Audubon County journal. (Exira, Iowa) 1884-1993, 1909-09-30
THE LITTLE
FL N Err AL

solate. It would be well after dark
before the Overland Limited express
would pick him up from this, to his
eyes, desolate prairie village, and
speed him to the throbbing world of
cities and lights and men.
And it was only one o'clock. He
had eaten his dinner at the unspeak-
able hotel, brushing persistent flies
from his food, sitting his nostrils
as best he could against the more per-
sistent odors of the kitchen, perfume
torily answering the amiable IMAM
tiles of the country waitress, and flee
ing at last the garrulity of the ancient
landlord
AS he gazed up and down the street
outside, the perspective at either end
was lost in the uninspiring fat prai-
RE, where, mile after mile, the In
dian corn nodded fatuously in the In
dian summer calm.
A woman in a calico dress and blue
sun-bonnet crossed from the store op-
posite, entered her yard and disap-
peared. No one else was in sight.
One lazy dog drowsed at the foot of
a poplar tree, stretched, yawned,
snapped at fallen leaf, and drowsed
again. The Stranger in Town sighed
hopelessly.
He strolled down the uncurbed
street. Everything appeared desert
ed. Only cobbler's shop, with door
opened to the street, seemed occu-
pied. He crossed; and accosted the
cobbler, bending over last.
Good day." he began.
The cobbler did not unbend.
"Howdy," he replied, his mouth full
of tacks.
"How's business?" inquired the
Stranger in Town.
Such as you see," without looking
up.
The Stranger in Town counted five
shoes half-soled, ten more to be
mended.
"You seem to be busy enough He
looked outside and added: "And the
only person in town who has to
work"
early and late. Early and late"
the cobbler replied in sing-song
monotone.
The Stranger in Town eyed the
cobbler curiously. He noted the mass
i've, stopped shoulders, strong arms
and hands and shriveled legs, the
gray hair and the near-sighted eyes
of the typical mender of shoes.
You've good deal of work for
such small town. There can't be
500 people all told here, can there?"
Don't know" said the cobbler as
he drew a deft line around the shoe
with his knife and cut out new
sole.
"oh, see, you haven't been here
long"
''Fifty-one years."
Why, you aren't much older than
that
Born here" and he pierced the
holes for the thread.
well, this place is about the same
size at Charlotte. How many has
it,"
Never there, can't say"
Never there! Three miles away,
and never there?"
Said it. Said it, l said"
May l ask whereabouts in the town
you were born?"
Next room"
Lived in this house all your life ?"
This room"
"Cobbler always?"
Always" and the thread knitted
swiftly from hole to hole.
The Stranger in Town sighed again.
He strolled outside and looked up
and down the empty street From his
new point of vantage he saw at the
further end on the right frame
church, with a square cupola sur
mounting it.
An old man appeared round the cor
ner, opened the church door and went
in. The bell began to toll A man
in clerical black left the house next
door, black book in his hand, and
entered the church A white hearse,
with white plumes, drawn by white
horses, drove slowly up the street.
The two men on the seat carried
it's burden indoors. Plow horses drew
buggies to the door, stopped, and
heavy, slow women in black dis
mounted and climbed the church
steps.
The Stranger in Town leaned his
back to the cobbler's door and
watched. In half hour the doors
opened. The bell began again to
toll. The men in black bore their
burden outside, the minister follow
ing, the women following him.
The white horses moved down the
street and the buggies fell in sedately
behind. At the end of the street the
procession turned, leaving the prai-
RE horizon unbroken. The bell ceased
tolling, the dust settled, and the dog,
who had howled all the while the bell
tolled, turned idly again to sleep.
The Stranger in Town turned again
to the cobbler, who had begun on an
other shoe. The thread flew faster
than before, as the cobbler bent
closer to his last.
Such little funeral said the