Axel Egge’s General Store, frequented by Scandinavian farmers.  In the shallow dark window-space heaps of sleazy sateens, badly woven galateas, canvas shoes designed for women with bulging ankles, steel and red glass buttons upon cards with broken edges, a cottony blanket, a granite-ware frying-pan reposing on a sun-faded crepe blouse.

Sam Clark’s Hardware Store.  An air of frankly metallic enterprise.  Guns and churns and barrels of nails and beautiful shiny butcher knives.

Chester Dashaway’s House Furnishing Emporium.  A vista of heavy oak rockers with leather seats, asleep in a dismal row.

Billy’s Lunch.  Thick handleless cups on the wet oilcloth-covered counter.  An odor of onions and the smoke of hot lard.  In the doorway a young man audibly sucking a toothpick.

The warehouse of the buyer of cream and potatoes.  The sour smell of a dairy.

The Ford Garage and the Buick Garage, competent one-story brick and cement buildings opposite each other.  Old and new cars on grease-blackened concrete floors.  Tire advertisements.  The roaring of a tested motor; a racket which beat at the nerves.  Surly young men in khaki union-overalls.  The most energetic and vital places in town.

A large warehouse for agricultural implements.  An impressive barricade of green and gold wheels, of shafts and sulky seats, belonging to machinery of which Carol knew nothing—­potato-planters, manure-spreaders, silage-cutters, disk-harrows, breaking-plows.

A feed store, its windows opaque with the dust of bran, a patent medicine advertisement painted on its roof.

Ye Art Shoppe, Prop.  Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks, Christian Science Library open daily free.  A touching fumble at beauty.  A one-room shanty of boards recently covered with rough stucco.  A show-window delicately rich in error:  vases starting out to imitate tree-trunks but running off into blobs of gilt—­an aluminum ash-tray labeled “Greetings from Gopher Prairie”—­a Christian Science magazine—­a stamped sofa-cushion portraying a large ribbon tied to a small poppy, the correct skeins of embroidery-silk lying on the pillow.  Inside the shop, a glimpse of bad carbon prints of bad and famous pictures, shelves of phonograph records and camera films, wooden toys, and in the midst an anxious small woman sitting in a padded rocking chair.

A barber shop and pool room.  A man in shirt sleeves, presumably Del Snafflin the proprietor, shaving a man who had a large Adam’s apple.

Nat Hicks’s Tailor Shop, on a side street off Main.  A one-story building.  A fashion-plate showing human pitchforks in garments which looked as hard as steel plate.

On another side street a raw red-brick Catholic Church with a varnished yellow door.

The post-office—­merely a partition of glass and brass shutting off the rear of a mildewed room which must once have been a shop.  A tilted writing-shelf against a wall rubbed black and scattered with official notices and army recruiting-posters.