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<BLOCKQUOTE><B><FONT color=#000099>AS GRASS AND OTHER STORIES BY EDYTHE SQUIER 
  DRAPER</FONT></B> 
  <P>selected and edited by Thomas Fox Averill <BR>with an introduction by 
  Jeffrey Ann Goudie <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>----------------------------------------------------------------- 
  <BR>CONTENTS <BR>&lt;Page numbers in parentheses refer to pages in this 
  hypertext. Other <BR>numbers refer to the Center for Kansas Studies 
  paperback.&gt; 
  <P>Introduction <BR>1 (1) 
  <P>As Grass <BR>35 (20) 
  <P>Voice of the Turtle <BR>51 (29) 
  <P>L'il Boy <BR>64 (36) 
  <P>As It Began to Dawn <BR>73 (41) 
  <P>Maybe So <BR>83 (47) 
  <P>Quinine and Honey <BR>92 (52) 
  <P>Bibliography <BR>109 (61) 
  <BR>----------------------------------------------------------------- 
  <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>The Wrong Side of the Tapestry: <BR>Edythe Squier Draper 
  <P>by <BR>Jeffrey Ann Goudie <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>On March 16, 1961, Edythe Squier <BR>Draper, seventy-nine years old and a 
  doughty <BR>newspaper reporter, hurriedly typed as part of a <BR>letter to her 
  daughter Lucy: 
  <P>Last night I went to hear a woman history <BR>prof of the `Adult Ed 
  class'... and tried this <BR>afternoon to write a report of her rapid 
  <BR>reading of a lecture that was cute, learned, <BR>sophisticated but done so 
  fast that I <BR>couldn't get much down for listening and <BR>enjoying. So I 
  said it was about a woman, <BR>vigorous, turrible strong, beautiful, 
  <BR>ubiquitous, one big strong creature striding <BR>over the prairies nursing 
  Indians and <BR>settlers, teaching, hatcheting saloons, being <BR>beautiful 
  and efficient--Betcha the good <BR>earnest souls hearing the lecture will 
  <BR>complain of the fool old reporter - 
  <P>When almost sixty, Edythe Squier Draper had <BR>become the Oswego 
  correspondent for the small 
  <P>but reputable Parsons Sun in Southeast Kansas. <BR>This was in 1942, and 
  afraid that the editor, Clyde <BR>M. Reed, wouldn't hire a person her age, she 
  sent <BR>her twenty-five-year-old daughter Peg to apply for <BR>the job. Reed 
  was reportedly slightly baffled at <BR>the novel arrangement of daughter 
  applying for <BR>mother, but Peg convinced him that her mother's <BR>writing 
  talent was considerable. He agreed to give <BR>Edythe a try and the 
  relationship proved mutually <BR>amicable: for twenty-two years, until her 
  death at <BR>age eighty-two, she wrote the Oswego news <BR>column six days a 
  week for the Sun. <BR>Edythe was indeed a prodigiously talented <BR>writer. 
  From the time she was forty-two until she <BR>was sixty, she was a frequently 
  published short <BR>story writer. Her stories appeared in the Topeka- 
  <BR>based Household, a large circulation women's <BR>magazine which during its 
  fifty-four-year <BR>existence carried such noteworthy contributors as <BR>F. 
  Scott Fitzgerald and Colette, and which printed <BR>the playwright William 
  Gibson for the first time. <BR>In fact, readers voted Edythe's story "Counted 
  <BR>Out" as the best short story Household ran in <BR>1929; Theodore Dreiser's 
  "Fine Furniture" placed <BR>second. Her "The Voice of the Turtle" was 
  <BR>reprinted in Edward J. O'Brien's The Best Short <BR>Stories of 1930, a 
  volume which included Dorothy <BR>Parker and Katherine Anne Porter. "As It 
  Began <BR>to Dawn," "Poindexter," "As Grass," and <BR>"Fourteen" were listed 
  with three asterisks and <BR>thus made the Roll of Honor, the highest rating 
  <BR>for the O'Brien collections of 1927, 1930, and <BR>1931. Nine other 
  stories by her were listed in <BR>O'Brien indices for various years with one 
  and <BR>two asterisks, marking distinction. Her short-short <BR>stories 
  "Poindexter" and "In Washington Tonight" <BR>were placed in the highest 
  ranking group by the <BR>O. Henry Memorial Volume selection committees <BR>in 
  1930 and 1932. Four more of her stories were <BR>given second and third 
  rankings in those years. <BR>From 1924 to 1942, she published at least twenty- 
  <BR>four stories in such publications as Household, the <BR>Midland, Prairie 
  Schooner, University Review, <BR>Double Dealer, Clay, and Kansas Magazine. 
  <BR>Numerous short story manuscripts never saw <BR>publication. <BR>In 
  addition, she wrote two novel-length <BR>manuscripts (one a children's novel) 
  and published <BR>about sixty juveniles in such periodicals as Portal, 
  <BR>Target, the Classmate and Young People's Paper. <BR>For a time, her 
  fictional short-shorts appeared <BR>frequently in the Chicago Daily News and 
  the <BR>Kansas City Times. She was published in Western <BR>Home Monthly, 
  Presbyterian Advance, and the <BR>Youth's Companion as well. <BR>And the 
  slight Mrs. Draper, all the while <BR>living in the rural Kansas town of 
  Oswego, was <BR>paid court by the literary community of her day. <BR>The 
  collection of her papers on deposit in the Axe <BR>Library at Pittsburg State 
  University in Pittsburg, <BR>Kansas, contains an array of admiring 
  <BR>correspondence. Clifton P. Fadiman, then head of <BR>the editorial 
  department at Simon and Schuster, <BR>opened a 1928 letter with the rather 
  florid: "Your <BR>work interests us vividly." He promised a "special 
  <BR>reception" for any manuscript of hers and wrote <BR>that Simon and 
  Schuster would be "particularly <BR>anxious to examine the novel that every 
  distinctive <BR>short story writer inevitably has in mind." In <BR>another 
  letter he told her he had long followed her <BR>"admirable work" in Prairie 
  Schooner, marking <BR>"with satisfaction" that she'd been reprinted in 
  <BR>O'Brien. Another time he called a letter she had <BR>written him "a 
  remarkably interesting one." <BR>Letters from Dodd, Mead and Co., from 
  <BR>Reynal and Hitchcock, and from Brewer and <BR>Warren indicate interest in 
  book-length <BR>manuscripts. Roderick Lull, short story writer and 
  <BR>novelist, wrote asking for a contribution to the <BR>first issue of his 
  Outlander. Poet Jos� Garc�a <BR>Villa solicited a story for Clay. Literary 
  agent <BR>Jacques Chambrun, professing to have followed <BR>her work with 
  interest, wrote to offer his <BR>professional services. <BR>Edythe was 
  doubtless flattered by this <BR>attention, but did not take it entirely 
  seriously. On <BR>a trip East in 1931 she wrote her son that a story <BR>about 
  her was to appear in the Philadelphia Daily <BR>News. She suggested the 
  headline might read, <BR>"The farmer-author, mother of 3 children, gains 
  <BR>fame and fortune writing at odd hours." She <BR>wrote deprecatingly, "I am 
  supposed to be <BR>something, I find." She also gibed, "They may <BR>take some 
  ugly, skinny person's picture and stick <BR>it by the interview." <BR>Her best 
  work is explanation enough for <BR>why she attracted a following. She wrote 
  <BR>truthfully and unselfconsciously in the vocabulary <BR>and tone of the 
  character through whose <BR>consciousness the story develops. She frequently 
  <BR>employed a modified stream of consciousness <BR>which put her in the 
  literary vanguard of the time <BR>in which she wrote. Further, three of her 
  <BR>published stories, appearing in University Review, <BR>are about 
  African-American women (she once <BR>taught in a mission school for 
  African-Americans <BR>in South Carolina), an unorthodox fictional subject 
  <BR>for a white woman at that time. She wrote so <BR>sensitively that Karlton 
  Kelm, editor of the <BR>Dubuque Dial, was moved to ask in response to <BR>some 
  of her manuscripts, "Are you Negro <BR>yourself?" Her best work shows keen 
  sensitivity <BR>to the concerns and conflicts of the traditionally 
  <BR>powerless, as well as societal outsiders and those <BR>with little money 
  or education. Additionally, <BR>much of her fiction faithfully represents the 
  <BR>character of rural Midwestern people. 
  <P>* * * 
  <P>The eldest of nine children, seven of whom <BR>survived to adulthood, 
  Edythe was born on July <BR>25, 1882, in Hakodate, Japan, of Methodist 
  <BR>missionary parents. Llewellyn Squier recorded <BR>this entry in his diary: 
  "Last night at 10 o'ck. the <BR>expected labor of our first born commenced. 
  <BR>Madge had a pretty severe though natural time of <BR>it and while she was 
  crying out with pains I found <BR>relief in walking the parlor floor and 
  praying for <BR>her." The Rev. Squier was a talented musician, <BR>but had 
  entered the ministry because of family <BR>pressure. Edythe was often the 
  victim of his <BR>stormy temper. Edythe's daughter Peg Varvel <BR>recalls 
  reading Edythe's account of how it felt to <BR>be thrown down after being 
  choked, "You hated <BR>the fall, but you were so glad to get the air." 
  <BR>Edythe felt her father disliked her at least in part <BR>because, with 
  buck teeth, she was not <BR>conventionally attractive. <BR>Edythe's mother, 
  Elizabeth Armstrong <BR>Squier, relished her unique status as a college 
  <BR>graduate. An avid reader, she would claim <BR>headaches and steal off to 
  her room to read, <BR>leaving young Edythe with dishes and clothes to <BR>wash 
  and children to care for. Edythe told Peg <BR>that she could never remember 
  climbing a tree as <BR>a child without having to pass up a baby before 
  <BR>her. <BR>When Edythe was five, the Squiers moved <BR>from Japan to Ohio, 
  stopping at Hong Kong, <BR>India, the Red Sea, Palestine, North Africa, Italy, 
  <BR>Switzerland, France, and England on their route <BR>home. Back in his 
  native Ohio, the Rev. Squier, <BR>who had viewed missionary work as a form of 
  <BR>cultural chauvinism, made his opinions known and <BR>found himself 
  transferred to a Minnesota town <BR>bordering South Dakota, which Edythe's 
  daughter <BR>Peg called "Siberia." Two towns later, in 1896, a <BR>frustrated 
  Lee Squier announced from the pulpit <BR>that he was leaving the Methodist 
  ministry and, in <BR>Peg's words, the family that had "nearly starved as 
  <BR>children of the preacher came even closer as <BR>children of an insurance 
  agent." For her <BR>biographical sketch in The Best Short Stories of <BR>1928, 
  Edythe wrote: "When I was fourteen my <BR>father--in Sinclair Lewis' old town, 
  Sauk Centre, <BR>Minnesota--forsook the church and all her works. <BR>He wrote 
  a book and we lived on--dreams; my <BR>mother and we were seven. My father 
  took to <BR>insurance and we had a little food and some <BR>shoes." By the 
  time Edythe graduated from high <BR>school at nineteen in Greensburg, 
  Pennsylvania, <BR>the family had made frequent moves: Browns <BR>Valley, 
  Crookston, and Sauk Centre, Minnesota; <BR>Steubenville and Westerville, Ohio; 
  and Asbury <BR>Park, New Jersey. <BR>Edythe emerged from that growing-up 
  <BR>period with something of an outsider's sensibility <BR>and with a 
  sensitivity to others that left her well- <BR>equipped to write. In 1937 a 
  girlhood <BR>acquaintance from Asbury Park, Margaret <BR>Widdemer, who went on 
  to become a novelist and <BR>poet, and who in 1919 shared the Poetry Society 
  <BR>of America Prize with Carl Sandburg, wrote <BR>reassuring Edythe that 
  despite the rather traumatic <BR>childhoods of each, "loneliness and change 
  and <BR>emotional shock are apparently the foundation- <BR>stone of capacity 
  to write, especially when they <BR>get you young." <BR>Edythe carried out of 
  her childhood an <BR>awareness of the special cares and concerns of 
  <BR>children. She is almost never better than when <BR>writing from a child's 
  perspective, as is illustrated <BR>in two of her most striking stories, the 
  highly <BR>autobiographical "Fourteen" (Midland, May-June <BR>1930) and "The 
  Fruit at Singapore" (Midland, <BR>November-December 1928). In "Fourteen," the 
  <BR>central character, Lillian, and her friend Ella <BR>arrive at a revival. 
