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and substance are the same。
Ben Westerveld didn't know he was a tragedy。 Your farmer is not
given to introspection。 For that matter； anyone knows that a farmer in
town is a comedy。 Vaudeville； burlesque； the Sunday supplement； the
comic papers； have marked him a fair target for ridicule。 Perhaps one
should know him in his overalled； stubble…bearded days； with the rich
black loam of the Mississippi bottomlands clinging to his boots。
At twenty…five； given a tasseled cap； doublet and hose； and a long；
slim pipe； Ben Westerveld would have been the prototype of one of those
rollicking； lusty young mynheers that laugh out at you from a Frans Hals
canvas。 A roguish fellow with a merry eye； red…cheeked； vigorous。 A
serious mouth； though； and great sweetness of expression。 As he grew
older； the seriousness crept up and up and almost entirely obliterated the
roguishness。 By the time the life of ease claimed him； even the ghost of
that ruddy wight of boyhood had vanished。
The Westerveld ancestry was as Dutch as the name。 It had been
hundreds of years since the first Westervelds came to America； and they
had married and intermarried until the original Holland strain had almost
entirely disappeared。 They had drifted to southern Illinois by one of
those slow processes of migration and had settled in Calhoun County； then
almost a wilderness； but magnificent with its rolling hills； majestic rivers；
and gold…and…purple distances。 But to the practical Westerveld mind；
hills and rivers and purple haze existed only in their relation to crops and
weather。 Ben； though； had a way of turning his face up to the sky
sometimes； and it was not to scan the heavens for clouds。 You saw him
leaning on the plow handle to watch the whirring flight of a partridge
across the meadow。 He liked farming。 Even the drudgery of it never
made him grumble。 He was a natural farmer as men are natural
mechanics or musicians or salesmen。 Things grew for him。 He seemed
instinctively to know facts about the kin ship of soil and seed that other
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men had to learn from books or experience。 It grew to be a saying in that
section that 〃Ben Westerveld could grow a crop on rock。〃
At picnics and neighborhood frolics Ben could throw farther and run
faster and pull harder than any of the other farmer boys who took part in
the rough games。 And he could pick up a girl with one hand and hold her
at arm's length while she shrieked with pretended fear and real ecstasy。
The girls all liked Ben。 There was that almost primitive strength which
appealed to the untamed in them as his gentleness appealed to their softer
side。 He liked the girls； too； and could have had his pick of them。 He
teased them all； took them buggy riding； beaued them about to neighbor…
hood parties。 But by the time he was twenty…five the thing had narrowed
down to the Byers girl on the farm adjoining Westerveld's。 There was
what the neighbors called an understanding； though perhaps he had never
actually asked the Byers girl to marry him。 You saw him going down the
road toward the Byers place four nights out of the seven。 He had a quick；
light step at variance with his sturdy build； and very different from the
heavy； slouching gait of the work…weary farmer。 He had a habit of
carrying in his hand a little twig or switch cut from a tree。 This he would
twirl blithely as he walked along。 The switch and the twirl represented
just so much energy and animal spirits。 He never so much as flicked a
dandelion head with it。
An inarticulate sort of thing； that courtship。
〃Hello； Emma。〃
〃How do； Ben。〃
〃Thought you might like to walk a piece down the road。 They got a
calf at Aug Tietjens' with five legs。〃
〃I heard。 I'd just as lief walk a little piece。 I'm kind of beat； though。
We've got the threshers day after tomorrow。 We've been cooking up。〃
Beneath Ben's bonhomie and roguishness there was much shyness。
The two would plod along the road together in a sort of blissful agony of
embarrassment。 The neighbors were right in their surmise that there was
no definite understanding between them。 But the thing was settled in the
minds of both。 Once Ben had said： 〃Pop says I can have the north
eighty on easy payments ifwhen〃
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Emma Byers had flushed up brightly； but had answered equably：
〃That's a fine piece。 Your pop is an awful good man。〃
The stolid exteriors of these two hid much that was fine and forceful。
Emma Byers' thoughtful forehead and intelligent eyes would have
revealed that in her。 Her mother was dead。 She kept house for her
father and brother。 She was known as 〃that smart Byers girl。〃 Her
butter and eggs and garden stuff brought higher prices at Commercial；
twelve miles away； than did any other's in the district。 She was not a
pretty girl； according to the local standards； but there was about her； even
at twenty…two； a clear… headedness and a restful serenity that promised
well for Ben Westerveld's future happiness。
But Ben Westerveld's future was not to lie in Emma Byers' capable
hands。 He knew that as soon as he saw Bella Huckins。 Bella Huckins
was the daughter of old 〃Red Front〃 Huckins； who ran the saloon of that
cheerful name in Commercial。 Bella had elected to teach school； not
from any bent toward learning but because teaching appealed to her as
being a rather elegant occupation。 The Huckins family was not elegant。
In that day a year or two of teaching in a country school took the place of
the present…day normal…school diploma。 Bella had an eye on St。 Louis；
forty miles from the town of Commercial。 So she used the country
school as a step toward her ult