The field of amber gold

by William Bigelow Neal

But the story went the round of the neighborhood that they had been offered neither pay nor thanks for their care, and from then on the name of Ironheart was used to the exclusion of any other. The name of Fred Kinear was nearly forgotten.

John Grahame stood in a pile of wheat up to his knees. He had exhausted every resource. The walls of the granary bulged until the nails were popping. His stock could not get into the barn because the doors were blocked with wheat, and now Jane had been driven from the house, and wheat was flowing from the windows in amber streams. In desperation he strove to extricate himself from the rapidly growing pile. It had reached his waist and was still climbing. He tried to shout, and threw a last frantic look around in search of help. Apparently he was doomed to die under a deluge of prosperity, for there was no one in sight. And then he saw something which brought to him a wave of consolation. From the rollway of his root cellar he saw feet protruding, feet that waved and threshed around in the wheat to no avail. He recognized them, pair by pair, as the feet of his creditors buried headfirst in their own collections. One pair he recognized as belonging to his grocery and dry goods merchant, and he felt a tinge of sorrow; another belonged to his banker, the man who had made him mortgage everything on the place, excepting only his wife and dog; this time his gaze was coldly critical. The third pair belonged to the hardware man who had sold Jane that incubator that wouldn’t incubate and the separator that wouldn’t separate, the man who had made him mortgage his milch cows to buy a binder; and again his gaze was unsympathetic. Lastly he spied a fourth pair, which belonged to a real-estate dealer, a man who had sold him one hundred and sixty acres of gumbo, and he positively gloated over the man’s predicament. But his joy was short-lived. The wheat had reached his chin. He put forth all the strength he had in him, in a last frantic effort. It was futile. Another rush of golden grain buried him ten feet beneath its suffocating bulk, and he could breathe no more. There were shooting stars and crimson fires and all the rest of that horrid crew, even to the ringing of bells, but the bells sounded muffled and far away, because the alarm clock was covered with a pillow. John Grahame sat up in bed. It was five o’clock.

The transition from nightmare to actuality did not bring the relief he had a right to expect. The room was cold, and a wind that spoke eloquently of further discomforts out of doors moaned along the eaves. A carefully shaded night lamp in another room cast an all-too-feeble ray through the open door, and by its ineffective light, Grahame sat on the edge of the bed and began to dress.

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.”