  <P>As soon as they got in where <BR>people were Ella Martin began tossing her 
  <BR>head and laughing, as if Lillian said funny <BR>things. They sat down and 
  then Ella <BR>turned around and looked everywhere. <BR>Suddenly she jumped up, 
  pulling Lillian. <BR>. . . <BR>They went over people's knees into <BR>another 
  bench. . . . Ella turned half way <BR>around and slapped at a boy sitting 
  behind <BR>her now. The boy caught her hand and she <BR>said, "Qui-ut! 
  Qui-ut!' Lillian thought <BR>maybe she would do that way with a boy <BR>some 
  time. 
  <P>Further, her close acquaintance with the <BR>hypocrisy of religion (in the 
  form of a minister <BR>father whose domestic behavior hardly embodied 
  <BR>Christian principles), gave Edythe broader notions <BR>of good and evil 
  than were generally held during <BR>the time she came of age. Her exposure to 
  the <BR>ersatz spiritualism whipped up at revivals and <BR>group prayer 
  sessions made her aware of the <BR>quieter spiritualism embodied in the 
  conduct of <BR>one's personal life, as well as the emotional <BR>transcendence 
  possible through involvement with <BR>music and nature, and through human 
  intimacy. <BR>For instance, in "Fourteen," the young <BR>Lillian is coaxed 
  into an emotional high by a <BR>singing, shaking, swaying, cajoling preacher, 
  and <BR>is "converted," sobbing and confessing sorrow for <BR>her sins. At the 
  story's end, after a "call" by the <BR>preacher and his wife--done up in high 
  comedy, <BR>with the preacher shouted down by boisterous <BR>children, and 
  dumped by an unstable rocking <BR>chair--the daughter Lillian and the usually 
  <BR>emotionally distant mother share a rare moment of <BR>closeness with a 
  good laugh over the tumultuous <BR>scene. <BR>"Fourteen" closes with a 
  recognition that <BR>emotional transcendence can be achieved in more 
  <BR>genuine ways, ways that do not involve planting <BR>gratuitous feelings of 
  guilt in young children: 
  <P>And Lillian while she laughed <BR>thought of something. She thought of 
  <BR>going into the front room, to the organ. <BR>She wanted to play the organ. 
  She wanted <BR>to play that last piece in the Instruction <BR>Book. You pulled 
  out all the stops in that <BR>piece, and you pushed the knee swells out 
  <BR>and you pumped fast. 
  <P>Edythe did not arrive at this recognition <BR>easily. One of her first 
  published pieces was an <BR>essay which tied for third prize in a 1921 contest 
  <BR>seeking the best criticisms of Outlook. In it she <BR>reveals: 
  <P>I climbed the arid way from Calvinism to <BR>Unitarianism a good many years 
  ago, when <BR>I was very young and very ardent, and I <BR>think Lyman Abbott's 
  wise hand often <BR>helped me over bitterly rough places to the <BR>wider, 
  happier plain where reason and faith <BR>shine together. The Outlook has meant 
  <BR>sanity, you see, to an extremist, a <BR>pendulum-swinger. 
  <P>Edythe's more autobiographical fiction, as <BR>well as her eventual choice 
  of fiction writing as <BR>part of her career, show that she early developed 
  <BR>into a dreamer, at least in part to escape the <BR>sometimes banal cruelty 
  of her childhood. <BR>"The Fruit of Singapore," like "Fourteen," <BR>so 
  telling about Edythe's early adolescence, has <BR>the same central character, 
  Lillian, thinking to <BR>herself about her unpredictable father: "There was 
  <BR>no telling about Papa. Sometimes he would choke <BR>you. . . . Sometimes 
  he would let you alone. You <BR>never at any time knew what Papa was going to 
  <BR>be like." <BR>Lillian's father sends her out to buy <BR>bananas he's seen 
  offered for twenty cents a dozen <BR>at a local grocer's. The mention of 
  bananas <BR>sparks an agreeable recollection in Lillian's <BR>mother of "the 
  fruit at Singapore." She and her <BR>husband Burton share a clean, clear, 
  still moment <BR>because of this jointly-held memory. On the way <BR>to the 
  grocer's, Lillian, happy at seeing her <BR>parents' pleasure, makes a 
  connection between <BR>their reminiscence and one of her own: once, <BR>while 
  hiding under a bush during a game of Hide <BR>and Seek, she experienced a 
  moment of <BR>extraordinary happiness with the sun on her back <BR>and neck, a 
  rooster crowing across the frozen <BR>river, the wet grass beneath her. <BR>At 
  the story's end, after her father has <BR>squeezed her neck and shoved her up 
  the stairs for <BR>allowing herself to be bilked by the grocer, Lillian 
  <BR>forgets her hurt and humiliation by losing herself <BR>in a fantasy while 
  looking out her bedroom <BR>window. The April Minnesota sky becomes land, 
  <BR>port, water, a boat rowed by sailors, and she <BR>conjures the buried 
  memory of the fruit at <BR>Singapore. She is brought out of her reverie by a 
  <BR>call from her mother asking her to come look after <BR>the baby. <BR>She 
  attempts to use her recollection to <BR>initiate a brief communion with her 
  Mama: "`I <BR>remember the fruit of Singapore,' she said. `Yes, <BR>perhaps 
  you do,' Mama answered. They were like <BR>two women speaking together then." 
  <P>Evidently Edythe had mixed feelings about <BR>her mother, whose judgment 
  she trusted enough to <BR>seek her editorial advice, sending a manuscript, 
  <BR>"Coolie Coat," along with the note: 
  <P>Dear Mum: <BR>I am extremely anxious for your <BR>opinion of this. It's 
  supposed to tell <BR>without saying. Does it? 
  <P>E. 
  <P>And in the letter to Edward J. O'Brien granting <BR>him permission to 
  reprint "The Voice of the <BR>Turtle," she expressed regard for her mother's 
  <BR>feelings: "I wonder if I may ask you to use my <BR>full name, with the 
  story? That will please the <BR>mother of the `author'." Be that as it may, 
  the <BR>image from the stories following the contours of <BR>her early life is 
  of a mother aloof and preoccupied <BR>with her own troubles. <BR>According to 
  Peg, Edythe truly hated her <BR>father. But she did not, when rendering 
  fictional <BR>representations of him, nor when developing male <BR>characters 
  who, like him, are physically violent, <BR>make them cardboard figures. It is 
  testimony to <BR>her strength as a writer that, having suffered as a <BR>child 
  at the hands of one she was supposed to be <BR>able to trust, she gives 
  physical violence complex <BR>treatment, as in "As Her Father Her Mother" 
  <BR>(University Review, Summer 1938), a story about <BR>the emotional dynamics 
  transmitted from parent to <BR>child. <BR>Edythe survived her childhood 
  admirably. <BR>Her daughter Peg's theory is that she used her <BR>fiction 
  writing as her own psychotherapy. When <BR>forty-six, Edythe herself wrote, "I 
  have not been <BR>`happy,' very, I suppose, and so I write." She 
  <BR>reportedly developed a fine sense of humor, <BR>evident in much of her 
  fiction, particularly the <BR>story "Quinine and Honey." She struck others as 
  <BR>a poised young woman. Edythe's sister Connie <BR>recalled in a letter 
  written in 1974 that Edythe <BR>would always eat some before going out to a 
  <BR>dinner party so she could spend her time talking. <BR>Her sister Margaret 
  once wrote in a letter, <BR>"Socially she was radiant." <BR>Shortly after her 
  graduation from high <BR>school, Edythe held a teaching position for a 
  <BR>couple of years at the Brainerd Institute in <BR>Chester, South Carolina, 
  where, she wrote in that <BR>1928 personal sketch, "I fervently taught blacks" 
  <BR>and also where she "forsook--in my turn, <BR>missions." The Squiers moved 
  from Greensburg <BR>to Philadelphia about 1904 when Edythe was <BR>twenty-two. 
  She joined them there and found <BR>plenty of outlets for her cultural 
  interests, <BR>spending hours especially at Philadelphia <BR>Orchestra 
  concerts. Also there she began taking <BR>university classes: "I went to 
  creep, now sadly, <BR>now ecstatically, about the bleak halls of the 
  <BR>University of Pennsylvania, nibbling up crumbs of <BR>history, languages, 
  English literature." From 1907 <BR>to 1908 she taught high school in Marietta, 
  Ohio, <BR>but refused a reappointment and raise to take more <BR>classes at 
  the University of Pennsylvania. In <BR>1909, in a letter accepting a tentative 
  offer of a <BR>teaching job in Greenfield, Ohio, for which she <BR>was 
  ultimately turned down, she wrote of herself, <BR>". . . I am accustomed to 
  meeting people, and do <BR>not find it difficult to adapt myself to new 
  <BR>surroundings." <BR>With this assurance in her own ability to <BR>adapt, a 
  year later, in 1910, twenty-eight-year-old <BR>Edythe traveled some 1,300 
  miles by train, from <BR>Philadelphia to Oswego, Kansas, population 2,228, 
  <BR>to teach at the Oswego College for Young Ladies, <BR>a Presbyterian 
  school. "A small decrepit college," <BR>Edythe wrote of it. When her father 
  learned she <BR>was to teach in Oswego, he exclaimed in disbelief, <BR>"Not 
  that town!" Her father's amorous <BR>adventures, Edythe was later to discover, 
  had once <BR>taken him to Oswego for a brief stay. <BR>Edythe had taken 
  "training in the <BR>commercial branches" at the Drexel Institute in 
  <BR>Philadelphia and taught secretarial courses, <BR>literature, and German at 
  the College. She even <BR>taught botany once when no one else would 
  <BR>volunteer, barely staying ahead of her class the <BR>whole year. She was 
  Miss Squier then, and in the <BR>parlance of the time, "an accomplished young 
  <BR>lady" with a good singing voice and the ability to <BR>do piano 
  improvisations, though she'd had few <BR>lessons. <BR>After two years of 
  college teaching, she <BR>married the son of a town doctor, James B. 
  <BR>Draper, whom she called in a biographical note in <BR>the May 1929 
  Household, "the Man Who Lived <BR>Across the Street." In 1913 she had a 
  daughter <BR>Lucy, in 1914 a son Jim, and in 1917, another <BR>daughter, Peg. 
  Four years after her last child, her <BR>Outlook essay gives a glimpse of her 
  life and <BR>concerns at that time: 
  <P>I suppose I smile always when I see <BR>the Outlook among the papers and 
  letters <BR>one day in each week. I remember that I <BR>did to-day. For what 
  could I be thinking <BR>about as I darn Sonny's knees or pick up <BR>all the 
  things three children and one man <BR>can bestrew a house withal each hurrying 
  <BR>morning if I could not have a minute or <BR>two at breakfast time to read 
  just a little of <BR>the Outlook? The waffles are crisp and <BR>hot. I feel 
  the ever-new excitement of <BR>sensing the dawn coming up out of the <BR>woods 
  beyond the pasture. I prop the <BR>Outlook against the water-pitcher and read 
  <BR>bits to Jim and we talk just a little--and my <BR>day has begun. 
  <P>What is apparently her first printed short <BR>story appeared three years 
  later in the October <BR>1924 issue of Double Dealer, a little magazine 
  <BR>that also gave Ernest Hemingway, Thornton <BR>Wilder, and Jean Toomer 
  their literary debuts. <BR>Edythe's dedication to her personal <BR>development 
  and to her writing caused inevitable <BR>strains: Peg says that as a child she 
  was jealous <BR>of her mother's typewriter and had the impression <BR>that she 
  sat down at it as soon as she could after <BR>the children were off to school, 
  and didn't get up <BR>from it until she absolutely had to. Upon arriving 
  <BR>home, Peg would go in to say something to her <BR>mother, and Edythe would 
  look up with a dazed <BR>expression. Occasionally Edythe would try to 
  <BR>recruit her children as critics of her fiction, but <BR>Peg says they 
  disliked being asked because of the <BR>emotional quality of their mother's 
  voice as she <BR>read those pieces which were more <BR>autobiographical. 
  Edythe would occasionally <BR>jump this hurdle by camouflaging her fiction 
  <BR>inside magazines. <BR>As a result of having housework and child <BR>care 
  inflicted on her to an oppressive degree as a <BR>child (in Northern Minnesota 
  she would return <BR>from school and have to break up ice and heat it <BR>to 
  do the previous day's dishes), Edythe did not <BR>ask her own children to help 
  out. She was an <BR>efficient household manager, and in addition to <BR>her 
  writing, she was involved in various church <BR>activities, including 
  successfully conducting the <BR>junior choir for a time. In fact Edythe spent 
  a lot <BR>of time in church. The Drapers went Sunday <BR>mornings and evenings 
  and sometimes Wednesday <BR>nights and on a host of other occasions as well. 
