n 
American Agriculturist, August 4,1923 
The Brown 
Mouse — By Herbert Quick 
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<< ‘Y7t7’HAT time’s the election, Ez?” asked Mrs. Bronson at breakfast. 
VV “I’m going at four o’clock,” said Ezra. “And I don’t want to hear 
any more from any one”—looking at Newton—“about the election. Its none of 
the business of the women an’ boys.” 
Newton took this reproof in an unexpectedly submissive spirit. In fact, he 
exhibited his very best side to the family that morning, like one going on a long 
journey, or about to be married off, or engaged in some deep dark plot. 
“I s’pose you’re off trampin’ the slews at the sight of a flock of ducks four 
miles off as usual?” stated Mr, Bronson challengingly. 
“I thought,” said Newton, “that I’d get a lot of raisin bait ready for the 
pocket-gophers in the lower meadow. They’ll be throwing up their mounds 
by the first of April.” 
“Not them,” said Mr. Bronson, somewhat mollified, “not before May. Where’d 
you get the raisin idee?” 
“We learned it in school,” answered Newton. “Jim had me study a bulletin 
on the control and eradication of pocket-gophers. You use raisins with strychnine 
in ’em—and it tells how. 
“Some fool notion, I s’pose,’ said Mr. Bronson, rising. “But go ahead if you’re 
careful about handlin’ the strychnine.” 
Newton spent the time from twelve- 
thirty to half after two in watching 
the clock; and twenty minutes to three 
found him seated in the woodshed with 
a pen-knife in his hand, a small vial 
of strychnine crystals on a stand be¬ 
fore him, a saucer of raisins at his 
right hand, and one exactly like it, 
partially filled with gopher bait—by 
which is meant raisins under the skin 
of each of which a minute crystal of 
strychnine had been inserted on the 
point of the knife. 
At thi'ee-thirty, Newton went into 
the house and lay down on the horse¬ 
hair sofa, saying to his mother that he 
felt kind o’ funny and thought he’d lie 
down a while. 
At three-forty he heard his father’s 
voice in the kitchen and knew that his 
sire was preparing to start for the 
scene of battle. 
A groan issued from Newton’s lips— 
a gruesome groan. But his father’s 
voice from the kitchen door betrayed 
no agitation. 
“What’s the matter?” 
It was Newton’s little sister who 
asked the question, evincing apprecia¬ 
tion of Newton’s efforts. Even though 
regarded as a pure matter of make- 
believe, such sounds were terrible. 
“Oh, sister, sister!” howled Newton, 
“run and tell ’em that brother’s dying!” 
Fanny went rather slowly to the 
kitchen door, and casually remarked 
that Newton was dying on the sofa in 
the sitting-room. 
“You little fraud!” said her father. 
“Why, Fanny!” said her mother— 
and ran into the sitting-room—whence 
in a moment, with a cry that was al¬ 
most a scream, she summoned her hus¬ 
band, who responded at the top of his 
speed. 
N EWTON was groaning and in con¬ 
vulsions. Horrible grimaces con¬ 
torted his face, his jaws were set, his 
arms and legs drawn up, and his mus- 
clGS tGTlSG. 
“What’s the matter?” His father’s 
voice was stern as well as full of 
anxiety. “What’s the matter, boy?” 
“Oh!” cried Newton. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” 
“Newtie, Newtie!” cried his mother, 
“where are you in pain? Tell mother, 
Newtie!” 
“Oh,” groaned Newtie, relaxing, “I 
feel awful!” 
_ “What you been eating?” interrogated 
his father. 
“Nothing,” replied Newton. 
“I saw you eatin’ dinner,” said his 
father. 
Again Newton was convulsed by 
strong spasms, and again his groans 
filled the hearts of his parents with 
terror. 
“That’s all I’ve eaten,” said he, when 
his spasms had passed, “except a few 
raisins. I was putting strychnine in 
’em—” 
“Oh, heavens!” cried his mother. 
