AFTER an extended trip of two months,which led me throughout the North American continent, it was a rare treat to settle down again to routine duties on the Whiz Bang farm. The main street of our own little “Gopher Prairie” looked mighty good to a tired and worn out farmer. ‘Twas indeed a pleasure to view the Howard lumber yard, with its red fence and shed, and to grasp the sturdy hand of our village postmaster and storekeeper, Bud Nasett. J. J. McCormick, who is depot agent and telegraph operator, not to mention baggage smasher for genial drummers, greeted me at the station.
“How are you, Bill, you old son-of-a-gun?”
or words to this effect, was the whole-hearted way that Mac welcomed back a wayward and prodigal pilgrim. Arm in arm we walked along Main Street to Gus Urban’s meat market to inquire as to the price of livestock. Mr. Urban, in his usual jovial embonpoint manner, informed us that cows brought five cents a pound, but that bull was priceless. I disagreed with Gus, insisting that my recent journeys in quest of the pedigreed animal had left me “flat broke.”
Directly across the street, neatly encased in imitation granite blocks of concrete, is our only bank, the Security State of Robbinsdale and it hasn’t gone “bump” for nigh onto four years. In the reorganization which followed the last crash, Joe Roche was selected as cashier and Joe has since successfully piloted this financial bulwark of our happy little village. Joe also manages the Robbinsdale baseball nine. After making a small “touch” at the bank it was home and the farm. My welcome back was so pleasant that the words of that rural gem — “The Little Old Home Town” — went Whiz-Zing through my jaded mind.There are fancier towns than our little town;