  <BR>Peg speculates that her mother must have been <BR>aghast at spending that 
  much time in church <BR>because of her traumatic childhood associations, 
  <BR>although the choir work must have compensated <BR>some. <BR>As Peg put it, 
  Edythe "was always doing <BR>what she SHOULD do--as much as she could." 
  <BR>The roots of her accommodating nature were <BR>surely in the relative 
  emotional neglect of her <BR>childhood, and in having early become a mother 
  <BR>substitute and protector of her brothers and sisters. <BR>That the family 
  moved so frequently clearly <BR>played its part, as is illustrated in this 
  closely <BR>autobiographical passage from "The Fruit at <BR>Singapore": 
  <P>If in this town she [Lillian] said hain't and <BR>darsn't in just the right 
  places she might be <BR>chosen for Run Sheep Run, and the girls <BR>might put 
  their arms around her and the <BR>boys make faces at her. No, it was no 
  <BR>good knowing Japanese. You must not say <BR>things, know things, the 
  others didn't. <BR>You must be like the girls in any town you <BR>were in, if 
  you wanted not to be alone all <BR>the time. 
  <P>Like Lillian, Edythe had spoken Japanese <BR>as a young child. Having once 
  been bilingual, she <BR>remained adept at languages all her life, with 
  <BR>some ability in Greek, Latin, German, and French. <BR>Duty and outside 
  activities aside, Edythe's <BR>compulsion to write was strong and write she 
  did, <BR>sitting in the small white house south of town <BR>where she and her 
  husband lived most of their <BR>married life, in front of a typewriter set up 
  in a <BR>corner of the dining room, the house orderly, the <BR>floors shining, 
  area rugs scattered about, prints <BR>and paintings on the walls. Many 
  African- <BR>Americans in Oswego, who felt a special <BR>understanding from 
  Edythe, and some poor <BR>people, perhaps because they sensed she was 
  <BR>something of an outsider too, would drop in to <BR>talk with her during 
  the day. As a former college <BR>teacher she was somewhat isolated from the 
  <BR>townspeople, and indeed she may have distanced <BR>herself--that is, until 
  she became the Oswego <BR>correspondent for the Sun, at which time, in Peg's 
  <BR>words, "she became very much the possession of <BR>the town." <BR>Most of 
  Edythe's stories are about <BR>outsiders, and two of most successful--small 
  <BR>masterpieces, in fact--are about dark, unnoticed <BR>people, grotesques in 
  the fashion of some Faulkner <BR>and Flannery O'Connor characters. Each story, 
  <BR>because of the integrity of the character <BR>development, forces us to 
  sympathize with people <BR>very different from ourselves, thus performing one 
  <BR>of the most important functions of fiction. About <BR>people whose 
  sustenance, solace, and inspiration <BR>come from the earth, these two 
  stories, like most <BR>of Edythe's, have rural and small town settings. 
  <BR>"As Grass" (Prairie Schooner, Summer <BR>1930) is a powerful story about a 
  woman, Pearl <BR>Wentz, crazy in the way one gets from living too <BR>long 
  alone, who trusts only the neutral, <BR>nonjudgmental earth. The story's 
  evocative <BR>beginning is representative of Edythe's style: 
  <P>It was only February, but the <BR>woman was in her garden. She was 
  <BR>kneeling on the ground, her small body <BR>crouched low over it. To a 
  casual eye she <BR>might have seemed to be working, but she <BR>was not 
  pulling up the bent, black stalks of <BR>last year's vegetation; she was not 
  planting <BR>anything; merely in contact with the <BR>ground were her hands. 
  She peered closely <BR>at the earth beneath and about her, only <BR>raising 
  her face a moment now and again <BR>to glance at the sky, at the leafless, 
  conical <BR>pear trees beside the garden, or up into the <BR>maples embracing 
  the steep roof of her <BR>small, brown house. But always her eyes <BR>came 
  back to the ground, and her mouth <BR>moved in whispered question. <BR>"What's 
  a-goin' on? What is it a- <BR>goin' on?" 
  <P>"The Voice of the Turtle" (Prairie <BR>Schooner, Summer 1929) is Edythe's 
  finest <BR>achievement. The story is told through the <BR>consciousness of the 
  boy Forrest, getting to be a <BR>small man like his father. A circus comes to 
  town <BR>with its burlesqued promises of excitement. <BR>Forrest leaves off 
  his plowing and finds himself in <BR>town walking beside a girl, "his first 
  time for <BR>walking with a girl," a girl who wants a balloon. <BR>A short 
  distance away "a thousand red and blue <BR>and yellow balls were in the air 
  above the dark <BR>people," a luminous chimera of desire just out of 
  <BR>reach. The girl, whose hand on Forrest's arm had <BR>been "hard and 
  anxious," her eyes clouded, <BR>abandons him for a boy able to buy her a 
  balloon. <BR>Forrest devises a plan: he will take the money <BR>Poppy has 
  saved to buy a new cow, then be able <BR>to buy "a balloon, a sack of candy, 
  everything." <BR>He runs home, the circus calliope beckoning him <BR>in the 
  background. On the "town side of the <BR>barn" stands Forrest's Poppy, with 
  "brown eyes-- <BR>like a hungry dog's." <BR>Forrest's lank Mommy stands in the 
  <BR>doorway of the house, "one tooth hanging down <BR>from the purplish gum." 
  Her eyes are filled with <BR>"the film of desire and of dream," her eyes "not 
  <BR>unlike the eyes of the girl in the town wanting a <BR>balloon, something 
  so beautiful." Mommy takes <BR>to one of her spells, but not so much that she 
  does <BR>not foil Forrest's attempt to take the money from <BR>the coffee pot 
  above the stove, and not so much <BR>that she misses what is going on between 
  her <BR>husband and Sister Kennard, one of those Poppy <BR>brings in to pray 
  for her. In Edythe's most <BR>compelling depiction of a feverish group prayer 
  <BR>session, the supplicants file in, "The eyes of all, <BR>like coals 
  awaiting an enkindling draught, dully <BR>gleamed." And then: 
  <P>The room became full of sound: <BR>deep, steady, bellowing from Brother 
  <BR>Armes with his long moustache, the words <BR>unintelligible; shouts, 
  `Hallelujah!' <BR>`Oh,Lord!' `Glory!' Broken sighs, screams <BR>and sobs, long 
  sentences with the words <BR>jumping over each other quickly, <BR>descending 
  to a deep groan, climbing to a <BR>high shriek. Tears coursed down faces. 
  <BR>Eyes were closed. <BR>An ebb came at length in the tide of <BR>implorings. 
  Before the flood again Sister <BR>Kennard's voice: `Co-o-o-mfert this dear 
  <BR>man! Pour in the oil of gladness. Co-o-o- <BR>mfert an' sistain `im! This 
  pore, lonely <BR>man! Th' wife o' his buzzum layin' col' <BR>an' dead in th' 
  deep an lonely grave . . .' <BR>High and low, shrill and resonant, <BR>cries 
  and screams and groans and shrieks. <BR>Forrest added his voice, inaudible to 
  <BR>himself. But--Mommy wasn't dead. . . . <BR>You prayed like Sister Kennard 
  just then at <BR>a funeral, not when some one had a spell, <BR>was not dead 
  yet. . . . <BR>No. Mommy was not going to be <BR>dead this night. Mommy's face 
  seemed <BR>like Mommy's face now, more. Mommy <BR>opened one eye, the eye by 
  Sister Kennard. <BR>Deep lines came in her forehead. Red like <BR>fire came to 
  her face. Both Mommy's <BR>eyes opened. And suddenly Mommy was <BR>getting off 
  the bed, pushing a way between <BR>Poppy and Sister Kennard. And Mommy <BR>was 
  jumping on the floor, shouting <BR>mightily: `Hallelujah! I'm reestored! 
  <BR>Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Praise the <BR>Lo-r-rd!! Let us ree-joice!' 
  <P>In the largest sense, the story is about <BR>disappointment and renewal, a 
  common motif of <BR>Edythe's: Forrest's plan for attracting the girl is 
  <BR>frustrated, and Poppy's illicit yearning for Sister <BR>Kennard is found 
  out. As in many stories, nature <BR>is the renewing force. At the story's end, 
  frogs <BR>croak, and Forrest's younger brother Silas laughs, <BR>"Frogses!" 
  Poppy predicts no more frost, the <BR>children thrill at the prospect of going 
  barefoot, <BR>Mommy makes plans to do some spring cleaning, <BR>Poppy and 
  Forrest both offer to work for a <BR>neighbor to pay off the balance of 
  whatever the <BR>new cow will cost. <BR>The stories "Li'l Boy" (University 
  Review, <BR>October 1939) and "Maybe So" (Kansas <BR>Magazine, 1942) evidence 
  Edythe's sensitivity to <BR>the particular conflicts and concerns of women. 
  <BR>"Li'l Boy" is about an African-American woman <BR>doomed to a lifetime of 
  servitude to a "little boy" <BR>husband who beats her, and to the whites she 
  <BR>works for, who condescend to her. <BR>"Maybe So," though slightly too 
  direct in <BR>the relating of its theme, is nonetheless a <BR>convincing 
  story. It suggests the ambivalence of <BR>motherhood and depicts the 
  disappointment which <BR>simple, hard-working Sarah Robison feels on 
  <BR>learning that her favorite and youngest girl Mary <BR>is pregnant and that 
  her favorite and youngest boy <BR>Frank has joined the Navy and is off to war. 
  <BR>These two, so bright and attractive, for whom she <BR>held hopes of 
  different, better things: 
  <P>So young, Mary, so young, not knowing. <BR>Her four sisters had been young, 
  not so <BR>slim and pretty as Mary, but young; now <BR>they spread themselves 
  and clucked and <BR>their eyes showed a knowingness that to <BR>bear and dig 
  for young ones was what <BR>there was for females. 
  <P>Edythe's vision for herself clearly included <BR>more than bearing and 
  digging for young ones. <BR>She realized the vision of being published as a 
  <BR>short story writer, but she was never able to make <BR>her fiction writing 
  result in a significant addition <BR>to the family income. She devised various 
  other <BR>money-making schemes, including raising <BR>chickens. <BR>In the 
  Depression years, letters to Edythe <BR>as well as from her make reference to 
  her anxiety <BR>over finances. The Drapers' income was modest. <BR>Edythe's 
  husband Jim was always employed, <BR>working for years for an investment 
  company of <BR>which he became an officer, although he was <BR>never paid 
  particularly well. Actually, Edythe <BR>may have worried a bit compulsively 
  about money <BR>because of childhood deprivations. <BR>"Dire poverty has 
  prevented me from <BR>reading your `Dance of the Machines,' but I <BR>expect 
  now to have it shortly," she wrote O'Brien <BR>in 1930. The following year, 
  Thomas H. Uzzell, <BR>critic, anthologist (Short Story Hits), and teacher, 
  <BR>wrote Edythe: "Nothing has happened this month <BR>yet that interests me 
  more than the receipt of your <BR>letter--this, for the reason that you are a 
  writer of <BR>promise, your difficulty is a real one, and you <BR>have no 
  money!" In 1937, she sent seven dollars <BR>to a Hollywood agent to employ her 
  to look over <BR>some material for screen possibilities, adding that <BR>an 
  acceptance the day before allowed her "to make <BR>this--gamble!" The editor 
  of Kansas Magazine, <BR>recommending Edythe for a Houghton Mifflin 
  <BR>literary fellowship, wrote in 1938, "Edythe Squier <BR>Draper is an able 
  writer with potential creative <BR>ability, but lacks leisure time to develop 
  her <BR>talent." <BR>Edythe sought advice on how to place her <BR>work in the 
  lucrative popular magazines. Uzzell <BR>offered to examine some of her work 
  for a fee, <BR>writing in a cocky manner, "Of one thing I am <BR>quite sure: I 
  can tell you what the trouble is." <BR>When Edythe declined for lack of money, 
  he <BR>responded rather cutely, "I understand only too <BR>well, for the 
  well-known depression has not <BR>entirely spared me." <BR>John T. Fredrerick, 
  the editor of the <BR>Midland (which H. L. Mencken once called <BR>"probably 
  the most important literary magazine <BR>ever established in America"), 
  cautioned Edythe in <BR>a letter written in December of 1929 that "a more 
  <BR>or less definite choice" must be made by a writer <BR>either to write for 
  particular markets or to do <BR>things for their own intrinsic worth. "I think 
  you <BR>could do the first successfully but I imagine you <BR>would find it 
  too unpleasant to be really <BR>worthwhile." In what appears to be a response 
  to <BR>something Edythe had written him, he admonishes <BR>that "`doing what 
  editors want' is something I <BR>should never urge upon you." <BR>Frederick 
  proposed that he examine <BR>selected manuscripts on a commission basis, but 
  <BR>this apparently never worked out as planned, <BR>prompting him to write in 
  1931 that he considered <BR>himself "not a little responsible for the 
  <BR>discouragement" Edythe was feeling about her <BR>writing. In another 
  letter Frederick offered "cold <BR>comfort" that Edythe had not been able to 
  work <BR>on her novel. <BR>The well-paying markets, with the <BR>exception of 
  Household, never opened up to <BR>Edythe. However, she usually merited 
  <BR>compliments and tact along with rejections. In <BR>1930 Scribner's 
  Magazine conceded in sending <BR>back one manuscript that, like all Edythe's 
  work, <BR>it was "done with distinction," and indicated <BR>interest in 
  anything new she did. Alfred S. <BR>Dashiell, the managing editor at 
  Scribner's, <BR>claimed in a 1932 letter: "We always read a <BR>manuscript of 
  yours with anticipation. We have <BR>come so near to taking several of your 
  things that <BR>we always hope we shall find something just right <BR>for us." 
