasantly.

"No--my baby." She stooped to lift him, but he was before her.

"Let me carry him for you. You are a young mother."

"I'll be 17 come Christmas," she replied in the same listless tone.

"And the child must be two years--ah!" The sharp ejaculation escaped him. He had looked for the first time into the face of the little fellow. Its blank eyes, blind of reason as those of the sightless are of sight, its drooping jaw, its appalling vacuity, shocked and dismayed him. His pitying glance shifted to the mother. Her composure was gone. She was trembling all over. She spoke hastily--as if in apologetic shame.

"He would have been all right--if--he hadn't been--interfered with. I was alone--I am nearly always alone. My husband had gone for the doctor. When they come he--my man--was not like he should be. And the doctor was worse. He was dead drunk. I begged him to go away, but he thought he could help. He didn't know what he was doing. He had things in his bag--steel things." She trembled still more violently as she hurried on. "He was not careful. He--" She pointed to a deep depression in which you might have rolled a marble at one side of the baby's head. "He did that. It didn't kill the baby. I," she broke down sobbing, "I wish sometimes it had!"

"Poor girl!" the man murmured. A great compassion thrilled him. He thought again of his gay little sister who had gone, unknowing sorrow, to her maiden grave. A sense of thankfulness that it was so swelled in his bosom.

"It was a terrible thing--a tragic thing. But have you never considered that an operation might be successful?'

"An operation?" She ceased sobbing and looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

"I have heard that when idi--this condition is the result of an external injury, that the lifting of the bone from the place where it presses permits the brain to grow, and reason is restored."

"O!" she panted. Her flat breast was rising and falling sharply. "I never heard of anything like that. Are you sure--are you sure you're not--laughing at me?"

He turned and faced her. He was pale, and there were tears in his eyes. "Do I look as though I were laughing at you?" he demanded.

"No--no! I didn't mean to rile you. But it's so new to me--the idee. That's it," feverishly, "it's the idee that is so new." They were at the door of the shack now. "Wouldn't tryin' it--jest tryin' it, cost a pile of money?"

"It would take money, of course," he returned. He put back the child in the arms she extended. "But that might be managed." He was a little aghast at the tempest of emotion he had evoked. "Remember, I don't say that an operation in your boy's case would be certainly successful. I only say it might be."

She looked down on the little face upon her arm with a gaze of curious speculation--an eager, breathless look, which set the young man whirling on his heel and leaping down the slope towards his motionless horse. When he had attended to the beast he sauntered back to the sod ruin and stood gazing down and away.

It's a desolate stretch of country up there in the direction of Gilead. It is undeniably picturesque, though--and it is even occasionally majestic--which seems an odd word to use in connection with the prairies of Nebraska.

Jim Farrar, lounging forward and backward before the tumble-down walls of theat which had once been a home, realized that in so vast a State one must expect to observe scenic as well as climatic contradictions.

The sun was nearly down now. The western sky made him think of a great passion that was unconsciously merging itself in mere friendship, so gradually the scarlet and gold softened into dullest rose, and lapsed in lines of mellow topaz. but in the chastened splendor of the hour more beautiful than in its aggressive glory of full day looked the immeasurable prairies, all the towering abruptness of their bluffs expressing a mighty protection, all the curving hills between tempting, breast-like, to repose. And then the colors! Green as an emerald, black as sunless pits, brown as cherry buds before the leaves break through, red as rust upon a dew-damp sword, tawny as the sun-burnt hair of a little child, and where the sand dunes stretched away, pallid as the cheek of death itself, rippled and rolled the plains by which he was encompassed.

The last level streak disappeared in the west. Only the sadness of the afterglow remained. The hills were heliotrope eminences, but the draws were gulfs brimmed with a dark and ever-rising tide.

A rattle of wheels came clattering through the silence. A team was being driven up the ascent to the cottage. Farrar heard a rough voice, swearing at the horses with verbose hilarity. He waited until the master of the house had driven into the back yard and was unharnessing his horses.

"Good evening," he said. "You'll find my horse in your barn. I tried to make my way through to Gilead today, but struck the wrong road and landed here. I'll make it worth your while if you'll give me a shakedown over night."

