And they have come to speak to me--a language I don't understand yet.

But I mean--w hat you see--the growing wheat here, the field of clods over there, the wind and dust and glare and heat, the eternal sameness of the open space--these are the things around which my life has centered, and when I go away from them I am not content." Anderson came back to the young couple, carrying some heads of wheat in his hand.
"Smut!" he exclaimed, showing both diseased and healthy specimens of wheat.

"Had to hunt hard to find that.

Smut is the bane of all wheat-growers.

I never saw so little of it as there is here.