DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER REVEREND STEPHEN LAFAYETTE EMERSON (The Flockmaster of this story) IT was a dear, crisp October morning. There was a shrill whistle of a locomotive, and then a westbound passenger train dashed into the depot of an Iowa town. A young man descended the car steps with an armful of luggage. He deposited his parcels on the platform, and half expectantly looked about him.…
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