"Let's have a look at you first." The farmer took the lantern dangling at the end of the wagon pole and swung it up and down in a survey of the applicant for shelter. "Yes, you kin stay, I guess. A drummer, are you?"

"No, I'm not a drummer."

"Well, you ain't a tramp--that's sure. Say--hold on a minute!" He lurched toward the wagon and from under the folded bed comforters on the seat pulled forth a flask. "You take a drink, don't you?"

"Not after I've had enough."

"Eh!" The other ripped a curse that was less complimentary than even curses usually are. "O, you go in to my woman an' tell her to give you hot milk with sugar in it. That's what she feeds the baby." He roared so at his own wit that he shook until he had to grasp at the wagon to steady himself.

Farrar turned on his heel--went into the house. The table, covered with oilcloth, was set for three. A lamp burned brightly. The baby was asleep on a sofa in one corner. The young woman at the stove was taking up a savory dinner. She turned as he came in. He noticed at once how excited she looked, and still there was an air of repression about her.

"He is home," she said, "an he--he--is--"

"You'd better go to bed he said," he said, answering thus the unspoken question. "We'll have supper together, and he'll be all right in the morning. You looked played out."

"I'd like to go." She glanced to the door. "He's good--very good, unless at--at these times. An' I'm not tired--only glad."

"Glad!" he echoed.

"Yes--with hopin'. I'd like to go away so I could think by myself in the dark--where no one could see me. Do you"--her hand was unconsciously flung out in the direction of the sofa in the corner--"do you think you could--manage it if I go?"

"I'm sure I can. You scuttle off with the little chap. Don't you want anything to eat yourself?"

"O, I couldn't eat. It would choke me." Her fingers clasped her throat. Her eyes were glittering under her tumbled reddish hair. "But I've never hoped before--there was never anythin' to hope for. An' now--when I'm lettin' myself do it I don't want to be looked at--I don't want to be spoke to."

"You shall not be disturbed. Take the little lad and go."

She turned to the door, her poor treasure held tightly in her arms, and gave him a look--a long look that brought the blood into his cheeks and made him say, roughly, "It's nothing--my God! Nothing at all!"

The he settled down to the entertainment of his host and the regalement of his own exhausted person. Not that his host proved troublesome. He was a brawny, gigantic fellow who worked his farm three days out of the six and on the other three acted as blacksmith for his fellow-farmers at a point several miles from his home. Of necessity he was sober during the days he spent on the farm, but those passed at the blacksmith shop were orgies, in which his own weak will and good nature militated against him. However, he and Farrar came to a satisfactory agreement as to board and wages in recognition of the services of the latter for a certain time. Farrar was confident he could do the work required if its character were made plain to him, and Burton Miller had no doubt just then of his ability to direct in farmwork all the men of half a dozen counties, not to say States. He was an amiable drunkard when all was said--and that's a bit better than the other kind.

And so it happened that Jim Farrar settled down to work that brought a deeper brown to his face and that effectually dissipated any appearance of effeminacy he may once have resented in the appearance of his hands. No one would have been more disgusted than he at any word of moral commendation, but it is certain that after he had been there a month his employer began to come home from the blacksmith shop in a condition which permitted him to unhitch the horses and reach his own bed by a tolerably direct motion of locomotion before slumber overtook him. Once Farrar rode over to the county seat and came back with a bulky bundle over his shoulder. He opened it up on the kitchen table. The little wife stared at its contents.

"Books!" she cried. "Paper books--with pictures an' readin'! Did you buy all they had?"

"O, no. Only this month's magazines and periodicals. Next month's haven't come yet."

"Do you mean ones with new stories are printed every month?"

"Of course--hundreds besides these."

She drew a long breath and stood looking down at her astonishing acquisitions.

"You have never been far from home," he ventured.

"I was born in the third section north of here," she explained. "But once I went to the county fair. That was the time I seen a train."

"You don't mean to say you've never been on a train?"

"On a train!" A frightened look came into her face. "O, no--never!"

The next evening they were out on their favorite resting place near the sod ruin. Miller was lying on his back in his shirt sleeves, puffing at a stub pipe. His wife was sewing on some shapeless garment for the child that tumbled around at her feet, when Farrar, who sat with his eyes fixed on a distant arrow line of crows, ink-black against a sky of lemon yellow, began to speak in a dreamy voice, as though the words uttered were without his direct volition.