  Under Dashiell's editorship, the magazine <BR>was publishing the likes of 
  Sherwood Anderson, <BR>D. H. Lawrence, and Tess Slesinger. <BR>Edythe did 
  employ the services of Jacques <BR>Chambrun, the agent who offered his 
  assistance. <BR>She did this only to be told that a batch of her 
  <BR>manuscripts had a credible atmosphere, were <BR>"done with a certain 
  arresting artistry," but that the <BR>characters were "drab and 
  commonplace--and <BR>therefore unsuitable to the general magazines." <BR>About 
  the manuscript "Cordelia Kleindienst's <BR>Coat," Chambrun wrote that the 
  writing was <BR>"vivid" and "perceptive," that her ability in <BR>creating 
  atmosphere recalled some of Faulkner, <BR>but that there wasn't a market for 
  the story: "It is <BR>too stark and tragic in theme and inspiration for 
  <BR>the popular, high-paying publications. It would go <BR>with one of the 
  new-type magazines who pay very <BR>little or nothing to contributors." In 
  this same <BR>letter he lauded her talent, but recommended 
  <BR>paternalistically that she "turn to more cheerful <BR>and normal subject 
  matter." <BR>Some of Edythe's work was held to be off <BR>limits because it 
  was written about African- <BR>Americans, and at least one piece was evidently 
  <BR>considered too risque for the '30s reader. <BR>Chambrun wrote that "Miz 
  Briggs' Son" would be <BR>hard to follow for "one unacquainted with the 
  <BR>various details of Negor [sic] life . . ." and of <BR>another, that "here 
  again the subject matter would <BR>stand in its way." <BR>The long-time editor 
  of Household, Nelson <BR>Antrim Crawford, rejected the manuscript 
  <BR>"Statesman's Wife" in 1937 because he feared "the <BR>racial emphasis 
  would be objectionable to a good <BR>many of our readers." Of the manuscript 
  "Coolie <BR>Coat," Crawford wrote that it was "exceptionally <BR>well done," 
  that he liked its style "immensely," but <BR>that he didn't think it was "the 
  sort of story for a <BR>popular magazine." Its subject: a woman who <BR>long 
  before has had a son by her half-sister's <BR>husband and has lived with the 
  couple until the <BR>story's opening at the husband's death. <BR>Certainly not 
  all Edythe's rejections were <BR>brought on by her being out of the mainstream 
  in <BR>her subject matter. Her style drew criticism as <BR>well. Her girlhood 
  friend Margaret Widdemer <BR>assessed Edythe's writing with: ". . . your 
  material <BR>is of good literary grade, but sometimes fails in <BR>technique. 
  Which is easy; for work will always <BR>improve technique, while organic 
  badness isn't a <BR>thing one can help." Midland editor Frederick <BR>thought 
  that Edythe was not always realizing the <BR>possibilities inherent in her 
  material. <BR>In 1941 Margaret E. Dowst of the Saturday <BR>Evening Post wrote 
  Edythe that in contrast to the <BR>work of most of the writers the Post dealt 
  with, <BR>which told "entirely too much," Edythe's fiction <BR>was akin to 
  "getting pieces of a puzzle . . . rather <BR>than being shown a complete 
  picture." Crawford <BR>complained that a lot of her work was "too 
  <BR>elliptical for the average reader." He also found <BR>some to be tales "a 
  trifle thin." Chambrun once <BR>called Edythe's talent "as yet untrained," and 
  said <BR>she swung "from the hard-boiled to the <BR>sentimental and romantic." 
  <BR>In her weakest work, Edythe is hopelessly <BR>sentimental and romantic. 
  She evidently tailored <BR>some things for her markets for an obvious if not 
  <BR>altogether acceptable reason: she needed the <BR>money. The newspaper 
  short-shorts (about which <BR>Peg says, "She got eight dollars a story and she 
  <BR>needed it") are top among her potboilers. <BR>The '30s dealt Edythe two 
  <BR>disappointments. For several years Fadiman at <BR>Simon and Schuster had 
  asked her for a book- <BR>length work. But in 1935 the publishing house 
  <BR>rejected The Fruit at Singapore manuscript, <BR>Fadiman reporting that the 
  overall opinion of the <BR>readers was that the book's tone was "too 
  <BR>unrelieved, too monotonous," though it was held <BR>that the material had 
  "authenticity," and that <BR>"some of the moods of the little girl are very 
  well <BR>handled indeed." Fadiman said he regretted <BR>extremely not being 
  able to take the manuscript, <BR>asking her to "forgive the unvarnished candor 
  of <BR>these criticisms. . . ." Simon and Schuster was <BR>still "very much 
  interested" in her work, he wrote, <BR>and asked for "a chance to read any 
  subsequent <BR>offerings." <BR>Three years later, Edythe was turned down 
  <BR>for a Houghton Mifflin literary fellowship on the <BR>basis of The Fruit 
  at Singapore book project, <BR>although she was in "the top few given special 
  <BR>consideration." Houghton Mifflin did ask for "the <BR>privilege of 
  considering" the finished book as a <BR>regular manuscript, as it was thought 
  the story <BR>would be "an unusually appealing one." 
  <P>* * * 
  <P>Edythe had reached the pinnacle of her <BR>success as a fiction writer, 
  according to <BR>conventional measures, when she was reprinted in <BR>The Best 
  Short Stories of 1930. She was, her <BR>daughter Peg says, ready for "a great 
  change" <BR>when the Parsons Sun job came up in 1942. <BR>Initially, Edythe 
  wrote pretty much a straight news <BR>column. Later, Peg says, the Sun "turned 
  her <BR>loose" and her column became chattier and even a <BR>little rambling 
  at times. <BR>Her inaugural column, appearing <BR>September 1, 1942, reflects 
  her typical humility <BR>and is written with disarming openness: 
  <P>In this her first column your very <BR>new and very, very apprehensive 
  reporter <BR>greets you. She used to sit out on the edge <BR>of town beside an 
  alfalfa field, look out <BR>over the pleasant Kansas land and see men <BR>and 
  women working. She heard from the <BR>town the sounds of work. <BR>Now she has 
  work. It could be <BR>important, done right. She is not sure she <BR>can do it 
  right. She'll try. You'll tell her <BR>her mistakes. Tell her, too, won't you, 
  <BR>items about your neighbors and your <BR>family that will help all to a 
  better <BR>understanding of each other's lives? We <BR>need each other. 
  <P>Despite her reservations, Edythe handled <BR>the job well, not only the 
  reporting, but also the <BR>additional responsibility of being the Oswego 
  <BR>circulation manager for about fifteen years. <BR>Remembering Edythe, 
  Parsons Sun <BR>columnist Jim Davis wrote in a 1979 memo: 
  <P>Her column for The Sun was <BR>supposed to include news from the city 
  <BR>hall, the county courthouse, and other hard <BR>news sources, but Mrs. 
  Draper tended to <BR>pass them over lightly. She would rather <BR>write of a 
  personality, the view from the <BR>bluff at Riverside Park, the looks of 
  <BR>Oswego's water tower when draped with <BR>Christmas lights. <BR>She had a 
  lavish vocabulary. By <BR>newspaper standards, her style was ornate. <BR>She 
  seemed to have many readers. Not <BR>nearly all of them were Oswego residents. 
  <BR>`Now doesn't that sound like Mrs. Draper,' <BR>was a comment often heard 
  about her <BR>work. <BR>Friends of Mrs. Draper noted <BR>quicksilver in her 
  makeup. Sometimes she <BR>spoke bitterly of her writing. She thought <BR>she 
  hadn't accomplished as much as she <BR>should have. But the bitterness seemed 
  to <BR>be fleeting. It would quickly disappear and <BR>she might giggle. Even 
  in her later years, <BR>she sometimes giggled like a schoolgirl at 
  <BR>herself. 
  <P>As one of her sisters once observed, <BR>Edythe never had to grow old. When 
  nearly sixty <BR>she landed a steady job which kept her in the <BR>hubbub of 
  the little town's daily life. Her son Jim <BR>taught her to swim after fifty, 
  and to drive after <BR>sixty. And like the speaker she described in the 
  <BR>letter to Lucy, in old age Edythe was a "vigorous, <BR>turrible strong" 
  woman. At the age of seventy- <BR>five, she fell on some ice, badly fracturing 
  both <BR>wrists. Discharged from the hospital, her forearms <BR>in casts, she 
  would sit in a chair intoning, "I'm <BR>willing these bones to knit." To speed 
  up the <BR>mending process, she bought hard rubber balls, <BR>which she 
  squeezed even as she walked about <BR>town, writing to her daughter Lucy and 
  her son- <BR>in-law Tom in California, "I may be going to have <BR>the 
  strongest hands in the U.S.!" She also wrote <BR>them, "Do you listen and read 
  and feel the pulse <BR>of the world?" <BR>The dutiful Edythe loosened up, if 
  only a <BR>bit, in old age. In her seventies she went to <BR>church only to 
  fall asleep as soon as the sermon <BR>began, telling her amused children, "I 
  owe it to <BR>your father to go." She wrote to Lucy and Tom: <BR>"If we did 
  not always want people to conform to <BR>our ideas of the good life! I feel it 
  of course <BR>when I am disapproved of for missing church <BR>services." 
  <BR>During the last few years of her life, <BR>influenced by Arnold Bennett's 
  How to Live on 24 <BR>Hours a Day, Edythe tackled after-hours projects. 
  <BR>She didn't sleep much during those years, but <BR>napped while watching 
  television, telling Peg, <BR>"The marvelous thing about T.V. is its soporific 
  <BR>quality." At age seventy-nine, she closed a letter <BR>to Lucy with: "I 
  think I will set and teevee a <BR>little. I am jangled." <BR>At her life's 
  end, she returned to fiction, <BR>making revisions on her children's novel Red 
  <BR>Flannel Dreams after work. In 1974 Peg wrote <BR>about her mother's last 
  year: 
  <P>It is sad to realize how interested Edythe <BR>was at age 82 in going back 
  to creative <BR>writing, having proved that she could earn <BR>the living for 
  the family and save for old <BR>age, which she never had to endure, for 
  <BR>twenty years. She was actively revising a <BR>novel when her body refused 
  to keep <BR>going. When she found out she faced <BR>surgery, she said, `I just 
  feel like saying <BR>DAMN about a thousand times.' Her <BR>granddaughter said, 
  `Well, why don't you?' <BR>And Edythe said, `I can't. I'm a NICE <BR>woman.' 
  <P>Edythe told Peg that only during those last two <BR>years had she felt she 
  belonged anywhere. Until <BR>then, Peg said, "She thought that the town still 
  <BR>considered her a foreigner, an outlander." Many <BR>people grieved openly 
  when she was dying, <BR>coming into her hospital room to cry. <BR>The headline 
  of the September 3, 1964, <BR>column, written the day after Edythe had entered 
  <BR>the hospital for removal of a fibroid tumor read, <BR>"Family Subs for 
  `Mrs. D.'" The following day, <BR>her son-in-law wrote in the column: "Here's 
  <BR>hoping that frail body and indomitable spirit <BR>emerge from the Oswego 
  Hospital `still achieving, <BR>still pursuing'--as in Longfellow's `Psalm of 
  <BR>Life'--a great soul ready for any fate." Three <BR>weeks later, on 
  September 25, 1964, Edythe died. <BR>In about forty years she had not had a 
  pelvic <BR>exam, and the tumor--nonmalignant--was the size <BR>of a person's 
  head. She died from post-operative <BR>pneumonia. <BR>Her Asbury Park 
  acquaintance Margaret <BR>Widdemer had years before written Edythe one of 
  <BR>her father's favored adages, ". . . we weave from <BR>the wrong side of 
  the tapestry--we cannot see the <BR>pattern." Edythe Squier Draper discerned 
  that <BR>pattern better than most. <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Jeffrey Ann Goudie is a free-lance writer who publishes a weekly <BR>column 
  in the Topeka Metro News. Her book reviews have <BR>appeared in the Kansas 
  City Star, the Women's Review of Books <BR>and the New York Times Book Review. 
