realize it sadly as I step out of the road to allow a
yellow milk wagon to rattle past. The red letters on the
yellow milk cart inform the reader that it is the
property of August Schimmelpfennig, of Hickory Grove.
The Schimmelpfennig eye may be seen staring down upon me
from the bit of glass in the rear as the cart rattles
ahead, doubtless being suspicious of hatless
young women wandering along country roads at dusk, alone.
There was that in the staring eye to which I took
exception. It wore an expression which made me feel sure
that the mouth below it was all a-grin, if I could but
have seen it. It was bad enough to be stared at by the
fishy Schimmelpfennig eye, but to be grinned at by the
Schimmelpfennig mouth!--I resented it. In order to show
my resentment I turned my back on the Schimmelpfennig
cart and pretended to look up the road which I had just
traveled.

I pretended to look up the road, and then I did look
in earnest. No wonder the Schimmelpfennig eye and mouth
had worn the leering expression. The blond god in gray
tweed was swinging along toward me! I knew that he was
blond because he wore no hat and the last rays of the
October sun were making a little halo effect about his
head. I knew that his-gray clothes were tweed because
every well regulated hero on a country road wears tweed.
It's almost a religion with them. He was not near enough
to make a glance at his features possible. I turned
around and continued my walk. The yellow cart, with its
impudent Schimmelpfennig leer, was disappearing in a