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About The Hesperian / (Lincoln, Neb.) 1885-1899 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 16, 1893)
, stt& THE HESPEKIAN i - iWifl tho court house in town, because he had an idea that it had something to do with tho State someway. Ho thought lie owed tho State a great deal for something, he did not know what; that the State would do some thing great for him some day, because he had no one else. After his chores ho used to go and sit down in the corral with his back against the wire fence and his chin on his knees and look at tho sunset. He never got much pleasure out of it, it was always like watching something die. It made him feel desolate and lonesome to see so much sky, yet he always sat there, irresistibly fasci nated. It was not much wonder that his eyes grew dull and his brain heavy, sitting there evening after evening with his dog, staring across the brown, wind-swept prairies that never lead anywhere, but always stretch on and on in a great yearning for something they never reach. He liked the plains be cause he thought they must be like the Rus sian steppes, and because they seemed like himself, always lonely and empty-handed. One day when he was helping Davis top a hay stack, Davis got angry at the dog for some reason and kicked at it. Serge threw out his arm and caught the blow himself. Davis, angrier than before, caught the hatchet and laid the dog's head open. He threw down the bloody hatchet and telling Serge to go clean it, he bent over his work. Serge stood motionless, as dazed and helpless as if he had been struck himself. The dog's tail quivered and its l"gs moved weakly, its breath came through its throat in faint, wheez ing groans and from itc bleeding head its two dark eyes, clouded with pain, still looked lovingly up at him. He dropped on his knees beside it and lifted its poor head against his heart. It was only for a momont. It laid its paw upon his arm and then was still. Serge laid the dog gently down and rose. He took the bloody hatchet and went up be hind his master. Ho did not hurry and ho did not falter. He raised tho weapon and struck down, clove through tho man's skull from crown to chin, even as the man had struck the dog. Then he went to the barn to got a shovel to bury tho dog. As ho passed tho house, the woman called out to him to tell her husband to come to dinner. He answered simply, "He will not come to dinner today. J killed him behind the hay stack." She rushed from tho house with a shriek and when she caught sight of what lay be hind the hay-stack," she started for the nearest farm house. Serge went to the barn for the shovel. He had no consciousness of having done wrong. He did not even think about the dead man. His heart seemed to cling to the side of his chest, the only thing he had over loved was dead. He went to the haymow where he and MatashJca slept every night and took a box from under the hay from which he drew a red silk handkerchief, the only "pretty thing," and indeed, the only handkerchief he had ever possessed. He went back to the hay-stack and never once glancing at the man, took tho dog in his arms. There was one spot on the farm that Serge liked. He and Matwhka used often to go there on Sundays. It was a little, marshy pool, grown up in cat-tails and reeds with a few scraggy willows on tho banks. The grass used to be quite green there, not red and gray like the buffalo grass. There he carried Matuslika. He laid him down and began to dig a grave under the willows. The worst of it was that the world went on just as usual. Tho winds wore laughing away among the rushes, sending the water slap ping against the banks. The meadow larks sang in the corn field and the sun shone just as it did yesterday and all the while Ma tuoTika was dead and his own heart was break ing in his breast. When the hole was deep enough, he took the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it neatly about poor ITa twlikcfs mangled head. Then he pulled a few wild roses and laid them on its breast and fell sobbing across the body of the little yellow cur. Presently he saw the neighbors coming over tho hill with Mrs. Davie, and . ! &&&a&Jii HWMIMW igBMpggagpEWWpJEBaCT jlllllLlS?f?gw mifr wsyjifli T7m nr.rmt
