Lieders's eyes grew dull; he flung his arms out, with a long sigh.
"No, I don't forget, I will keep my promise, but--it is
like the handcuffs, Thekla, it is like the handcuffs!"
In a second, however, he added, in a changed tone,
"But thou art a kind jailer, mamma, more like a comrade.
And no, it was not fair to thee--I know that now, Thekla."


THE FACE OF FAILURE

AFTER the week's shower the low Iowa hills looked vividly green.
At the base of the first range of hills the Blackhawk road
winds from the city to the prairie. From its starting-point,
just outside the city limits, the wayfarer may catch bird's-eye
glimpses of the city, the vast river that the Iowans love,
and the three bridges tying three towns to the island arsenal.
But at one's elbow spreads Cavendish's melon farm. Cavendish's melon
farm it still is, in current phrase, although Cavendish,
whose memory is honored by lovers of the cantaloupe melon,
long ago departed to raise melons for larger markets; and still
a weather-beaten sign creaks from a post announcing to the world
that "the celebrated Cavendish Melons are for Sale here!"
To-day the melon-vines were softly shaded by rain-drops. A pleasant
sight they made, spreading for acres in front of the green-houses
where mushrooms and early vegetables strove to outwit the seasons,
and before the brown cottage in which Cavendish had begun
a successful career. The black roof-tree of the cottage sagged
in the middle, and the weather-boarding was dingy with the
streaky dinginess of old paint that has never had enough oil.
The fences, too, were unpainted and rudely patched.