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thoughtfully. “Yes, he is, but he’s the sheriff at least until the next election—and he’s pretty sure to be elected.”

CHAPTER THREE
    A Time to Be Born
    Lewis Winslow sat rigidly upright in the cane-bottom rocker, staring at the paper in front of him. He had been trying to put his problems out of his mind by reading the newspaper, but there seemed to be no comfort there.
    The headline on the front page declared that the body of the kidnapped son of Charles and Anne Lindberg had been found in the woods only a few miles from the Lindberg home. Lewis lowered his head and murmured a prayer for the Lindberg family. Then he turned the page and read that Al Capone had entered a federal penitentiary in Atlanta the week before. The organized crime leader would serve eleven years for income tax evasion. Lewis shook his head, thinking, All the evil that man has done, and all they get him on is tax evasion? And why in the world did they have to send him down to our state? Sighing, Lewis turned the page again and read an article about the nation’s desperate economy. The Depression, which held America in a grip of iron, seemed to get worse every day. As the nation headed toward the summer of 1932, the Depression had reached its lowest point yet. Twelve million people were unemployed and eighteen million were on relief. It was a Presidential election year and few had any doubt about Hoover’s chances of winning another term. Will Rogers summed up the mood of a nation: “If someone bit an apple and found a worm in it,” he joked, “Hoover would get the blame.” Lewis had seen a hitchhiker on theroad, dressed practically in rags and holding up a sign that said, “Give me a lift or I’ll vote for Hoover.”
    Hoover’s name had actually become synonymous with the word Depression. His name had entered the language in a rather dark fashion. Hoovervilles were the shantytowns of the poor and dispossessed. Hobos and tramps sleeping under bridges covered themselves with Hoover blankets, which were nothing but yellowed newspaper. Hoover hogs were wild rabbits consumed as food, while shoes with holes in them were Hoover shoes, and broken-down shells of automobiles pulled along by mules were called Hoover cars.
    Disgusted with his president and deeply concerned about the plight of his country, Lewis folded the paper and laid it in his lap, leaning his head back to put the country’s problems out of his mind and concentrate on his own. He had not been sleeping well of late, being very concerned about the approaching birth of the baby. All of his other children had been born under prosperous circumstances. There had been doctors from prestigious medical schools, the most modern hospitals, and every medical advantage. Things were very different here. Yes, there were country doctors, and even a small old-fashioned hospital in town, but Lewis would have felt better if he could provide Missouri with the best possible care. Not that she would have wanted it. She planned to have Doc Peturis deliver the baby right here in her own home.
    “Lewis . . . ?” Missouri Ann had come into the room wearing soft shoes, making an entrance so quiet Lewis hadn’t heard her. He got up at once and started to speak, but she beat him to it. “I think, Lewis,” she said calmly, “you’d better go for Dr. Peturis.”
    Lewis started, and when he spoke his voice was constricted by the tightness of his throat. “You mean . . . you mean the baby’s coming?”
    “I think it is.” There was a calmness in Missouri Ann completely lacking in her husband. She smiled and came over to stand beside him, moving carefully as if she carriedsomething infinitely precious. “I think it would be best if you send Jenny to get him.”
    “Here, sit down. How do you feel? Are you hurting?” Lewis shot the questions at Missouri so quickly that she laughed. “I’m fine, but I’d feel better if Doc Peturis was on his way.”
    “Here, you sit right down and don’t