One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

a defiant glance at the courtroom. “You may take my property and imprison me, but I explain nothing, and I take back nothing,” he declared in a loud voice.

The judge regarded his inkwell with a smile. “You mistake the nature of this occasion, Mr. Oberlies. You are not asked to recant. You are merely asked to desist from further disloyal utterances, as much for your own protection and comfort as from consideration for the feelings of your neighbours. I will now hear the charges against Mr. Yoeder.”

Mr. Yoeder, a witness declared, had said he hoped the United States would go to Hell, now that it had been bought over by England. When the witness had remarked to him that if the Kaiser were shot it would end the war, Yoeder replied that charity begins at home, and he wished somebody would put a bullet in the President.

When he was called upon, Yoeder rose and stood like a rock before the judge. “I have nothing to say. The charges are true. I thought this was a country where a man could speak his mind.”

“Yes, a man can speak his mind, but even here he must take the consequences. Sit down, please.” The judge leaned back in his chair, and looking at the two men in front of him, began with deliberation: “Mr. Oberlies, and Mr. Yoeder, you both know, and your friends and neighbours know, why you are here. You have not recognized the element of appropriateness, which must be regarded in nearly all the transactions of life; many of our civil laws are founded upon it. You have allowed a sentiment, noble in itself, to carry you away and lead you to make extravagant statements which I am confident neither of you mean. No man can demand that you cease from loving the country of your birth; but while you enjoy the benefits of this country, you should not defame its government to extol another. You both admit to utterances which I can only adjudge disloyal. I shall fine you each three hundred dollars; a very light fine under the circumstances. If I should have occasion to fix a penalty a second time, it will be much more severe.”

After the case was concluded, Mr. Wheeler joined his neighbour at the door and they went downstairs together.

“Well, what do you hear from Claude?” Mr. Yoeder asked.

“He’s still at Fort R⁠⸺. He expects to get home on leave before he sails. Gus, you’ll have to lend me one of your boys to cultivate my corn. The weeds are getting away from me.”

“Yes, you can have any of my boys⁠—till the draft gets ’em,” said Yoeder sourly.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. A little military training is good for a boy. You fellows know that.” Mr. Wheeler winked, and Yoeder’s grim mouth twitched at one corner.

That evening at supper Mr. Wheeler gave his wife a full account of the court hearing, so that she could write it to Claude. Mrs. Wheeler, always more a schoolteacher than a housekeeper, wrote a rapid, easy hand, and her long letters to Claude reported all the neighbourhood doings. Mr. Wheeler furnished much of the material for them. Like many long-married men he had fallen into the way of withholding neighbourhood news from his wife. But since Claude went away he reported to her everything in which he thought the boy would be interested. As she laconically said in one of her letters:

“Your father talks a great deal more at home than formerly, and sometimes I think he is trying to take your place.”

X

On the first day of July Claude Wheeler found himself in the fast train from Omaha, going home for a week’s leave. The uniform was still an unfamiliar sight in July, 1917. The first draft was not yet called, and the boys who had rushed off and enlisted were in training camps far away. Therefore a redheaded young man with long straight legs in puttees, and broad, energetic, responsible-looking shoulders in close-fitting khaki, made a conspicuous figure among the passengers. Little boys and young girls peered at him over the tops of seats, men stopped in the aisle to talk to him, old ladies put on their glasses and studied his clothes, his bulky canvas holdall, and even the book he kept opening and forgetting to read.

The country that rushed by him on each side of the track was more interesting to his trained eye than the pages of any book. He was glad to be going through it at harvest⁠—the season when it is most itself. He noted that there was more corn than usual⁠—much of the winter wheat had been weather killed, and the fields were ploughed up in the spring and replanted in maize. The pastures were already burned brown, the alfalfa was coming green again after its first cutting. Binders and harvesters were abroad in the wheat and oats, gathering the soft-breathing billows of grain into wide, subduing arms. When the train slowed down for a trestle in a wheat field, harvesters in blue shirts and overalls and wide straw hats stopped working to wave at the passengers. Claude turned to the old man in the opposite seat. “When I see those fellows, I feel as if I’d wakened up in the wrong clothes.”

His neighbour looked pleased and smiled. “That the kind of uniform you’re accustomed to?”

“I surely never wore anything else in the month of July,” Claude admitted. “When I find myself riding along in a train, in the middle of harvest, trying to learn French verbs, then I know the world is turned upside down, for a fact!”

The old man pressed a cigar upon him and began to question him. Like the hero of the Odyssey upon his homeward journey, Claude had often to tell what his country was, and who were the parents that begot him. He was constantly interrupted in his perusal of a French phrase-book (made up of sentences chosen for their usefulness to soldiers⁠—such as; “Non, jamais je ne regarde les