I should n't care for a family of that size myself, but somehow it's just
right for Tony. She'd love to show them to you."
On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off
with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm.
At a little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back
on a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barn
and an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the high
road. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in
here, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the
road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not more
than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and his
close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The other
stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in a
language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horses
opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came toward
me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them.
"Are you Mrs. Cuzak's boys?" I asked.
The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but
his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. "Yes, sir."
"Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and
ride up with me.
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