The dog had been let out and after a dance of excitement he settled down to a steady quartering of the field, forth and back, forth and back, his nose down.

“Pete Rustad owns this farm, and he told me he saw a small covey of chickens in the west forty, last week.  Maybe we’ll get some sport after all,” Kennicott chuckled blissfully.

She watched the dog in suspense, breathing quickly every time he seemed to halt.  She had no desire to slaughter birds, but she did desire to belong to Kennicott’s world.

The dog stopped, on the point, a forepaw held up.

“By golly!  He’s hit a scent!  Come on!” squealed Kennicott.  He leaped from the buggy, twisted the reins about the whip-socket, swung her out, caught up his gun, slipped in two shells, stalked toward the rigid dog, Carol pattering after him.  The setter crawled ahead, his tail quivering, his belly close to the stubble.  Carol was nervous.  She expected clouds of large birds to fly up instantly.  Her eyes were strained with staring.  But they followed the dog for a quarter of a mile, turning, doubling, crossing two low hills, kicking through a swale of weeds, crawling between the strands of a barbed-wire fence.  The walking was hard on her pavement-trained feet.  The earth was lumpy, the stubble prickly and lined with grass, thistles, abortive stumps of clover.  She dragged and floundered.

She heard Kennicott gasp, “Look!” Three gray birds were starting up from the stubble.  They were round, dumpy, like enormous bumble bees.  Kennicott was sighting, moving the barrel.  She was agitated.  Why didn’t he fire?  The birds would be gone!  Then a crash, another, and two birds turned somersaults in the air, plumped down.

When he showed her the birds she had no sensation of blood.  These heaps of feathers were so soft and unbruised—­there was about them no hint of death.  She watched her conquering man tuck them into his inside pocket, and trudged with him back to the buggy.

They found no more prairie chickens that morning.

At noon they drove into her first farmyard, a private village, a white house with no porches save a low and quite dirty stoop at the back, a crimson barn with white trimmings, a glazed brick silo, an ex-carriage-shed, now the garage of a Ford, an unpainted cow-stable, a chicken-house, a pig-pen, a corn-crib, a granary, the galvanized-iron skeleton tower of a wind-mill.  The dooryard was of packed yellow clay, treeless, barren of grass, littered with rusty plowshares and wheels of discarded cultivators.  Hardened trampled mud, like lava, filled the pig-pen.  The doors of the house were grime-rubbed, the corners and eaves were rusted with rain, and the child who stared at them from the kitchen window was smeary-faced.  But beyond the barn was a clump of scarlet geraniums; the prairie breeze was sunshine in motion; the flashing metal blades of the windmill revolved with a lively hum; a horse neighed, a rooster crowed, martins flew in and out of the cow-stable.