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WISCONSIN LITERARY MAGAZINE
Of the Soil
W        IND, rain, snow. Cold beating snow
)V         that stings and whistles. The figure
of a man bent double, forcing his
way across the white waste. He is carrying
something. It is bound with coarse ropes and
matting. Heavy and solid it is, and the man
pauses to shift its weight.
Can this be a path he is following, this
drifted, boundless tract of frozen clods? Oh,
ay, 'tis no man's fool is Obed Marcosson. He
marches steadily with the slow tramp of a man
who knows his way and follows it unthinking
and animal-like. Lost? Hah! Far worse storms
than this has Obed pushed his way through
down those long miles to the village.
Obed is happy. He is thinking of Trotya.
How happy she will be to get these wonderful
things he is bringing her. True, he had not
meant to buy so many, but that young Sven
Aaberg! Oh he was a handy fellow to make
you buy what you ought not! Ptro! What
difference did it make? A fine year it had
been. No, he, Obed, could not complain.
Seven new calves and four lambs, ay, more in
the spring, too. Never had there been such a
fine stand of corn. And such hay! At this
rate he could buy another horse next fall,
maybe summer. Oh, 'twas a fine world, all
right, all right.
His face clouds a little. But there is Trotya,
too. Already they have Olaf and Trondert
and Gotsine, and now another. March it
would be, nay, sooner nor that. He shrugs
his shoulders. God is good. He can say
naught. He needs to add a wing to the house.
Ay, he had felt it a long time. Two rooms,
maybe, was all right for four, but six-no!
He would fell the timber this winter.
The box grows heavier. No boy's load is
this. Two men it had taken to lift it up to
his back down at the village. How proud
Obed had been to show them his strength,
what with the Lensmand and others to stand
about and see him. Heavy? "Hah! 'Tis
nothing!" he had said, and the Lensmand had
nodded approvingly.
But Obed had forgotten about the storm.
He had known it was coming. Had not the
sheep all stayed close about the hut that morning
instead of going out to pasture? But the stars
had shone out fair and clear when he had led
the young bull out of the shed and started
down the track to the village. Trotya had
gotten up and prepared a packet of food. Ay,
he ate like two men, did this Obed. And why
not? Did he not do the work of two men?
The rain had driven into his face like drops
of scalding water. 'Twas nothing, Obed had
told himself. A bit of a squall. 'Twould
soon be over with. But the rain had turned to
snow-the first of the season. Big splashing
flakes they had been at first. Then they had
changed, changed to small dry particles that
bit and stung, stung like needle points. Like
bits of hot sand they were, like grains of fine
gravel that came swishing out of the north at
the front of the devil's own wind.
Ah, that wind! 'Twould not have been so
bad had it been from the side, but no. Straight
into the teeth of it, right into the heart of it
Obed had been forced to make his way. His
way lay north, and out of the maw of the north
had come the gale. A gale that had grown
faster and louder and stronger as it swept
down over the moors; a gale that had grown
crueler and more vicious with each barren
mile. And into the teeth of it tramped Obed.
Ay, there was no other way. His path lay
north.
'Tis getting colder now. Obed is glad he
brought his mittens. Ay, crude they are, just
a bit of cowhide stitched together with a wisp
of hay inside, but they serve well. The snow
is drifting rapidly. Everything is white now.
Eyuk! Eyuk! Eyuk! go his boots. Raw cow-
hide they are, and frozen like the ground. He
bends his head still lower.
There is a light over to his left. That will
be Rolan Bergson's place. A bit of a stop,
perhaps? A drop of coffee at Rolan's? 'Twill
be wondrous warm at Rolan's, and smell nice
of the dung packed 'round the outside. But
no! He cannot afford to stop. There are
miles to be covered yet. Still, this would be
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