Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/190

 One night he jus' went to sleep and in the morning he didn't wake. He jus' slept on. It wasn't like as if he died. He simply burned up like an engine. Worked too hard. Gave all he had to the farm. Then Enoch took over the work of his pop. Well—" She waved her hand helplessly. "Well," she repeated shakily, "he wanted to continue his father's work. Wanted to make a place for me that folks would stop to gaze at as they passed. Wanted geraniums growing along the path that leads to the front door. Wanted flower beds about the house. Wanted to paint the house green with white window-frames. It was mighty nice to hear him talk. And he'd have done it too. Farm work never seemed to make him tired. He'd work long hours in the field and come home singin' and laughin'. There were many days when he didn't come in for a bite at noon and I used to take food out to him. Sometimes I walked about in the fields watching him work. 'Ma,' he used to say, 'some day I'm goin' to buy you kid gloves, the finest gloves there is.' He thought I wanted gloves when all I wanted