  <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>As Grass <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>It was only February, but the woman was <BR>in her garden. She was kneeling 
  on the ground, <BR>her small body crouched low over it. To a casual <BR>eye 
  she might have seemed to be working, but she <BR>was not pulling up the bent, 
  black stalks of last <BR>year's vegetation; she was not planting anything; 
  <BR>merely in contact with the ground were her hands. <BR>She peered closely 
  at the earth beneath and about <BR>her, only raising her face a moment now and 
  <BR>again to glance at the sky, at the leafless, conical <BR>pear trees beside 
  the garden, or up into the maples <BR>embracing the steep roof of her small, 
  brown <BR>house. But always her eyes came back to the <BR>ground, and her 
  mouth moved in whispered <BR>question. <BR>"What's a-goin' on? What is it 
  a-goin' <BR>on?" <BR>She wore a rusty black coat and a brown <BR>stocking-cap. 
  Her eyes were quite blue, like the <BR>blue of certain phlox and of sky. Her 
  face in <BR>summer would be brown as tree-trunks; now it <BR>was pale, as a 
  thing long away from the sun is. A <BR>deep wrinkle was on each side of her 
  mouth; <BR>lesser wrinkles, at the corners of her eyes. <BR>Her face did not 
  change in color or in line, <BR>though it lifted, when a car, the mail-man's, 
  <BR>dingy, caked with dried mud, made outcry before <BR>her house and stopped. 
  Only a slight, swift <BR>shudder went over her body and it shrank a <BR>moment 
  against the earth. <BR>"I knowed--I knowed--it'd come some <BR>day." <BR>She 
  got to her feet, brushed her hands on <BR>each other, and with regular, long, 
  unhasting <BR>strides approached the disheveled bringer of <BR>tidings. <BR>A 
  hand stretched out from black curtains. <BR>A man, a man wanting to hurry on, 
  shouted: <BR>"Letter, Miz Wentz!" <BR>She waved the greyish rectangle as if 
  she <BR>fanned. Funny thing, her getting a letter; it wasn't 
  <BR>important--that was what the fanning was to tell. <BR>She opened her mouth 
  to say something, but <BR>closed it again. The car was making too much 
  <BR>noise. There now, it was gone. She had planned <BR>to say that Brother 
  Henry had gone out to <BR>California from Arkansas just to look around a 
  <BR>little, and that that was how she happened to have <BR>a letter from 
  California, but she had been too late <BR>getting these words out of her 
  mouth. Now, Herb <BR>Bickel, would he say anything to Mrs. Cook? But 
  <BR>maybe--maybe Mrs. Cook was in the house <BR>talking to some one over the 
  telephone, not out <BR>watching for Herb Bickel. <BR>"No. She's 
  a-seein'...she's a-seein'..." <BR>She pushed the letter inside her coat, 
  <BR>hurrying, mussing it, her back toward Mrs. Cook's <BR>tall, yellow house 
  with so many windows. <BR>It was toward the barn she went, slight, <BR>stooped 
  over, eyes not failing to glance at <BR>everything in the circle of her going, 
  as always. <BR>In the barn she stood a moment, and one <BR>of her small tough 
  hands went to her throat, then <BR>down. With both hands she took up the 
  pitchfork <BR>and threw out heavy forkfuls of manure, scraping, <BR>lifting, 
  pitching, with a certain rhythm. Quite <BR>suddenly, definitely, she stopped. 
  She closed the <BR>barn door and fastened it. With the handle of the <BR>fork 
  under her arm she stood still. She slipped <BR>her hand inside her coat where 
  the letter was. The <BR>hand came out empty. A moment she leaned <BR>heavily 
  on the fork, another and another. At last <BR>she shifted the fork a little 
  and drew from its <BR>hiding-place the soiled thing that snickered and 
  <BR>whispered. <BR>She held it in the brownish light, at this <BR>distance and 
  that from her eyes, the thin paper <BR>with grey pencil markings going 
  crookedly <BR>between dim blue lines. <BR>After a while she had spelled out 
  most of <BR>the words. <BR>She lifted her face, and her eyes were not <BR>now 
  the color of phlox, but dark as violets in a <BR>wood. They were fixed on the 
  barn window. <BR>Three dark cows about the color of the <BR>pasture lumbered 
  across the square the window <BR>made, and grey chickens walked and picked. 
  Her <BR>eyes moved with these, but something else filled <BR>her eyes, pushed 
  these from her seeing. <BR>Into the barn with its warm dampness and 
  <BR>sourness of manure came noises: robins calling <BR>sharply from fence post 
  and dark ground; cocks <BR>crowing far, near; hens singing the egg-song; a 
  <BR>horn; a man's giddap; a child's high laugh. <BR>Sounds of life. She 
  cowered and shrank from <BR>these. <BR>At last her eyes came slowly again to 
  the <BR>letter in her hands: "Dear Pearl well I com to <BR>California like you 
  ast me to you give me enuff <BR>mony alrite of course nobody dident know his 
  <BR>name wasent Jerry Jones..." <BR>"Miz Wentz! Miz We-e-e-entz!" <BR>The fork 
  fell from under her arm. Her <BR>eyes flew to the door. <BR>No, Mrs. Cook had 
  not been in talking to <BR>some one over her telephone. <BR>She crushed letter 
  and envelope together <BR>and pushed them inside her coat. <BR>"But Miz Cook 
  knows I always do clear <BR>out th' barn 'n' water them cows this time ever' 
  <BR>day." She said this aloud as if arguing with some <BR>one. <BR>She went 
  from the barn out into the <BR>pasture. She worked the handle of the pump up 
  <BR>and down until the tub under the spout was full. <BR>She walked across to 
  one of the cows standing <BR>and chewing her cud and felt of her and looked at 
  <BR>her udder. Molly would be fresh soon. <BR>"Miz We-e-entz! Miz We-e-entz! 
  Miz <BR>We-e-e-entz!" <BR>She turned and looked. <BR>She was surprised, the 
  quick jerk of her <BR>body might say. <BR>Mrs. Cook was there by the kitchen 
  door. <BR>Mrs. Cook had her yellow bowl. Did Mrs. Cook <BR>want to borrow 
  three cups of cornmeal? <BR>She went to the fence, lifted the lowest 
  <BR>strand of wire, and got down under it. Her arm <BR>pressed her left side. 
  The letter whispered. Her <BR>hands, as she crawled under the fence, felt the 
  <BR>tough, lank grass and her fingers clung among the <BR>roots, not bearing 
  to leave them. If you could <BR>only stay against the ground--if you could 
  with all <BR>of you stay against the ground... <BR>She opened the door for 
  Mrs. Cook to step <BR>up into the kitchen. It was three cups of cornmeal 
  <BR>Mrs. Cook wanted. <BR>"Didn't you remember about the funeral <BR>being 
  this morning?" Mrs. Cook was a large <BR>woman who never smiled, with big grey 
  eyes that <BR>looked and looked and looked. "Yes, at ten." She <BR>stood and 
  fixed her grey eyes, where they were <BR>going to stay a while, on Pearl 
  Wentz. She went <BR>on again in her slow, slow way. "All the relatives <BR>are 
  here but Mrs. Denton's aunt in Illinoise, and <BR>she's right old and poorly. 
  It's going to be a <BR>large funeral. I'll be by for you. You be ready." 
  <BR>"I don't know's I..." <BR>"Oh, you'd ought to go, I think." Mrs. <BR>Cook 
  had been a school teacher. "You'd ought to <BR>go to a neighbor's funeral. 
  Folks might talk. Of <BR>course, Mrs. Denton's not what you'd call a near 
  <BR>neighbor, but she's bought a sight of chickens and <BR>eggs and butter off 
  of you. The pallbearers will <BR>be boys Fred run around with before he joined 
  up <BR>with the navy. Reverend Ditton's to have charge. <BR>I'll be by. You be 
  ready." <BR>But Mrs. Cook did not pick up the yellow <BR>bowl. <BR>"You heard 
  from Jim lately?" <BR>"Not right lately." <BR>"Out in California, isn't he?" 
  <BR>"He--was." <BR>"Where is he now?" <BR>"I don't just--know." <BR>"Hasn't 
  been home in years, has he?" <BR>"It's been quite a spell." <BR>"Looked like 
  Herb Bickel give you a letter <BR>this morning." <BR>"Jest a ad." <BR>"Where 
  is it?" <BR>"Musta left it out to the barn. I'll bring it <BR>in next time I 
  go out." <BR>"Say, what in the world are you doing out <BR>in the garden these 
  days? Hasn't been a day <BR>lately you haven't been out there. This warm 
  <BR>spell can't last, you know; plenty of freezing <BR>weather yet. What you 
  trying to do out there?" <BR>"Jes'--I was jest workin'." <BR>"Looks like you 
  could find something to <BR>do in the house, quilt-piecing or something. Don't 
  <BR>you expect Jim'll be getting married; need some <BR>of his mother's 
  quilts?" <BR>"Oh, yes--quilts." <BR>Was that she laughing that laugh that was 
  <BR>like the rubbing together of two dry shingles? <BR>Mrs. Cook seemed never 
  to need to wink. <BR>Her eyes, her wide, calm eyes, staid on Mrs. <BR>Wentz's 
  face and neck and breast and hands. At <BR>last slowly she turned, took up the 
  yellow bowl <BR>from the table. Maybe she was going now. <BR>Not yet. <BR>For 
  a minute the kitchen was very still, and <BR>then Mrs. Cook said: <BR>"You 
  don't look so very well, Mrs. Wentz, <BR>I don't think." <BR>Pearl made a 
  noise in her throat. It might <BR>have been another short laugh, and it might 
  not. <BR>"Need a round o' calomel, I expect," she said, and <BR>the flat voice 
  was not different from the voice of <BR>last week, of last month. <BR>Mrs. 
  Cook, at the door now, opened it, <BR>turned her head slowly on her large 
  body, and <BR>looked again at Pearl. "Maybe--that's it," she <BR>said, and 
  stepped heavily out. "Funeral's at ten. <BR>You be ready. I'll be by for you 
  pretty soon." <BR>You be ready. You be ready. <BR>She went to the stove and 
  looked back <BR>over her shoulder at the door, at the window, at <BR>the door 
  again. She put one hand inside her coat. <BR>The other hand she laid on the 
  stove-lid holder <BR>and lifted the lid. She held the paper, tried to 
  <BR>spread it out so, with one hand, tried to read it <BR>again. And then she 
  started, glanced again at the <BR>door, shivered, dropped paper and envelope 
  in the <BR>stove, set the lid over it, and opened the draft in <BR>front. 
  <BR>A roar, short and swift. A blood-red, brief <BR>light. <BR>She closed the 
  draft, took her hand away <BR>from the stove-lid holder, and stepped away from 
  <BR>the stove. <BR>I'll be by for you. You be ready. You be <BR>ready. <BR>She 
  changed to her best dress. It was red, <BR>one her cousin had sent. It should 
  not have been-- <BR>red. <BR>"Mrs. We-e-e-entz! You ready?" <BR>She went and 
  opened the door and went <BR>out to Mrs. Cook. <BR>It did not matter about 
  Mrs. Cook's eyes <BR>when you walked along beside her. She almost <BR>forgot 
  about Mrs. Cook talking about the <BR>Denton's, proud of knowing about the 
  richest <BR>family. Head down, a little ahead of her body, <BR>eyes on the 
  ground beside the walk, she went <BR>along with Mrs. Cook. Oh, yes, small 
  green <BR>things. Small, green things that made no <BR>difference in the look 
  of the ground from above, <BR>so small were they. But if you killed and 
  cleaned <BR>a chicken for some one, didn't you find its craw <BR>full of 
  small, green leaves and thick, short pieces <BR>of grass? In February, even? 