“He’s poisoned! Drive for the doctor. 
Ezra! Drive!” 
Mr. Bronson forgot all about the 
election—forgot everything save anti¬ 
dotes and speed. He leaped toward the 
door. As he passed out, he shouted 
“Give him an emetic!” He tore the 
hitching straps from the posts, jumped 
into the buggy and headed for the 
road. Skilfully avoiding an overturn 
as he rounded into the highway, he 
gave the spirited horses their heads, 
and fled toward town. Just at the 
town limits, he met the doctor in 
Sheriff Dilly’s automobile. Mr. Bronson 
signaled them to stop, ignoring the 
fact that they were making similar 
signs to him. 
“We’re just starting for your place,” 
said the doctor. “Your wife got me 
on the phone.” 
“Thank God!” replied Bronson. 
“Don’t fool any time away on me. 
Drive!” 
“Get in here, Ez,” said the sheriff. 
“Doc knows how to drive, and I’ll come 
on. with your team. They need a slow 
drive to cool ’em off.” 
“Why didn’t you phone me?” asked 
the doctor. 
“Never thought of it,” replied Bron¬ 
son. “I hain’t had the phone only a 
few years. Drive faster!” 
“I want to get there, or I would,” 
answered the doctor. “Don’t worry. 
From what your wife told me over 
the phone I don’t believe the boy’s 
eaten any more strychnine than I have 
—and probably not so much.” 
“He was alive, then?” 
“Alive and making an argument 
against taking the emetic,” replied the 
doctor. “But I guess she got it down 
him.” 
“I’d hate to lose that boy, Doc!” 
“I don’t believe there’s any danger. 
It doesn’t sound like a genuine poison¬ 
ing case to me.” 
T HUS reassured, Mr. Bronson was 
calm, even if somewhat tragic in 
calmness, when he entered the death 
chamber with the doctor. Newton was 
sitting up, his eyes wet, and his face 
pale. His mother had won the argu¬ 
ment, and Newton had lost his dinner. 
Haakon Peterson occupied an armchair. 
“What’s all this?” asked the doctor. 
“How you feeling. Newt? Any pain?” 
“I’m all right,” said Newton. “Don’t 
give me any more o’ that nasty stuff!” 
“No,” said the doctor, “but if you 
don’t tell me just what you’ve been eat¬ 
ing, and doing, and pulling off on us, 
I’ll use this”—and the doctor exhibited 
a huge stomach pump. 
“What’ll you do with that?” asked 
Newton faintly. 
“I’ll put this down into your hold, 
and unload you, that’s what Til do.” 
“Is the election over, Mr. Peterson?” 
asked Newton. 
“Yes,” answered Mr. Peterson, “and 
the wotes counted.” 
“Who’s elected?” asked Newton. 
“Colonel Woodruff,” answered Mr. 
Peterson. “The wote was twelve to 
eleven.” 
“Well, dad,” said Newton, “I s’pose 
you’ll be sore, but the only way I could 
see to get in half a vote for Colonel 
Woodruff was to get poisoned and send 
you after the doctor. If you’d gone, 
it would ’a’ been a tie, anyhow, and 
probably you’d ’a’ persuaded somebody 
to change to Bonner. That’s what’s the 
matter with me. I killed your vote. 
Now, you can do whatever you like to 
m §—but I’m sorry I scared mother.” 
Ezra Bronson seized Newton by the 
throat, but his fingers failed to close. 
“Don’t pinch, dad,” said Newton. “I’ve 
been using that neck an’ it’s tired.” 
Mr. Bronson dropped his hands to his 
sides, glared at his son for a moment 
and breathed a sigh of relief. 
“Why, you darned infernal little 
fool,” said he. “I’ve a notion to take 
a hamestrap to you! If I’d been there 
the vote would have been eleven to 
thirteen!” 