"It's three months now since I cut out," he said. "They say a woman has influenced the exile of every man who has made himself a wanderer. Two women influenced me. One was a good woman--that was the little sister. The other was--well, a selfish woman. She had for a husband a stupid old imbecile, and she made much of me. She was older than I, so of course I was fool enough to feel flattered by her preference. But, when her husband died, and she thought that she had claims upon me, I--" He hesitated. Then he blurted it all out in a hurry. "I--it seems caddish to say it--but I couldn't stay and let her marry me--so I ran away. Of course," he supplemented hastily, "if Dora had lived I could never have come away."

The gaze Elsie Miller bent upon him was sympathetic. Her countenance had taken on a new expressiveness of late.

"This ain't the life for the likes of you," she said, steadily.

"I know that. The novelty was fine--but the novelty has worn off. I'm going just as soon as this matter is settled." He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She read it through slowly and with difficulty. Two terms of district school had comprised her education.

"From what you tell me," the letter ran, "I should say there was every chance for the child. In view of the circumstances of the case I will consider the fee of $100 which you send sufficient for the operation. Have the case brought before me as soon as possible. Yours, etc."

The sheet fell on her lap. "A hundred dollars--you sent him a hundred dollars?"

An annoyed exclamation broke from him.

"I forgot that was in it. Never mind. I had it to spare. Now get him ready as soon as you can, and take him down to Kansas City. The chap is the best surgeon west of Chicago. If anyone can help the boy, he can."

He stalked away, and the little mother sat there, her head bent over the letter in her lap--a letter, which, by the way, was undecipherable by the time she lifted her wet, white face and carried her baby home.

Two days later a farm wagon fell into line with numerous others en route to the county seat. Two men were on the high front board. Sitting in the straw at the back was a young woman holding a child. This wagon drove to the depot. When the train came thundering down the track the woman huddled back with a quavering cry.

"It's all right, Elsie," declared her husband.

""You'll get used to it in a few minutes," Jim Farrar assured her. "Anyhow, it's for the little chap."

She smiled up at him--a sudden, sweet, brave, radiant smile that gave him the quick impulse to stoop and kiss her--as he had kissed the face of the happy young sister in her flower-fragrant bed. But he just held her hand tight an instant--then helped her up the steps--he had insisted on a Pullman--and pressed something into the hand of the porter which made that mercurial monarch gasp and grin.

"All right, sah--the best, sah!"

The train pulled out. There was a trickling away of the people who had assembled to see the through flyer. Farrar turned to his burly companion.

"Keep straight while she's gone," he pleaded.

Miller took out his pipe. He laughed gruffly. His face was black--he'd been at the forge all morning. His hands were grimy. But his smile was not sarcastic. It was only perplexed.

"I will. I don't see how or why you've done it, but then I'll be d--d if I understand you anyhow!"

He took a tighter grip of his pipe and sauntered away. Farrar turned to see a woman at the further end of the platform. A valise was at her feet. She had evidently been expecting a friend, and had been disappointed, for he and she were the only occupants of the long board platform. His breeding stood him in good stead. He went up to her. He took off his hat.

"Can I be of any assistance, madam--why, Mary--Mrs. Furstree!"

The woman--a well-preserved, well-groomed woman of 40 perhaps, gowned in a costume of severe black, with a few alleviating touches of silver and violet artistically disposed about it--met his recognition with a sharp retreat--a furious flushing.

"It's you--you, Jim Farrar!"

"Yes--it's I. I'm immensely astonished." Involuntarily he extended his hand.

She made no motion to take it. He accepted the rebuff with a certain sensation of relief. "O, if you'd rather not--" He lifted his hat again and took a stride backward.

"Where are you staying out here? How did you come?"

"I'm staying at a farm--Miller's it is--away out in the inevitable prairie." He fancied she meant to reproach him for his defection. "How I came here is a longer story. Ah, here are your friends, I believe." He bowed again and was gone.

"Wait awhile," Mrs. Furstree said to her friends after their greetings had been exchanged. "I must see the agent first. I've a message to send."