  She put her foot <BR>out now and then and brushed the ground with it, 
  <BR>until Mrs. Cook told her to stay on the sidewalk. <BR>But her eyes she did 
  not keep on the <BR>sidewalk. No. She saw the ground--small, green <BR>things. 
  <BR>But then, more houses, wider sidewalks, <BR>less and less ground. <BR>Mrs. 
  Cook, big, not hurrying, turning her <BR>large eyes upon porches and windows 
  and people <BR>going along in their clothes, talking in her slow, <BR>slow 
  way, and Pearl Wentz, small, not talking, <BR>eyes downward bent, going side 
  by side on the <BR>hard, smooth, straight sidewalk toward a big, <BR>yellow 
  house. <BR>The big, yellow house had almost no yard, <BR>no ground. It was a 
  fine house, the finest in <BR>town, big and clean, with grand lace curtains at 
  <BR>the wide, clean windows. Now, today, long <BR>shining cars drew gently up 
  to the curbing and <BR>stood, while stiff dolls of people got out and went 
  <BR>two by two up the very white, straight walk <BR>between small, pointed 
  trees that did not look like <BR>real trees, to the fine house. <BR>It was 
  when they turned to go between the <BR>pointed trees that she saw it. She saw 
  the hearse. <BR>It was grey. It was handsome. It was waiting. <BR>Oh, Jim! 
  <BR>Her voice screaming out in a loud cry that <BR>broke into the cool 
  blue-gold of the sky. <BR>What would come now? What would Mrs. <BR>Cook do? 
  All the people? <BR>But Mrs. Cook, walking along, did not do <BR>anything. The 
  man sitting on the front of the <BR>hearse did not turn his neat head. The 
  people <BR>walking up in their furs and velvets did not look <BR>at her. They 
  went on into the house. <BR>And so there she was beside Mrs. Cook, <BR>walking 
  on the hard, smooth, white walk to the <BR>house where a funeral was going to 
  be. <BR>Mrs. Ella Parsons, yes, that was who it <BR>was, in a long purple 
  dress with loose sleeves, <BR>face so red, so fat, letting people in the front 
  door, <BR>pointing, pushing, whispering close to people's <BR>faces. <BR>She 
  went over the step into the Denton <BR>house, Mrs. Cook's big body right there 
  behind <BR>her, Mrs. Parsons whispering to her to go on and <BR>sit on the 
  front row in the parlor, to save the seats <BR>near the door for those coming 
  later. <BR>The chairs were green or red carpet chairs, <BR>party, funeral, 
  church-supper, lodge chairs. They <BR>leaned away back and their round, yellow 
  legs <BR>seemed not very strong. They made you keep <BR>very still, leaning 
  back. <BR>Warm and still and darkish the big, clean <BR>house that seemed so 
  empty for all it was full of <BR>people. <BR>Flowers. Thousands of flowers, in 
  the <BR>winter time. Their smell pressed upon you, <BR>smothering... <BR>Flag. 
  So they put a flag on a boy's coffin. <BR>No. Oh, no. A flag was for some kind 
  of <BR>soldier. <BR>She was close to Frederick Denton. <BR>Smooth, black hair. 
  A triangle of white forehead. <BR>You'd ought to go to a neighbor's funeral. 
  <BR>You'd ought to go to a neighbor's funeral. You'd <BR>ought to go... 
  <BR>Mrs. Cook leaned over, half whispering, <BR>half spoke. <BR>"How you 
  feelin', Miz Wentz?" <BR>"Fine," she whispered back. <BR>Still, everything. 
  Except for a chair creak- <BR>ing. Except for a whisper, the rustle of silk, a 
  <BR>sigh. <BR>A cardinal--a cardinal away off there in the <BR>sun and the 
  west wind? <BR>How still. <BR>One soft, low note from a piano. Low 
  <BR>singing. <BR>A thing came and took her by the neck, <BR>closed, closed its 
  fingers. How could she <BR>breathe... <BR>Don't let nobody know. Don't let 
  nobody <BR>know. <BR>She put her feet down hard--on the ground. <BR>She put 
  her hands on the ground, as she had this <BR>morning in the garden. She held 
  her body, her <BR>ears, her face, all of her, against earth, her eyes 
  <BR>seeing it black and brown and faintly green, her <BR>hands knowing its 
  cool dampness. <BR>Her throat came out of the squeezing <BR>fingers. 
  <BR>Nobody's a-goin' to know. <BR>She would go away. She would go away, 
  <BR>not be at the funeral. She could go away from the <BR>singing, the 
  reading, from Gawd's will, and the <BR>plan of salvation. She could go away. 
  <BR>She went away. To other days. <BR>She had not wanted to marry Mr. Wentz. 
  <BR>She had not wanted to go with him to the fair that <BR>day. She was 
  dressed up, waiting in the front <BR>yard for Ed Grant. She had on the ruffled 
  dress <BR>she had made, white with pink rosebuds scattered <BR>over it, and a 
  pink sash. She was waiting for Ed <BR>Grant. Her mother told her to step right 
  up there <BR>in Mr. Wentz's buggy, step right up there. She <BR>was used to 
  doing what her mother said. She was <BR>fifteen and small; her mother's hand 
  was hard. Ed <BR>Grant wouldn't speak to her ever after that day. <BR>Mr. 
  Wentz had two farms; he was rich, her <BR>mother said. He had children, old as 
  she was. <BR>"Girl, I'd rather see you in your grave than <BR>married to that 
  man," her father said. And then he <BR>had seen himself into his own grave, 
  and she had <BR>married Mr. Wentz. People called Mr. Wentz a <BR>handsome man. 
  He was a good enough man, too, <BR>they said, only he had a rotten 
  disposition. He <BR>whipped his children. He whipped his girls. He <BR>whipped 
  Jim. <BR>Jim ran away when he was maybe <BR>fourteen. The night before she had 
  seen him <BR>leaning on the garden fence, and she thought he <BR>might be 
  running away soon. The sun was <BR>setting. It was a nice evening. He had come 
  and <BR>touched her, accidental-like, when he passed her <BR>by the stove with 
  an armful of wood nobody had <BR>told him to bring in. <BR>Yes, Jim had run 
  away when he was <BR>maybe fourteen. <BR>Oh, that was Mrs. Denton. She was 
  taking <BR>on. You had to hear her. She was taking on <BR>terrible. Reverend 
  Ditton calling her Gold Star <BR>Mother. <BR>Gold Star Mother. Was that such a 
  thing <BR>to cry about? <BR>Gold Star. Last night she had called the <BR>cows, 
  "Suk-cow, suk, suk, suk!" She had stood <BR>waiting beside the barn while they 
  came slowly in, <BR>one black moving thing after another, through the 
  <BR>dusk, into the barn to be milked. She had stood <BR>there waiting and she 
  had seen one star over the <BR>high black hedge beyond the pasture. The sky 
  <BR>was red behind the hedge. The star was clear and <BR>golden, very golden. 
  One clear, golden star above <BR>a red sky and a black hedge. <BR>Gold Star, 
  up in a pale green sky, above <BR>red of cloud, black of earth. Up. <BR>Where 
  was--Jim? <BR>Once when he was a very little boy she <BR>had heard him 
  calling: "Mom! Mom! Look! <BR>Mom!" <BR>She had seen his face after a while, 
  among <BR>white pear blossoms. He was laughing. He had <BR>climbed up on the 
  chicken-house roof, then to the <BR>barn, along the ridge, and there he was, 
  in the sun, <BR>blue sky above him, bees humming, a meadow- <BR>lark calling, 
  pigeons cooing. Then Mr. Wentz had <BR>come around the barn. Soon, no laughing 
  among <BR>white blossoms; screaming in the barn. <BR>See the ground. Look now, 
  look close. <BR>Look. See? See that flower-petal that comes <BR>slowly down 
  through the air? See? It comes to <BR>the ground, and lies there. What happens 
  to it? <BR>Ground takes it, works on it. <BR>Well, and fine ripe fruit comes 
  to the <BR>ground in its time, and lies. <BR>Yes, and that's all right, of 
  course. <BR>But sometimes young fruit gets knocked <BR>off by something, or it 
  falls, unripe, gnarled, <BR>bitter, because a canker-worm has got into the 
  <BR>heart of the white-petalled blossom. How's that? <BR>Eh? How's that, now, 
  old woman? <BR>Well, the ground 'll look out for it. <BR>Ground 'll look out 
  for petal, ripe fruit, cankered <BR>fruit... <BR>"Ensign Frederick Charles 
  Denton was <BR>born December the tenth, nineteen hundred and <BR>six..." 
  <BR>Jim Wentz was born 'long about the <BR>middle of January... <BR>"Frederick 
  Charles Denton died at sea in <BR>the performance of his duty on February the 
  <BR>second, nineteen hundred and thirty..." <BR>Jim Wentz... <BR>Words of the 
  letter: "The exacution was <BR>early in the morning he didnt mean to..." 
  <BR>"Those wishing to view the remains..." <BR>Oh, but Mrs. Denton was taking 
  on. <BR>If she could get to Mrs. Denton, tell her... <BR>But the undertaker's 
  arm in the way was <BR>strong, and Mrs. Ella Parsons pushed and said, <BR>"The 
  nerve of some people." <BR>And so she came to be out of the house, <BR>going 
  down the white, straight walk between the <BR>pointed, small tress. <BR>Mrs. 
  Cook was not with her. Mrs. Cook <BR>was hurrying to get in a big, shining 
  car. <BR>More and more ground, out from town. <BR>Sun shining. West wind. 
  Warm. Cool. <BR>Robins calling from fence post and brown <BR>grass; cocks 
  crowing far, near; hens singing the <BR>egg-song; a horn; a man's giddap; a 
  child's high <BR>laugh. <BR>She raised her head a moment, saw, heard, <BR>and 
  then again her eyes were downward bent. <BR>"I've a mind to plant me some 
  taters." <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>---------------------------------------------------------------- 
  <P>The Voice of the Turtle <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>The first dandelions were blooming. <BR>Peach tree branches were red in the 
  sun. <BR>A boy was ploughing in a small wood- <BR>bordered field by a river. 
  But he stopped. When <BR>he heard a certain sound he stopped. The sound 
  <BR>came from a machine going strongly to and fro in <BR>a town a mile away 
  from the field. The plough <BR>handles shook in the boy's dark hands. The mule 
  <BR>before the plough turned his solemn countenance, <BR>regarded that behind 
  him, lowered his head and <BR>began nuzzling a grass-fringed clod. Away the 
  <BR>boy leaped over shining black earth-billows. His <BR>hands shut and 
  unshut. His shoulders heaved with <BR>his sobbing breaths. Tears rolled down 
  his thin <BR>cheeks, and while he wept he laughed, as nightly <BR>he did with 
  the other saints. One god to the boy <BR>was as another. <BR>He came to the 
  river bank, rolled down, <BR>ran beside slow black water to an embankment, 
  <BR>climbed and ran on a trestle, once in his life <BR>unafraid of the water 
  grinning and greedy between <BR>the ties. As he ran down the track he wept; he 
  <BR>laughed, panting. He came to a smooth hard road. <BR>He ran. <BR>"Get on 
  the sidewalk, you blamed fool!" <BR>Hands of the town marshal were upon him, 
  <BR>so that his bones, his eyes, ears, hands, and feet <BR>had the sense of 
  things shaken into them. <BR>"Act like ye was drunk, boy! Straighten <BR>up, 
  or I'll run ye in!" <BR>Trembling inside, quiet outside, he walked <BR>on the 
  white cement among people. He heard a <BR>man laugh and say: "I'd ought to be 
  home a- <BR>workin', a-gettin' the spring work did. But <BR>nothin' for it I 
  should bring th' kids to the circus. <BR>That there steam pyano don't seem to 
  give ye no <BR>rest." <BR>"'Llo! If there ain't Forrest! How's th' <BR>boy? 
  Huh?" <BR>He was standing face to face with a boy <BR>and two girls. They came 
  to church some nights-- <BR>sat on a back bench. He knew them. They knew 
  <BR>him. One girl pushed the other over against him, <BR>all of them laughing. 
  And so he was walking <BR>pretty soon with this girl, his first time for 
  <BR>walking with a girl. She touched his arm, his leg, <BR>as she swung her 
  small skirt there beside him, <BR>looking around, laughing, chewing. She 
  stopped <BR>suddenly and, with her hand, which had silver <BR>rings on slim 
  gray fingers, caught his arm in its <BR>thin dark sleeve. <BR>"Say! I'm crazy 
  'bout them b'lloons! <BR>Ain't they swell?" <BR>A little farther on a thousand 
  red and blue <BR>and yellow balls were in the air above the dark <BR>people. 