“There was plenty wotes there for 
the colonel, if he needed ’em,” said 
Haakon, whose politician’s mind was 
already fully adjusted to the changed 
conditions. “Ay tank the Woodruff 
District will have a junanimous school 
board from dis time on once more. 
Colonel Woodruff is yust the man we 
have needed.” 
“I’m with you there,” said Bronson. 
“And as for you, young man, if one or 
both of them horses is hurt by the run 
I give them, I’ll lick you within an inch 
of your life—Here comes Dilly driving 
’em in now—I guess they’re all right. 
I wouldn’t want to drive a good team 
to death for any young hoodlum like 
him—All right, how much do I owe you. 
Doc?” 
CHAPTER XVI 
THE GLORIOUS FOURTH 
A GOOD deal of water ran under the 
Woodruff District bridges in the 
weeks between the school election and 
the Fourth of July picnic at Eight- 
Mile Grove. They were very important 
weeks to Jim Irwin, though outwardly 
uneventful. 
Spring, for instance, brought a sort 
of spiritual crisis to Jim; for he had to 
face the accusing glance of the fields 
as they were plowed and sown while 
he lived indoors. It seemed that there 
must be something almost wicked in 
his failure to be afield with his team in 
the early spring mornings. 
A moral crisis accompanies the pass¬ 
ing of a man from the struggle with 
the soil to any occupation, the produc¬ 
tiveness of which is not quite so clear. 
It requires a keenly sensitive nature to 
feel conscious of it, but Jim Irwin pos¬ 
sessed such a temperament; and the 
gawky schoolmaster slept uneasily, and 
heard the earliest cock-crow as a 
soldier hears a call to arms to which 
he has made up his mind he will not 
respond. 
I believe that this deep instinct for 
labor in and about the soil is a valid 
one, and that the gathering together 
of people in cities has been at the cost 
of an obscure but actual moral shock. 
I doubt if the people of the cities can 
ever be at rest in a future full of moral 
searchings of conscience until every 
man has traced definitely the connec¬ 
tion of the work he is doing with the 
maintenance of his country’s popula¬ 
tion. Sometimes those vocations whose 
connection can not be so traced will 
be recognized as wicked ones, and 
people engaged in them will feel as did 
Jim—until he worked out the facts in 
the relation of school-teaching to the 
feeding, clothing and sheltering of the 
world. 
These are some of the waters that 
ran under the. bridges before the Fourth 
of July picnic. Few surface indica¬ 
tions there were of any change in the 
little community in this annual gather¬ 
ing of friends and neighbors. Wilbur 
Smythe was in rather finer fettle than 
usual as he paid his fervid tribute to 
the starry flag, and to this very place 
as the most favored spot in the best 
country of the greatest state in the 
most powerful, intellectual, freest and 
most progressive nation in the best 
possible of worlds. Jim Irwin read the 
Declaration rather well, Jennie Wood¬ 
ruff thought, as she sat on the plat¬ 
form between Deacon Avery, the oldest 
settler in the district, and Mrs. Colum¬ 
bus Brown, the sole local representative 
of the Daughters of the American Revo¬ 
lution. Colonel Woodruff presided in 
his Grand Army of the Republic uni¬ 
form. 
T HE fresh northwest breeze made 
free with the oakes, elms, hickories 
and box-elders of Eight-Mile, Grove, 
and the waters of Pickerel Creek glim¬ 
mered a hundred yards away, beyond 
the flitting figures of the boys who 
preferred to shoot off their own fire¬ 
crackers and torpedoes and nigger- 
chasers, rather than to listen to those 
of Wilbur Smythe. Still farther off 
could be heard the voice of a lone lem¬ 
onade vender, guaranteeing “the cold¬ 
est lemonade ever sold.” And under the 
shadiest trees a few incorrible Marthas 
were spreading the snowy tablecloths on 
which would soon be placed the boun¬ 
tiful repasts stored in ponderous wicker 
baskets and hampers. 