The agent glanced at her two or three times to assure himself of her sanity before he transmitted the message she wrote. When he handed her the reply, for which she called a few hours later, he looked positively apoplectic. For the answer to her dispatch of inquiry ran:

"Yes. Wanted for murder of traveling companion, Eustace Burges. Send particulars. If details tally will send officers."

Mr. Congreve was quite correct in asserting that hell hath no furry like a woman scorned. He would have found his declaration fully vindicated could he have read the second message which went East that night to its destination in an Illinois town:

"What is the amount of reward offered? Will reveal present whereabouts and lead officers if I get half of reward."

There was no one at the depot when the reply message came except the agent and the woman walking up and down the platform. He shook himself out of sleep when his familiar call clicked out. He took the message to her. She read it in the square of light from the window.

"Half yours, if you've got the right man," it ran. "Reward $500."

And that was why two men in civilian's garb got off the west-bound train one evening, and, going to the hotel, were ushered into a private room, where they had an interesting conversation with a certain good-looking woman. The livery barn "let" a carriage that night, and a part of four--for the Marshal went along--were driven out to the lonely farm of Burton Miller. It was an unhappy coincidence for Farrar that he was found engaged in packing his grip. He had bough a grip and other things since he had ridden up the blind road that led to the Millers with all his worldly possessions contained in the bundle tied to the pommel of his saddle.

He looked up as the three men unceremoniously filed in. The woman remained outside.

"Ah," said the Marshal, "got wind of our coming, did you? Well, you know why we're here."

"I'll be hanged if I do!"

"There's a pretty good show of your being hanged, anyway," remarked one of the Eastern officers, with grim jocularity.

The others laughed. He took a folded paper from his pocket.

"You don't deny you're Jim Farrar, do you? This here is a warrant for your arrest."

"I'm Jim Farrar, right enough; but there's a mistake somewhere. I've committed no crime."

"Well," commented the man with the warrant, who seemed to particularly relish his profession of man-hunting, "there's those who have queer ideas of what is again' the law. Now, I call murder a crime."

"Murder!" echoed Farrar.

"That's what I said, young man. Now listen a minute till I read this."

When it came to the line: "For the murder of Eustace Burges--" Farrar flung up his hands and fell back.

"Eustace Burges!" he cried. Has Eustace Burges been murdered?"

"There's good reason to think so. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"

"An acquaintance--not a friend. I met him when we were both coming West. I'd lit out from home for--for private reasons. I thought I'd try the trail instead of the train for a change. He had a team of horses, some cattle, and a prairie schooner. I fell in with him and we made the road together. He was going to take up a claim further west. I got stuck on his outfit and idea of farming. I bought his outfit from him. Then--"

"Then you sold his horses and wagon in St. Joe."

"True enough. I got sick of my bargain. It was a foolish one to make, but I acted on impulse--as I've always done. I bought a horse and came this far. I stopped to work here a spell--partly for the lark of the thing. But I got tired of it and was going to take a trip back home."

A trio of sarcastic laughs resounded.

"You'll take the trip back, all right. We're going to take you to the spot where you last saw Burges. We've found the ashes of your camp fire. There were some half-burned papers of his there. An old coat of his was lying alongside the trail. There's no need of more talk now; you'll get a chance to speak later. But I'd give a good deal to know just in what particular spot on those everlasting plains you've got him stowed away in. One can't dig a whole State up to find the body."

"Great God!" flared up Farrar, "you must be crazy! I never harmed the man. I tell you I came on west and he cut across to the Rock Island on foot."

"All right--all right. You don't mind letting us see that uncommon looking knife you've got?"

Farrar flashed hotly, but he pulled the knife from his pocket and handed it to the officer. The three men scrutinized the article. It was an unusually long, heavy-handled clasp knife, with a peculiar, bias-cut blade--the kind of knife that is furnished to seamen in the navy.

"Ah," commented the man who held it. 'E.B.' on the handle. You were rather rash to have displayed this when you were selling the horses and cattle."

"I bought that from Burges, too!" stormed Farrar.

The officer smiled sardonically. "I bet you paid him well," he remarked. "Come on, now. You were pretty well hidden in this lonely hole. If you'd had sense enough to have kept away from the county line we'd be whistling for you yet."

