He came at last to a field of corn that tan to the very wall of a large
weather-beaten house, the sight of which made his breathing
quicker. It was the place where he was born. The mystery of his
life began there. In the branches of those poplar and hickory trees
he had swung and sung in the rushing breeze, fearless as a squirrel
Here was the brook where, like a larger Kildee, he with Grant had
waded after crawfish, or had stolen upon some wary trout,
rough-cut pole in hand.
Seeing someone in the garden, he went down along the corn row
through the rustling ranks of green leaves. An old woman was
picking berries, a squat and shapeless figure.
"Good morning," he called cheerily.
"Morgen," she said, looklng up at him with a startled and very red
face. She was German in every line of her body.
"Ich bin Herr McLane," he said after a pause.
"So?" she replied with a questioning inflection.
"Yah; ich bin Herr Grant's bruder."
"Ach, So!" she said with a downward inflection. "Ich no spick
Inglish. No spick Inglis."
"Ich bin durstig," he said. Leaving her pans, she went with him to
the house, which was what he wanted to see.
"Ich bin hier geboren.
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