Niede said, “Come on,” and started toward the barn for halters. Then he remembered that he had placed their halters on the horses already—they were tied, down there in woods, kicking at flies and waiting for him. He heard Amelia say, “I’ve got a bonnet,” but she went into the house anyway, wasting time.

Uncle Otto settled himself heavily in his old chair. He called to Henry, talking in der Alt, saying something about a fine week for harvest, but Henry didn’t turn his head. When his wife wanted to bring Uncle Otto there, twelve years before, he had agreed because he thought the old man would live only a year or two. And he had lived all this time, eating his share—to say nothing of buttermilk and peaches and tobacco—and even if his wife got the larger share of Uncle Otto’s property, Henry would not be much ahead.

Finally Amelia came out, and they started across the hayfield toward the ridge. It was a short cut this way, if you had to walk; shorter than going southwest by the Emmetsburg road. Henry carried a rusty, perforated pail in which he had put some lumps of salt wrapped in a newspaper. The pail was no good any more; he could throw it away, down there in the woods, and wouldn’t have to lug it home after he had lured the cattle with salt. He would ride Belle and the other horses would follow along, or he could lead them if he didn’t have to herd the cows too much. He would give the girl a long switch and she could come on foot, keeping the cattle moving. He began to wish, now, that he had brought his stock home the day before; then the neighbors had helped each other; he wondered why people didn’t ever seem anxious to trade work with him … he had had to work very hard. And now Amelia was a lazy-bones. He would never have a son. The woman suffered trouble with her insides, after Amelia was born; she lay in bed six weeks, though Henry was certain that she might have got up sooner.

He looked back at his daughter, climbing over the stone fence from Codoris’ pasture. Ach, and with all her looks she has not got a rich man. There was old man Truckenmiller; he would not live long, and he owned three farms that people knew of, and maybe more … Amelia was singing, a thin chant which barely reached his ears. Somehow, it made him intensely angry to have her lagging behind that way, and singing silly songs … some mischief brewing—so that’s what you’re after, a whole cherry pie—