Firefighter American eagle bedding set

To each of the passengers his seat was his temporary home, and most of the passengers were slatternly housekeepers. But one seat looked clean and deceptively cool. In it were an obviously prosperous man and a black-haired, fine-skinned girl whose pumps rested on an immaculate horsehide bag. Firefighter American eagle bedding set. They were Dr. Will Kennicott and his bride, Carol. They had been married at the end of a year of conversational courtship, and they were on their way to Gopher Prairie after a wedding journey in the Colorado mountains. The hordes of the way-train were not altogether new to Carol. She had seen them on trips from St. Paul to Chicago. But now that they had become her own people, to bathe and encourage and adorn, she had an acute and uncomfortable interest in them. They distressed her. They were so stolid. She had always maintained that there is no American peasantry, and she sought now to defend her faith by seeing imagination and enterprise in the young Swedish farmers, and in a traveling man working over his order-blanks. But the older people, Yankees as well as Norwegians, Germans, Finns, Canucks, had settled into submission to poverty. They were peasants, she groaned. “Isn’t there any way of waking them up? What would happen if they understood scientific agriculture?” she begged of Kennicott, her hand groping for his. It had been a transforming honeymoon. She had been frightened to discover how tumultuous a feeling could be roused in her. Will had been lordly–stalwart, jolly, impressively competent in making camp, tender and understanding through the hours when they had lain side by side in a tent pitched among pines high up on a lonely mountain spur.

His hand swallowed hers as he started from thoughts of the practise to which he was returning. “These people? Wake ’em up? What for? They’re happy.” “But they’re so provincial. No, that isn’t what I mean. They’re–oh, so sunk in the mud.” “Look here, Carrie. You want to get over your city idea that because a man’s pants aren’t pressed, he’s a fool. These farmers are mighty keen and up-and-coming.” “I know! That’s what hurts. Life seems so hard for them –these lonely farms and this gritty train.” “Oh, they don’t mind it. Besides, things are changing. The auto, the telephone, rural free delivery; they’re bringing the farmers in closer touch with the town. Takes time, you know, to change a wilderness like this was fifty years ago. But already, why, they can hop into the Ford or the Overland and get in to the movies on Saturday evening quicker than you could get down to ’em by trolley in St. Paul.” “But if it’s these towns we’ve been passing that the farmers run to for relief from their bleakness Can’t you understand? Just LOOK at them!” Kennicott was amazed. Ever since childhood he had seen these towns from trains on this same line. He grumbled, “Why, what’s the matter with ’em? Good hustling burgs. It would astonish you to know how much wheat and rye and corn and potatoes they ship in a year.”