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Emil had been watching his sister, his face
reflecting the sufferings of the cow. "And then
didn't it hurt her any more?" he asked.
Alexandra patted him. "No, not any more.
And in two days they could use her milk
again."
The road to Ivar's homestead was a very poor
one. He had settled in the rough country across
the county line, where no one lived but some
Russians,--half a dozen families who dwelt
together in one long house, divided off like
barracks. Ivar had explained his choice by
saying that the fewer neighbors he had, the
fewer temptations. Nevertheless, when one
considered that his chief business was horse-doctoring,
it seemed rather short-sighted of
him to live in the most inaccessible place he
could find. The Bergson wagon lurched along
over the rough hummocks and grass banks, followed
the bottom of winding draws, or skirted
the margin of wide lagoons, where the golden
coreopsis grew up out of the clear water and
the wild ducks rose with a whirr of wings.
Lou looked after them helplessly. "I wish
I'd brought my gun, anyway, Alexandra," he
said fretfully. "I could have hidden it under
the straw in the bottom of the wagon."
"Then we'd have had to lie to Ivar. Besides,
they say he can smell dead birds. And if he
knew, we wouldn't get anything out of him,
not even a hammock. I want to talk to him,
and he won't talk sense if he's angry. It makes
him foolish."
Lou sniffed. "Whoever heard of him talking
sense, anyhow! I'd rather have ducks for supper
than Crazy Ivar's tongue."
Emil was alarmed. "Oh, but, Lou, you don't
want to make him mad! He might howl!"
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