"No one knew me there--" he began. A thought flashed across his brain. "Except--"

There was the rustle of a gown, and a woman stood in the patch of light outlined by the casing of the door. "Mary Furstree!" he cried.

She came coolly forward.

"It wasn't only half the reward I cared for," she said. "You know what other reason I had for bearing you no good will, Jim Farrar."

But she turned her head aside to avoid meeting the contemptuous scorn of his eyes.

"I am ready," he said to the men, and went out into the night with them.

The case attracted a great deal of attention at the time. There were bitter legal wrangles as to the right of the authorities to try a man for murder when it could not be proven that the body of the supposed victim had been discovered. It was argued that Burges might not have been done away with, but had disappeared as hundreds of men disappear annually. But the fact of Farrar having sold the cattle and wagon of his fellow-traveler, of having been found with the knife of the man supposed to be murdered in his possession, and the retirement and isolation of the place where he was found, all told strongly against the prisoner.

When, on returning home, Elsie Miller heard that Farrar had been arrested for murder she broke down in passionate protestations of her belief in his innocence.

"A man who did such a thing as that," she cried, "would never care about bringing reason to a little child!" And she looked adoringly into the eyes from which the vacancy of expression was fast disappearing.

It was not until long after her return, though, that she heard all the circumstances connected with his arrest on a charge of murder, and the exact nature of the accusations which had been brought against him. She and her husband had been bidden to the tin wedding of a relative who lived some miles from their farm. They went, she proud and happy in the consciousness of her child's awakened intellect and his ability to speak a few sweet words, which held for her all the wisdom of the centuries--all fairest possibilities.

The feast was served at noon--the usual coarse but abundant meal of the Western farmer. Several women, among whom was Elsie, helping the hostess to wash up the dishes, fell to questioning Mrs. Miller about the man who had been arrested at her home. She answered quite frankly. She told them how he had procured for her child the one gift without which he had better be dead. And she, in her turn, asked questions.

"You think he ain't guilty, Mis' Miller," said one frank dame, "an' you've got good reason to stand by him, but things is plain against him. There ain't no doubt he killed that man he was traveling with, though he said as how he bought from him the horses and wagon he sold in St. Joe, and--why, for the land's sake, Mis' Miller!"

The young woman had flung around with a sharp cry.

"He did!" she panted. "He did! The man told me so himself; the man who sold 'em! He ain't no more dead than I am!"

Some one carried her word to the men, and they came crowding into the kitchen, eager to hear her story. She stood up before them white and shaking. She spoke brokenly, but in the silence they heard every word.

"It was in the hospital where I took my baby. There was a man hurt in the next bed--a man who'd come to be treated for some hurt to his head. I got to talkin' to him one day. I told him how I happened to have brought the boy there--I told him who told me he might be cured, an' who paid fur the curin', too."

"'Jim Farrar,'" he said, slow like, "I knew Jim Farrar. He bought my team an' wagon when I made up my mind to go back East. I was goin' to take the train when some one hit me on the head. When I came to my money was gone, an' I was here. An' here I am' he says. 'But I'm gettin' better--I must be gettin' better, fur I remember Jim Farrar when you said his name, an' it seemed like I'd never remember anythin' again. Maybe, now,' he says, 'after awhile I'll remember my own name. I ain't got to that yet!'"

She paused. A voice broke the silence.

"Didn't any one there know who he was?"

"No, but I'll find out. I bet it's the one they though Farrar killed. I'm goin' straight there--even if he's gone the doctor may know where he is. You'll take me Burton--won't you? Yes--it'll cost some, I know. But think of what he's done fur him!" She snatched up her baby and held him aloft, her slender, girlish form tense with the physical strain, her pretty, thin young face white with wild entreaty. "You will, Burton--you will!"

He coughed once or twice and put his pipe in his pocket.

"I will, my girl!" he said.

And he did.

(Published in the Chicago Tribune, 14 May 1899, 42. Reprinted in The Nebraska of Kate McPhelim Cleary. Ed. James M. Cleary. Lake Bluff, Ill: United Educators, 1958: pp. 135-149.)