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get real good at it, I’ll begin to advertise.’’ He slapped the printing press with one hand. ‘‘And to think I went all those years without this, all because I didn’t want to use my wife’s money. Moral of the story—don’t let pride get in your way, son. Bible’s right when it says, ‘Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.’ ’’
    Thorliff checked the paper roll to make sure they had enough. ‘‘The Bible also says that pride goes before a fall.’’ He grinned at his employer.
    ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Bjorklund.’’
    The bell tinkled over the door, announcing a customer. While Thorliff stayed with the press, Mr. Rogers headed for the front desk. When the print run finished, Thorliff stacked the handbills and tied them in bundles of twenty-five. The mayor would be handing them out at the Fourth of July celebration. Politicians always had something to say, it seemed. Even when it wasn’t an election year.
    My book. All those chapters of The Switchmen will be bound together into one volume . The year before Thorliff had proposed a story to be run in the paper a chapter a week, and Mr. Rogers had taken him up on it. The final chapters ran the summer before and had even been picked up by a paper in St. Paul. Over the winter he’d edited it and rewritten portions he wasn’t happy with, knowing that eventually Mr. Rogers planned to bring it out again in book form. They’d had many requests and sold even more newspapers than during the Christmas season when they ran a contest for the best holiday stories. The second year they did that had outdone the first.
    The first volume they had printed after the advent of the new press was a compilation of the winning Christmas stories. By adding those that had received honorable mention, they’d produced a slim volume for each year. Overnight the books became collector’s items, especially when the readers began shipping their copies as far away as Norway and Germany.
    Thanks to Mr. Moen, a Norwegian writer visiting in Blessing, several of Thorliff’s stories had appeared in newspapers in Norway. Now he’d had a request for more. Perhaps this summer he would find time to do more writing. The printing business didn’t run from dawn to dark like farming. Thorliff thought about Ivar Moen, the man who’d come to America to talk to Norwegian immigrants about their experiences in the new land and fallen in love with Anji Baard. Anji, who’d at one time been promised to him.
    He jerked his wandering mind back from that track. While he’d forgiven her for what he thought of as her perfidy, even though he knew the sorrows she’d been through with her mother and father dying most likely contributed to her change of heart, sometimes the pain made his heart clench. Life sure didn’t match the dream he’d had at his graduation from high school.
    ‘‘Thorliff, when you’re done with that, would you please go on out to the Creamery and pick up their advertising copy?’’ Phillip stopped in the doorway. ‘‘Stop by the house on your way back. Cook has packed us a basket, so we don’t have to stop the press. I’m going to start the typesetting while you’re gone.’’ They’d been working on the design and layout for Thorliff’s novel in their off hours.
    ‘‘Sure.’’
    ‘‘Oh, and take the bicycle. I parked it out back.’’ Since purchasing one of the latest bicycle designs, the horse and buggy came out only on Sundays if the family wanted to go out in the country for a drive. The bicycle became the favored mode of travel, including riding around to get stories like the barn fire at the Olsens’ the week before and the baseball games between Carleton, St. Olaf, and other teams in the area. Thorliff had played first base on the team this spring and, thanks to his hitting, helped win a couple of the games. When someone asked him where he got his skill, he’d said in the cow pasture at home.
    Enjoying the cooling breeze as he pedaled his way along, his