  <BR>The girl's hand on his arm was hard and <BR>anxious. His eyes turned away 
  from the balloons, <BR>and toward the girl. He saw her red, red cheeks, 
  <BR>her flour-white nose, her clouded brown eyes <BR>staring at him, while 
  now, pressing his arm, was <BR>her breast as well as her hand. A line, as he 
  <BR>stared, grew deeper between the opaque eyes of <BR>her. The white nose 
  wrinkled; the very red, thin <BR>mouth curled. <BR>"Durn tightwad!" <BR>The 
  cry came into his ears and rang there, <BR>driving out the voices of people 
  calling, laughing, <BR>the roar of machines, the squeal of whistles in 
  <BR>children's mouths, all the noises of the town. He <BR>fell against a 
  building's white front, at the girl's <BR>hard push upon him. The girl ran and 
  caught <BR>another boy's arm. <BR>"'Llo, Virg, ole kid!" she gaily screamed. 
  <BR>"Goin' to th' circus?" <BR>Virg laughed and put his hand high up <BR>under 
  her arm, pulled her close, and they went <BR>among the people toward the 
  balloon-man, who <BR>bellowed through a funnel: "Ten cents! Only ten 
  <BR>cents! One dime! Balloon for one dime. Only <BR>one dime. Ten cents. Get 
  your girl a balloon." <BR>Ten cents! Forrest knew where ten cents 
  <BR>was--more than ten cents. Poppy had money he <BR>was going to buy another 
  cow with because old <BR>Moll's udder had got half-caked. Pop kept the 
  <BR>money in the old coffee-pot right there in the <BR>kitchen above the 
  stove. He'd go home, get the <BR>money, and come back, find the girl, and buy 
  a <BR>balloon, a sack of candy, everything. <BR>He ran out of the town on 
  roads. He <BR>turned in at a rutted lane. <BR>It was getting evening. The 
  steam piano <BR>was going up and down in the town. Voicelessly <BR>he laughed 
  and called back, "I'm a-comin'!" <BR>He neared the small, sagging unporched 
  <BR>house there beside the river, things lying about in <BR>the yard, a 
  wheelbarrow without its wheel, a piece <BR>of harness, the handle and the 
  tooth part of a rake, <BR>overturned coops, buckets. A man, a small man 
  <BR>such as Forrest was getting to be, stood on the <BR>town side of the barn. 
  His head was stretched <BR>forward. His fingers moved, and his knees. His 
  <BR>brown eyes--like a hungry dog's--were open and <BR>fixed. He laughed 
  aloud, once, and then he <BR>became still--listening. <BR>Two little girls 
  with pigtails sat on a hen- <BR>coop; an elder swung in a boardless loop of 
  rope <BR>hanging from a small tree. The girls were not <BR>talking, not 
  playing. Their mouths were open, <BR>their eyes turned toward town. <BR>"I'll 
  git the money. I'll git the money, go <BR>on back. I'll git the money." 
  Whispering, the <BR>boy went. But a woman was in the doorway, her <BR>hands 
  braced against its sides, a faded red calico <BR>dress hanging in long limp 
  folds from her lean <BR>neck. She was very tall. A bit of light hair in a 
  <BR>high thin knob went up from the top of her high <BR>thin head. Her mouth 
  was open, one tooth <BR>hanging down from the purplish gum. Her eyes, 
  <BR>lightish, were not clear, were not unlike the eyes <BR>of the girl in the 
  town wanting a balloon, <BR>something so beautiful. The film over the 
  <BR>woman's eyes was the film of desire and dream. <BR>For a passing moment 
  she was aware of <BR>the boy, her son. Then she threw up her hands, <BR>and 
  her face convulsively stiffened. Her eyes <BR>rolled upward until only the 
  whites were visible, <BR>and so they remained, half-open. <BR>"I'm took--one 
  o' my spells," she said, in <BR>her voice that was always strangely like a 
  man's. <BR>And there she was, lying stiff and long on the <BR>floor inside the 
  house. <BR>The little girl in the swing left it, came and <BR>stood beside 
  Forrest, regarded her mother a <BR>moment, ran away. She came back, and Poppy 
  <BR>was with her. <BR>"Mommy?" the little man seemed in a high <BR>tenor to 
  sing to the long woman on the floor. <BR>"Mommy?" <BR>Mommy gave no sign. 
  <BR>Poppy turned to Forrest. "You take 'er <BR>feet, me 'er head. We'll get 
  'er on the bed." <BR>They got her on the bed in the corner. She <BR>was heavy 
  for the two small men, but not hard to <BR>carry, being stiff like a long iron 
  rod. On the bed <BR>her lips moved. <BR>"Poppy?" <BR>"Yes, Mommy?" <BR>"Git 
  some on...'em...in...to...pray..." <BR>"Yes, yes, Mommy, I will, Mommy." 
  <BR>"Brother Pennington...Miz <BR>Myers...Miz...Zoucha...Brother Armes an' 
  wife..." <BR>The little man twisted his hands, his <BR>Adam's apple working 
  fast in his thin yellow <BR>throat. "Yes, Mommy. Yes, Mommy. An' I <BR>reckon 
  I'd best git th' Ruttgens...an'..." Poppy <BR>wet his lips with a trembling 
  tongue..."an' Sister <BR>Kennard. Yes, th' Ruttgens an'...All right, 
  <BR>Mommy, I'll go spread the word abroad." <BR>Little Poppy seemed taller. 
  His voice had <BR>deepened. He pulled at his sleeves. "You watch <BR>whilst I 
  go, Forrest," he said. "I'll tell Brother <BR>Armes 'n' he c'n go to the store 
  an' telephone th' <BR>filling station an' they'll git th' Ruttgens an'..." 
  <BR>Why had Poppy, when twice the name was <BR>on his lips, not said "Sister 
  Kennard"? <BR>Poppy went walking off down the lane. <BR>The little girls sat 
  on the step outside the door in <BR>the evening half-light. After a while two 
  boys, <BR>Edward and Silas, came with something nice in a <BR>can--worms they 
  had been digging for all day in <BR>the river bank. They talked, laughing a 
  little, but <BR>no great noise. <BR>"You kids hesh," Forrest went and 
  <BR>whispered in the doorway above their heads. <BR>The children became still. 
  <BR>Across through the dark woods, over the <BR>fields, down the black, slow 
  river the steam piano <BR>called, called through his many throats. <BR>Slow 
  inch by inch Forrest turned his head <BR>and stared back into the room. He 
  began to tiptoe <BR>in his hard, mud-caked shoes toward the stove. <BR>He came 
  to it. Slowly he raised his hand close to <BR>the old coffee-pot on the shelf, 
  touched its smooth <BR>side. His fingers slid up. <BR>"Forr'st. What you 
  want?" <BR>His hand stayed above his head in the grey <BR>twilight. He could 
  not pull it down. Then he did, <BR>pressed its back hard against his teeth, 
  huskily <BR>mumbled, "Nothin', Mom." <BR>The dark came, hiding the greyish 
  stove, <BR>the stained, warped floor, the streaked walls, but <BR>not hiding 
  the window and the bed beside it. As <BR>if nails held his feet to the floor, 
  he stood, the <BR>shelf with the coffee-pot not a foot from his head, <BR>yet 
  far as the farthest star in the sky, far as the <BR>town. <BR>The black, empty 
  country was still now, <BR>but remembering. <BR>After a while came hoof-beats 
  and the roll <BR>of wheels over ruts. A sigh from the bed, and <BR>Forrest's 
  feet could move. <BR>"Light th' lamp." <BR>At the hoarse whisper he fumbled on 
  the <BR>shelf--beside the old coffee-pot, but it had the feel <BR>now of 
  anything else--found matches, and lighted <BR>the lamp on the table among pans 
  and dishes. <BR>Into the room filed dark figures, some <BR>high, some low, 
  one, only, fat. The women's <BR>heads were swathed in scarfs; their skirts 
  were <BR>long. Black beards on chin and cheek, and long <BR>unkempt hair gave 
  the men's foreheads an ivory <BR>shining. The eyes of all, like coals awaiting 
  an <BR>enkindling draught, dully gleamed. One woman <BR>detached herself from 
  the group within the door <BR>and let her scarf slip back, revealing flaccid 
  jowls <BR>and a pursed mouth. She lifted the lamp and held <BR>it high over 
  the livid face on the pillow, the <BR>skimpy folds of faded red cotton going 
  down over <BR>the long still body, the shoes ragged, stiff, grey, 
  <BR>motionless, against the footboard. <BR>"Thckk! Thckk!" the woman 
  said,"Turrble <BR>low!" <BR>At once from the one plump woman came <BR>a long, 
  high-pitched wail. Wailing, she ran to the <BR>bed, cast herself against it, 
  began, shuddering and <BR>weeping, to pray. <BR>Forrest knew this woman with 
  one eyelid <BR>drooping, with a soft blue scarf, with soft white <BR>cheeks, 
  and soft yellowish hair that curled against <BR>pink ears and round neck. This 
  was Sister <BR>Kennard. <BR>Poppy went down beside Sister Kennard. <BR>A tall 
  man with a long brown moustache, then a <BR>woman, another woman, a man and 
  two more <BR>women filled the side of the bed. Three women at <BR>the foot 
  could not see over, kneeling, and so part <BR>of the time they stood, Forrest 
  with them. Forrest <BR>had been saved when he was fourteen, sanctified; <BR>he 
  could do no sin; he could pray. <BR>The room became full of sound; deep, 
  <BR>steady bellowing from Brother Armes with his <BR>long moustache, the words 
  unintelligible; shouts, <BR>"Hallelujah!" "Oh, Lord!" "Glory" Broken sighs, 
  <BR>screams and sobs, long sentences with the words <BR>jumping over each 
  other quickly, descending to a <BR>deep groan, climbing to a high shriek. 
  Tears <BR>coursed down faces. Eyes were closed. <BR>An ebb came at length in 
  the tide of <BR>implorings. Before the flood again Sister <BR>Kennard's voice: 
  "Co-o-o-mfert this dear man! <BR>Pour in the oil of gladness. Co-o-o-mfert an' 
  <BR>sistain 'im! This pore, lonely man! Th' wife o' <BR>his buzzum layin' col' 
  an' dead in th' deep an' <BR>lonely grave..." <BR>High and low, shrill and 
  resonant, cried <BR>and screams and groans and shrieks. <BR>Forrest added his 
  voice, inaudible to <BR>himself. But--Mommy wasn't dead? Brother <BR>Kennard 
  had been dead and there had been a great <BR>funeral last summer--or another 
  summer before <BR>that. You prayed like Sister Kennard just then at <BR>a 
  funeral, not when some one had a spell, was not <BR>dead yet. "Col' an' lonely 
  grave." This time was <BR>Mommy going to be dead? Forrest, mute though 
  <BR>performing the gestures of one clamorously <BR>entreating, eyed Mommy. 
  Dead? Mommy going <BR>to be dead? <BR>No. Mommy was not going to be dead 
  <BR>this night. Mommy's face seemed like Mommy's <BR>face now, more. Mommy 
  opened one eye, the eye <BR>by Sister Kennard. Deep lines came in her 
  <BR>forehead. Red like fire came to her face. Both <BR>Mommy's eyes opened. 
  And suddenly Mommy <BR>was getting off the bed, pushing a way between 
  <BR>Poppy and Sister Kennard. And Mommy was <BR>jumping on the floor, shouting 
  mightily: <BR>"Hallelujah! I'm ree-stored! Hallelujah! Praise <BR>the Lord! 
  Praise the Lo-r-rd!! Let us ree-joice!" <BR>The sisters and the brethren, 
  after a brief <BR>delay, as if they were hardly ready, encircled <BR>Mommy. 
  They laughed, clapped their hands, and <BR>shouted, once and again; "Praise 
  the Lord!" <BR>The women presently wiped their faces, <BR>not white now, with 
  their aprons, and the men <BR>with red handkerchiefs or their hands. Poppy 
  <BR>alone stared at the floor, shoulders adroop, cheeks <BR>hollow, nose long, 
  bony. Mommy, not ceasing to <BR>smile--as was proper for her--stood near 
  Poppy, <BR>taller than Poppy. Sister Kennard was not tall. <BR>She was round, 
  soft, and low. That white lid <BR>partly down over Sister Kennard's right 
  eye--what <BR>did that do? Well, you thought about Sister <BR>Kennard being a 
  woman, a widow-woman, yes, a <BR>widow-woman. <BR>The people went out and 
  climbed in the <BR>wagon that had brought them. They talked little. <BR>The 
  horses went along in the lane. The squeaking <BR>of the wheels sounded farther 
  and farther away. <BR>Mommy began to go about getting batter <BR>stirred up 
  for bread. Forrest put cobs in the stove, <BR>not easy to do, because he felt 
  as he had when <BR>getting over chills and fever. The children were <BR>on the 
  bed. They watched Mommy. They were <BR>hungry. The biggest little girl went 
  pretty soon <BR>and began to put cups around on the brown <BR>oilcloth on the 
  table. She was good to help, the <BR>biggest girl. She said, while she reached 
  across <BR>the table to put a cup down, "That wasn't no long <BR>prayin', 
  Mommy." <BR>"Long 'nough," Mommy said. She shoved <BR>a chair out of her way. 
