On the Divide


Near Rattlesnake Creek, on the side of a little draw stood
Canute's shanty. North, east, south, stretched the level
Nebraska plain of long rust-red grass that undulated constantly
in the wind. To the west the ground was broken and rough, and a
narrow strip of timber wound along the turbid, muddy little
stream that had scarcely ambition enough to crawl over its black
bottom. If it had not been for the few stunted cottonwoods and
elms that grew along its banks, Canute would have shot himself
years ago. The Norwegians are a timber-loving people, and if
there is even a turtle pond with a few plum bushes around it they
seem irresistibly drawn toward it.

As to the shanty itself, Canute had built it without aid of
any kind, for when he first squatted along the banks of
Rattlesnake Creek there was not a human being within twenty
miles. It was built of logs split in halves, the chinks stopped
with mud and plaster. The roof was covered with earth and was
supported by one gigantic beam curved in the shape of a round
arch. It was almost impossible that any tree had ever grown in
that shape. The Norwegians used to say that Canute had taken the
log across his knee and bent it into the shape he wished. There
were two rooms, or rather there was one room with a partition
made of ash saplings interwoven and bound together like big straw
basket work. In one corner there was a cook stove, rusted and
broken. In the other a bed made of unplaned planks and poles. it