Ichabod came to the rescue.
“I called to learn how one goes at it to take a claim,” he explained. “The modus operandi isn’t exactly clear in my mind.”
The agent braced up in his chair.
“I suppose you’ll say it’s none of my business,” he commented, “but as a speculation you’d do a lot better to buy up the claims of poor cusses who have to relinquish, than to settle yourself.”
“I’m not speculating. I expect to build a house, and live here.”
“As a friend, then, let me tell you you’ll never stand it.” A stubby thumb made motion up the narrow street. “You see this town. I won’t say what it is––you realize for yourself; but bad as it is, it’s advanced civilization alongside of the country. You’ll have to go ten miles out to get any land that’s not taken.” He 138 stopped and lit his pipe. “Do you know what it means to live alone ten miles out on the prairie?”
“I’ve never lived in the country.”
“I’ll tell you, then, what it means.” He put down his pipe and looked out at the open door. His face changed; became softer, milder, younger. His voice, when he spoke, added to the impression of reminiscence, bearing an almost forgotten tone of years ago.
“The prairie!” he apostrophized. “It means the loneliest place on God’s earth. It means that living there, in life you bury yourself, your hopes, your ambitions. It means you work ever to forget the past––and fail. It means self, always; morning, noon, night; until the very solitude becomes an incubus. It means that in time you die, or, from being a man, become as the cattle.” The speaker turned for the first time to the tall man before him, his big blue eyes wide open and round, his voice an entreaty.
“Don’t move into it, man. It’s death and worse than death to such as you! You’re too old to begin. One must be born to the life; 139 must never have known another. Don’t do it, I say.”