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Speaker 1: The Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews Rice. When Stephen was killed,

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we did not know it until thirty days afterwards. He

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went overseas in April, and it was the last of

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June before we knew. He went out with a party

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of engineers to repair a railroad track and was blown

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to pieces by a German shell. We could not tell

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Maytie the truth. She knew he was dead, but concerning

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the manner of his going, she was ignorant. They were engaged.

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Her love for him amounted to adoration. She was an intense,

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emotional girl, bound to be unhappy because of her sensitive

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nature and strong feelings. She was under my professional care

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for several weeks, the latter part of the summer, suffering

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from a broken ankle. It is the silence, the awful

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blank wall between Stephen and me, that drives me frantic.

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She burst out one day when I was making her

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a visit. She had been reading a letter from Stephen

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and it lay on her lap. She had a little

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package of his letters always near her. I know, I

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returned with a sigh. I too had lost my nearest

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and dearest. I wish I could consult a medium, she said,

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lowering her voice. How wonderful it would be to receive

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a message from him. I could hardly bear it. I'm afraid.

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Don't do it, Matie, I said, better leave such people

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alone the Luigi board. Then it seems rather like a

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silly game. But I shook my head that way. Madness lives,

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I quoted. I wouldn't, Matie, Stephen lives in your heart,

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in your memories of him. She smiled that pathetic little

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smile she had worn when she wished to appear cheerful.

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You are right, she answered, and changed the subject. In

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spite of what she had said. I discovered that she

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was reading everything she could find about spirit communication, although

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I never heard of her making any attempt to reach

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Stephen in that way. I was very busy that fall

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with influenza cases, and Madie went into Red crosswork, and

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when the epidemic was over, I heard she had gone

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to California. She returned early the following summer, looking haggard

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and ill. I prescribed for her, but could find nothing

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really wrong with her. She took long walks, and her

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mother told me she always went alone and resented any

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offer of companionship. She thought it queer, and said she

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feared Madie was drifting into melancholia. Madie came into my

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office one afternoon, and I was struck with a change

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in her expression. She looked happy and young. The strained

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misery had vanished from her face. I was puzzled. Could

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she have fallen in love? I ran over in my

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mind a list of her young men acquaintances, but none

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of them could I see as Maidie's lover. Her mother

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had informed me that her walks were always in one direction.

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Thinking of that, I asked, why do you always walk

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along the river road? Matie? She turned a vivid pink.

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You wouldn't understand, I know, but I'm going to tell you,

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she replied, twisting her gloves in her hands. In the

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first place, you must know, Stephen and I used to

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plan that when we were married, we would own a

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little farm, just a little summer place, you know. He

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used to say, every man wanted to have a farm. Doctor.

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When I go up the river road, just past the schoolhouse,

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on the bank, where the road turns into the woods,

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I see a little farm. The fields are neat and cultivated.

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The house is painted white with green blinds, and the

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door is open into the hall as if people live there.

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Hollyhocks are growing around the kitchen door on a table,

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Milk pans are turned up to dry in the sun.

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There are some dish towels drying on a line. And

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at any moment, I expect to see Stephen come around

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the corner of the house. I feel he is there

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out of my sight. I wait and listen. He hasn't

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come yet, but he will some day, and when he comes,

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I shall go with him. Her face was luminous with joy.

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What could I say? What ought I to say? Do

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you think I could see the farm if I were

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with you, I asked, speaking slowly. I'm afraid you couldn't.

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She replied. No one knows it is there but Stephen

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and me. Then, my dear Mattie, it exists only in

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your imagination, I told her. She smiled as one smiles

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at a child who doubts one's word, and she went away.

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I studied her case carefully. A good psychanalyst might be

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able to help her, but I was not skillful in

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that method of treatment. I see now that we did

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wrong in circumventing her. In accordance with my advice, her

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friends attempted to divert her attention from her daily walk.

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She was taken on automobile excursions. Visitors came at that

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hour of the day. She was invited to go to

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moving pictures. Duties were crowded upon her in the hope

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of altering the fixed idea in her mind of Stephen's

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waiting at the ghost farm. She was very sweet about

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acceding to the demands and requests, though sometimes she could

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obstinately refuse used to listen to them. August brought hot weather.

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The extreme heat wore upon our nerves. Everybody relaxed, released

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from vigilant watchfulness. Mattie left the house unnoticed. A terrific

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thunderstorm came up, and Mattie's mother was beside herself. She

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had been lying down taking a nap when Mattie slipped away.

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She telephoned to me when the shower was over. As

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Mattie was not missed until then, I got out my

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car and started up the river road, a sense of

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foreboding in the back of my mind. I had not

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proceeded far when a tire blew out. Impatiently, I left

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the machine and hurried on foot past the weather beaten

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old schoolhouse a short distance. Then Suddenly I stopped in

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my tracks. The sun had come out, and I saw

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the Ghost Farm cause exactly as Matie had described it.

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A stretch of green fields, a small white house with

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green blinds, hollyhocks growing by the kitchen door, milk pads

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glittering in the sun, drying on a table, cowls fluttering

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on a line. I was struck dumb and stood motionless,

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hardly able to draw my breath at the strangeness of

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the scene. In a few minutes, the vision or mirage vanished.

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Then I perceived a tall oak tree split in half

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by a bolt of lightning. At the foot of the

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tree lay Matie on the wet ground, a smile of

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rapture on her upturned face. I knelt beside her and

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examined hard and pulse. Nothing could be done. Her spirit

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had left its earthly body. She had gone to be

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with Stephen. The End of the Ghost Farm by Susan Andrews,

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Rice