OPioneers!byWillaCatherPARTITheWildLandIOneJanuaryday,thirtyyearsago,thelittletownofHanover,anchoredonawindyNe-braskatableland,wastryingnottobeblownaway.Amistoffinesnowflakeswascurlingandeddyingabouttheclusteroflowdrabbuildingshuddledonthegrayprairie,underagraysky.Thedwelling-housesweresetabouthaphazardonthetoughprairiesod;someofthemlookedasiftheyhadbeenmovedinovernight,andothersasiftheywerestrayingoffbythemselves,headedstraightfortheopenplain.Noneofthemhadanyappearanceofpermanence,andthehowlingwindblewunderthemaswellasoverthem.Themainstreetwasadeeplyruttedroad,nowfrozenhard,whichranfromthesquatredrailwaystationandthegrain"elevator"atthenorthendofthetowntothelumberyardandthehorsepondatthesouthend.Oneithersideofthisroadstraggledtwounevenrowsofwoodenbuildings;thegeneralmerchandisestores,thetwobanks,thedrugstore,thefeedstore,thesaloon,thepost-office.Theboardsidewalksweregraywithtrampledsnow,butattwoo'clockintheafternoontheshopkeepers,hav-ingcomebackfromdinner,werekeepingwellbehindtheirfrostywindows.Thechildrenwereallinschool,andtherewasnobodyabroadinthestreetsbutafewrough-lookingcountry-menincoarseovercoats,withtheirlongcapspulleddowntotheirnoses.Someofthemhadbroughttheirwivestotown,andnowandthenaredoraplaidshawlflashedoutofonestoreintotheshelterofanother.Atthehitch-barsalongthestreetafewheavywork-horses,har-nessedtofarmwagons,shiveredundertheirblankets.Aboutthestationeverythingwasquiet,fortherewouldnotbeanothertraininuntilnight.OnthesidewalkinfrontofoneofthestoressatalittleSwedeboy,cryingbitterly.Hewasaboutfiveyearsold.Hisblackclothcoatwasmuchtoobigforhimandmadehimlooklikealittleoldman.Hisshrunkenbrownflanneldresshadbeenwashedmanytimesandleftalongstretchofstockingbetweenthehemofhisskirtandthetopsofhisclumsy,copper-toedshoes.Hiscapwaspulleddownoverhisears;hisnoseandhischubbycheekswerechappedandredwithcold.Hecriedquietly,andthefewpeoplew