“This road isn’t called Perfection Road, is it?” she asked jerkily, as she held tight hold of the edge of the waggon to prevent herself from being pitched head foremost off the seat. She would have laid her head against her companion’s shoulder only that it was square and hard, and she was afraid of getting her temple “stove in,” as the sailors say, by the terrific bumps caused by the wheels going over a big stone or down into a deep rut. She was a bride, and he was bringing her to their new home on the Kansas Prairie. “My poor little pet,” he said tenderly, “it is very rough here. We are going down into Cotton Wood Creek, and these stones were cast up by the last freshet which pretty well …
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