‘Pee-o-wee-wee-wee-wee.’ It came like a high thin whistle out of the land, but later Ellen knew that it was Miss Amanda calling home her turkeys. Miss Amanda was some cousin of Miss Cassie’s who had no land, no property, and had lately come to live at the farm. Effie Turpin brought news of her when she came and later had news of her enterprise, the turkeys, and of her finery. Sometimes Miss Amanda rode over the farm on horseback, her slim feet dangling in little shoes, or at other times she would go away along the pike with Miss Cassie, riding in the high buggy Miss Cassie used. Then she would wear a large black hat with a plume or a stiff little hat with a feather, and her lips would break into easy smiles. Hearing the high thin cries in the autumn Ellen would remember the one time when she had met Miss Amanda on a path. Her bright cotton dress had come flashing in the way and she had walked quickly by, without a greeting, her mouth lifted into a bent smile and her eyes slanting away as if she said, ‘I don’t care!’ Even in her denial she added to the increasing richness of the farms.

The yield of the autumn was abundant that year, the crops fair, the corn plentiful in the shocks, the pumpkins many in number and great in size. Ellen helped Henry to gather the apples in the bright fresh cold of an October day, and she saved the largest apple for the new girl, Dorine, whose name came often to her mind as holding much generous grace and much music. She intended to go to see the girl some day and to carry the apple for a little gift. Dorine was easy to know, for by the time Ellen had found the largest apple she had seen her ride along the pike with one of the young men from beyond the hill. She had already brought something to the farms, something facile and free, mingled with the abundance of the season and the secure hope for the winter, whatever its weather. The days flowed swiftly around the tasks of garnering, the burying of the apples under their straw, the burying of the potatoes, the plucking of the corn. Apples had been dried in the sun and beans were shelled and laid by. The pumpkins were brought from the field in wagon-loads and a choice few were set in Miss Tod’s cellar for winter food. Then Henry began to plough his tobacco field for its stand of rye and the season was done.

Too eager to wait for supper, Ellen brushed back her hair before the kitchen mirror, put on her cloak, and ran away toward Dorine Wheatley’s home where there was to be a party. Her head was bare in the frosty night and her hair caught the vigour of the air und crisped richly over her forehead. Her dark skirt had been brushed that afternoon and her waist inspected for holes and loose buttons. Her shoes had been viewed in several moods, critically, hopelessly, hopefully, carelessly, mournfully, but in all moods they were old and worn. When she drew near the small white house that stood close beside the road, half a mile from her home, noises were bursting from its walls, voices and footfalls. A thin flat music came merrily over the other sounds, over the quick feet pursuing other quick feet, a slow foot settling back upon itself leisurely, little steps of women and long heavy steps of men. Ellen did not think to knock at the door. She lifted the latch with her thumb and went headlong into the room where many people were standing about or sitting, strange people. She closed the door behind her back and stood leaning against the doorframe, her body trembling. A voice was saying, ‘Did the prize come?’