In the potato patch beyond the barn, Ben and Becca scooped earth away from the side of a small hill, exposing the new potatoes beneath.  The outer soil, powdery and dry, felt warm from the August sun, but underneath it was still damp from the morning dew.

As he dug, Ben suddenly scraped his knuckles on a hidden rock.  He cried out, more in exasperation than pain, “I hate digging potatoes!  How come Ma always makes us do it?  What’s wrong with the younger kids?”

Becca looked at her twin brother in surprise.  “I don’t know why you hate it so much, Ben. I love to dig potatoes!  I love the way the earth feels sliding through my fingers.  And when I find a potato, it’s like digging up a treasure, a jewel of the earth.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to be surprised.  “I didn’t know you was such a poet!”

Becca wasn’t sure if Ben was poking fun at her, but before she decided she heard a faint sound like music in the wind.

“Hey, what’s that?” she asked.

“What?” Ben said, “I don’t hear anything.”

“Bells, I think it’s bells.”  Becca turned towards the farmhouse and looked down the dirt road that came up from town a mile away.  “Hey, look down the road, Ben.  What’s that coming?”

Ben rose off his knees and peered down the narrow road, now lined on both sides with goldenrod shimmering in the sun.  “Looks like a horse and wagon,” he told Becca. “But I ain’t never seen a wagon like that before!  It’s got walls, windows, and a roof.  It looks like a house on wheels.”

Now Becca saw it, too.  She nodded her head and said, “Yeah, it sure is fancy.  Look at all the different colors it’s painted:  red and gold and orange and blue.  And look at the fancy woodwork, all them designs and curlicues.  What do you think it is, Ben?”

Ben stared for a moment at the approaching wagon, then shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t know,” he said, “but it’s got writing on the side.  I can almost make it out.”  He raised both hands to his forehead to shield his eyes from the noon sun.  Squinting slightly, he read aloud in a halting manner: “‘Pro-..fessor...Arthur...F. Newman...Esquire...Lit-er-ary...Literary Em-...,’”  Ben hesitated a long time, stumped by this last word.  Then in a rush of excitement he said, “I got it: ‘Literary Emporium.’”

“What’s that mean?” Becca asked.

“I don’t know, but that man driving must be the Professor — look how he’s dressed!”

Becca nodded her head.  In a community where everyone dressed for farm-work seven days a week, fancy clothes were the exception, even on Sundays when people wore their best for church.

The twins saw the driver clearly now, and Becca said, “Yeah, he looks like he’s dressed for a funeral, what with that morning coat on.”

“Look at that frilly shirt he’s wearin’.”

“And get a load of that flat-brimmed hat.”

“Got about the biggest mustache I ever seen.”

“He looks about the same age as Pa,” Becca said.  Then her voice turned wistful.  “Kinda looks like him, too.”

Ben turned to her accusingly.  “You say that about every man.”

“No, I don’t,” Becca said, her voice rising defensively.  She grew quieter and looked away.  In a near whisper she said, “It’s just that I miss him . . . .”

Ben’s look softened and he reached out a hand to touch Becca’s shoulder.  “He ain’t coming back, Becca.  It’s been two years now.  You gotta get used to it.”

Becca glared as she said, “I’ll never get used to it.”

But Ben wasn’t looking at her anymore.  He’d already started moving off, calling behind him, “That wagon’s pulling into the dooryard.  C’mon!”

“Wait,” Becca called after him, “we’re not finished yet.”  But Ben was gone in a flash.  Becca hurriedly gathered the potatoes they’d unearthed for supper and tossed them into a basket.  She pushed the loose earth back against the hill to cover the remaining spuds, then picked up the basket with both hands and hurried after her brother, the jingle of bells beckoning from the gaily painted wagon.