For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form

“The Return of a Private”

Hamlin Garland


“Ain't it queer there ain't no teams cornin' along.”

“Well, no, seem's it's Sunday.”

“By jinks, that's a fact! It is Sunday. I'll git home in time fr dinner, sure. She don't hev dinner usually till-about one on Sundays.” And he fell into a muse, in which he smiled.

“Well, I'll git home jest about six o'clock, jest about when the boys are milkin' the cows,” said old Jim Cranby. “I'll step into the barn an' then I'll say, ‘Heah! why ain't this milkin' done before this time o' day? An' then won't they yell!” he added, slapping his thigh in great glee.

Smith went on. “I'll jest go up the path. Old Rover'll come down the road to meet me. He won't bark; he'll know me, an' he'll come down waggin' his tail an' shonin' his teeth. That's his way of laughin'. An' so I'll walk up to the kitchen door, an' I'll say ‘Dinner f'r a hungry man!’ An' then she'll jump up, an'-”

He couldn't go on. His voice choked at the thought of it. Saunders, the third man, hardly uttered a word. He walked silently behind the others. He had lost his wife the first year he was in the army. She died of pneumonia caught in the autumn rains, while working in the fields in his place.


We read it in Main-Travelled Roads.