They were passing down from the 
platform after the exercises had termi¬ 
nated in a rousing rendition of America, 
■jvhen Jennie Woodruff tapped Jim Ir¬ 
win on the arm. He looked back at 
her with his slow gentle smile. 
“Isn’t your mother here, Jim?” she 
asked. “I’ve been looking all over the 
crowd and can’t see her.” 
“She isn’t here,” answered Jim. “I 
was in hopes that when she broke loose 
and went to your Christmas dinner 
she would stay loose—but she went 
home and settled back into her rut.” 
“Too bad,”, said Jennie. “She’d have 
had a nice time if she had come.” 
“Yes,” said Jim, “I believe she 
would.” 
“I want help,” said Jennie. “Our 
hamper is terribly heavy. Please!” 
It was rather obvious to Mrs. Bon¬ 
ner that Jennie was throwing herself 
at Jim’s head; but that was an article 
of the Bonner family creed since the 
decision which closed the hearing at 
the court-house. He carried the hamper, 
helped Jennie to spread the cloth on 
the grass, went with her to the well 
for water and cracked ice wherewith 
to cool it. In fact, he quite cut Wilbur 
Smythe out when that gentleman made 
ponderous efforts to obtain a share of 
the favor implied in these permissions. 
“Sit down, Jim,” said Mrs. Wood¬ 
ruff, “you’ve earned a bite of what we’ve 
got.” 
“I'm sorry,” said Jim, “but I’ve a 
prior engagement.” 
“Why, Jim!” protested Jennie. 
“I’ve been counting on you. Don’t 
desert me!” 
“T’M awfully sorry, said Jim, “but 
JL I promised. I’ll see you later.” 
One might have thought, judging by 
the colonel’s quizzical smile, that he 
was pleased at Jennie’s loss of her 
former swain. 
“We’ll have to invite Jim longer 
ahead of time,” said he. “He’s getting 
to be in demand.” 
He seemed to be in demand—a fact 
that Jennie confirmed by observation 
as she chatted with Deacon Avery, 
Mrs. Columbus Brown and her hus¬ 
band, and the Orator of the Day, at 
the table set apart for the guests and 
notables. Jim received a dozen invita¬ 
tions as he passed the groups seated 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED 
"MEWTOlf BRONSON is up to 
^ some deviltry. 
Not so long ago, before Jim 
Irwin took charge of the Dis¬ 
trict School, this was not so sur¬ 
prising. But with other pupils, 
Newton has discovered education 
to be a fascinating occupation, 
rather than a bore. His family, 
indeed, cannot help being friend¬ 
ly to reformer Jim, though Mr. 
Bronson stands with the school 
board, who plan to fire Jim as 
soon as possible. 
Newton takes it hard. Colonel 
Woodruff a friend of Jim’s, sud¬ 
denly agrees to run against Bon¬ 
ner,. Jim’s worst enemy. All the 
pupils echo Newton’s wish that 
he could vote and settle what 
promises to be a close election. 
on the grass—one of them from Mrs. 
Cornelius Bonner, who saw no particu¬ 
lar point in advertising disgruntle- 
ment. The children ran to him and 
clung to his hands; young girls gave 
him sisterly smiles and such trifles 
as chicken drumsticks, pieces of cake 
and like tidbits. His passage to the 
numerous groups at a square table un¬ 
der a big burr-oak was quite an ova¬ 
tion—an ovation of the significance of 
which he was himself quite unaware. 
The people were just friendly, that 
was all—to his mind. 
_ But Jennie—the daughter of a poli¬ 
tician and a promising one herself— 
Jennie sensed the fact that Jim Irwin 
had won something from the people of 
the Woodruff District in the way of 
deference. He had begun to put on 
something more significant than clothes, 
something which he had possessed all 
the time, but which became valid only 
as it was publicly apprehended. He 
was clearly the central figure of his 
group, in which she recognized the 
{Continued on page 80) 