  <BR>The biggest girl wanted to talk. She was <BR>always wanting lately to 
  talk, like a woman. <BR>"Sister Kennard's a good one to pray," she said 
  <BR>now. <BR>"You hesh up, ten' to your business, or I'll <BR>learn ye!" Mommy 
  picked up a stub of broom <BR>and shook it. Her face was all working, and her 
  <BR>neck. The biggest girl screamed, her arm up over <BR>her face. Mommy 
  turned around to the stove and <BR>Forrest saw a tear go down her cheek. 
  <BR>No. It hadn't been no long prayin'. There <BR>had been a praying that went 
  on till sun-up, once, <BR>over at Brother Armes'. <BR>Where was Poppy? 
  <BR>Poppy was in the barn. Forrest found him <BR>by noises, noises of snuffing 
  and sobbing. <BR>"Poppy," he said, "wat ye doin', Poppy?" For a <BR>moment he 
  heard nothing and then a gulp and, <BR>"Ree-joicin', Son. Ree-joicin'. 
  Hal-hallelujah!" <BR>Another gulp and a sort of groan in the little dark 
  <BR>barn. <BR>"Reckon supper's 'bout ready," Forrest <BR>said, and waited 
  beside the sagging door. His <BR>father came out and they walked along in the 
  dark <BR>together, keeping step with their short legs. <BR>Corn-bread, not 
  very much baked, made <BR>with water and a little milk and soda, was 
  <BR>steaming in pieces around on the table. A pail of <BR>syrup was there and 
  another smaller pail with milk <BR>in it. <BR>The family sat down, some on a 
  bench <BR>along the wall, some on stools, two on chairs. <BR>They did not 
  talk. They were tired, all. The <BR>children were sleepy, hungry. <BR>The door 
  was open. The air came in from <BR>wood and field, soft, still, not cold. A 
  brown, <BR>dusty moth appeared and flew around the little <BR>lamp, bumping 
  the chimney now and again. <BR>Chewing, swallowing, reaching for bread, for 
  <BR>syrup, for milk, they watched the moth. As they <BR>watched, one sighed, 
  and then another of the <BR>family, without knowing, until they had all 
  sighed, <BR>deeply. <BR>After that in the quiet: "Cro-aak! Cro- <BR>aaak! 
  Cro-aaak!" <BR>An interval of stillness, and again: "Cro- <BR>aak! Cro-aak! 
  Cro-aaak!" <BR>Silas laughed and called out in his little <BR>thin boy voice: 
  "I know what them is! Frogses!" <BR>"No more frost," Poppy said. <BR>"Mom! 
  Mom!" Edward was pulling at his <BR>mother's dress. "Hey, Mom! C'n I go 
  bar'foot <BR>t'morry? Kin I, Mom?" <BR>"That you kin, Son. That you kin!" 
  <BR>Mommy's deep laughter was pleasant to hear. <BR>"Ain' got no shoes no more 
  nohow!" <BR>"C'n I?" thinly piped each little girl. <BR>Their mother smiled at 
  them, her one long <BR>tooth showing agreeably, and she nodded at the 
  <BR>pale, eager faces. <BR>They hugged themselves and shivered a <BR>little. 
  Oh, barefoot! You wriggling, grass <BR>tickling, mud going up between your 
  toes, gravel <BR>hurting, you getting used to it. <BR>"I aim to give this here 
  place a good <BR>cleanin' t'morry, I do," Mommy said deeply. <BR>"Spring 
  a-comin' on so." <BR>"I'll see ter gittin' that cow t'morry, I <BR>will," 
  Poppy said. "Pay's much down's I've got, <BR>work th' rest out fer Williams." 
  <BR>"I'll work th' rest out fer Williams, I will," <BR>Forrest said. "I'll be 
  done that ploughin' t'morry <BR>easy." <BR>They all sighed again, and smiled, 
  and lay <BR>down and slept. 
  <P>----------------------------------------------------------------- <BR>L'il 
  Boy <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>"She a white snake, Sam. Don' go! <BR>Don' go, Sam!" <BR>She had got down 
  on the floor, lips against <BR>his feet, and had prayed to him. <BR>Now he was 
  gone. And she was lying in <BR>the dust, dust in her matted hair, ground into 
  the <BR>cuts, caking the swollen bruises on every inch of <BR>her black body. 
  He had chased her all around the <BR>cabin, would never have enough of beating 
  her. <BR>He had latched the door and beat and beat. <BR>And then he had got 
  himself washed, scrubbed all <BR>over his straight body, put on the white 
  shirt with <BR>the tall, stiff collar she had ironed, Doc Liddell's <BR>black 
  trousers she had brought home and darned <BR>and washed and pressed, 
  Postmaster Cadwallader's <BR>coat she had ironed curtains all one day for, the 
  <BR>fine black shoes he had bought yesterday with the <BR>money she had put 
  away for the insurance. From <BR>the corner where he had at last left her, she 
  had <BR>heard him splash the water, swish the towel over <BR>him, fasten on 
  crackling shirt and collar, snap the <BR>laces in and out of the holes of the 
  new shoes. He <BR>had even sung a little of one of the ritual songs, 
  <BR>feeling fine and cool after exercise and bath, and <BR>then he had 
  unlatched the door and gone <BR>squeaking out. <BR>She had done no good 
  telling him not to <BR>go. She was crazy. <BR>She was crazy. Crazy fool. 
  <BR>She bit the back of her hand, making pain <BR>to lessen her other pain. 
  Her crying was all done. <BR>She was dry of tears. Grinning faces the dark 
  <BR>brought and held there she had to stare and see-- <BR>faces the like of 
  which she had seen all day. <BR>All day the women had come, on one <BR>errand 
  and another, laughing, plaguing her. They <BR>told her about the lodge 
  goings-on, about Miss <BR>Zodalene, Grand Exemplifier from Kansas City. 
  <BR>"Mummh! Dat Miss Zodalene crazy 'bout <BR>Sam! She sho cahy on wid dat 
  man! She mos' <BR>plumb white, too, dat Miss Zodalene. Cain't tell <BR>huh 
  f'um white. Fine white laigs, silk dress-- <BR>effen yuh kin call two mites o' 
  quilt patches a <BR>dress--no sleeves a-tall, no back--smellin' rich-- 
  <BR>mmmh! Sam my man, I'd pizen him foh sho', <BR>pizen 'im, im-balm 'im, set 
  'im on de mantel for <BR>a ohnamint! Dat Sam too good-lookin'..." <BR>The 
  women wanted to plague her. They <BR>didn't like her. She was one of the 
  old-timers-- <BR>not so old, but used to the ways of real white <BR>folks. She 
  it was, and no other, Miz Doc Liddell <BR>and Miz Postmaster Cadwallader had 
  for any <BR>parties they gave at their houses. But times had <BR>changed. 
  Parties of new folks--new trash folks-- <BR>were out at the Country Club, 
  everybody taking a <BR>little something along to eat. Only a few white 
  <BR>folks there were still having a dinner party or a <BR>"tea" in the old way 
  like before the Great War, <BR>and she the one they asked to come and help 
  out, <BR>washing windows and scrubbing as many as three <BR>days before, 
  cleaning chickens, par-boiling ham. <BR>On the party days she helped set the 
  tables, <BR>polished glasses, wiped off flowered china already <BR>clean. On 
  the party day she had on a white cap <BR>and apron and "served"; and washed up 
  afterward, <BR>sometimes with a young black girl to help, but she <BR>getting 
  all the gizzards and necks and pieces of <BR>cake and bits of butter and 
  broken rolls--all things <BR>Sam liked to eat. And they knew she would not 
  <BR>pick up a grain of sugar they didn't mean her to <BR>have. They knew she 
  was no sticky-finger! She <BR>still cleaned up half a day for Miz Doc Liddell, 
  <BR>but with these vacuum cleaners and dry mops <BR>instead of good old soap 
  and water, there wasn't <BR>much to do in any house. And with electric wash- 
  <BR>machines folks got along without anybody rubbing <BR>and rubbing out in a 
  nice warm wash-house, like <BR>in the good old days. <BR>No, she didn't have 
  so much to bring home <BR>to Sam--not so much food or clothes or money, 
  <BR>any more. <BR>"He don't respec' me." Without blame for <BR>him she 
  admitted it. <BR>But she did get him some money, got him <BR>money like any 
  black trash. Summers she went <BR>out to the Onion King's. She got Sam's 
  breakfast, <BR>hoed her beans and gumbo, split the day's wood, <BR>and made it 
  out to the patch by the time the <BR>whistle blew for seven. She did not walk 
  with the <BR>other women, but apart, white-kerchiefed head up, <BR>singing as 
  she walked. The ground in the fields <BR>was dry and hard, but she knew how to 
  push her <BR>paddle in, pull with her wire-strong fingers, tear <BR>off dry 
  tops, shake the onions in the sieve to get <BR>dirt off, pour them into the 
  basket, heave her body <BR>up out of the red dust, carry the basket to the 
  boss <BR>at the stack, hide a ticket away in her dress, hurry <BR>on back and 
  squat down in the dirt again. She <BR>knew how! She could pick the most 
  baskets of <BR>any, black or white. All day, every day, from <BR>middle of 
  June to middle of August, as long as <BR>there was an onion in the ground, she 
  picked up. <BR>Bad work, not quality work. <BR>And the women said, "Tee hee! 
  Look at <BR>Mahy Jane! Ain' no bettahn othah folks!" <BR>Sam couldn't stand 
  onion-picking. Bad for <BR>Sam's back. Sam had got bit by a snake once, 
  <BR>got a bad back for life. Only thing saved him <BR>from hollering with the 
  misery was whiskey. Sam <BR>could go fishing. He could march in the lodge 
  <BR>half a night, preach when the preacher was gone. <BR>But if he would try 
  to hoe, lift sacks of feed, dig <BR>for a sewer, plough, or sweep a store out, 
  he got <BR>that bad hurt in his back. He couldn't pick up <BR>onions, not a 
  bit pick up onions. Sam's back <BR>looked all right, but snake-bite is a bad 
  thing for <BR>the juice inside your bones. What Sam could do <BR>was 
  lodge-work. He could blow a little whistle, <BR>and the women all dressed in 
  red capes marched <BR>to him and away, made stars and letters of the 
  <BR>lodge, and bowed to Sam, tall and fine in his red <BR>cape and high red 
  hat. <BR>She had never minded the bowing and <BR>marching of the women--Sam 
  had carried on <BR>plenty with some of them, she knew that--but this 
  <BR>high-up Grand Exemplifier, this near-white Miss <BR>Zodalene, was 
  something different; Sam was up <BR>on a shelf in a cupboard she could not get 
  to--she <BR>down with the iron pots and the rat-trap. <BR>Last night--she bit 
  her hand till she could <BR>taste blood--Sam did not come home till away 
  <BR>after sun-up...said he'd been with Brother Gillis, <BR>bad sick. <BR>But 
  he smelled rich--silk clothes, <BR>perfumery. <BR>She? The other women had 
  goings-on, bad <BR>as men, but she didn't. Didn't she have a pepper- <BR>bag 
  always right in her pocket where she could <BR>get it easy if anyone started 
  to bother her? She <BR>made it of a small piece of cloth with good hot 
  <BR>red-pepper Miz Postmaster Cadwallader gave her <BR>whenever she thought 
  she needed fresh. If <BR>anybody followed her and bothered her coming <BR>home 
  late from church or work wouldn't she just <BR>let him have that pepper-bag 
  right in his eyes <BR>quick? <BR>"All my chillen's Sam's." As she often 
  <BR>said to Miz Postmaster Cadwallader, she said now, <BR>in the dark corner 
  of the floor, hurting. "All my <BR>chillen's Sam's. <BR>She thought about her 
  children a little. <BR>They were all dead, all, babies dead; she didn't 
  <BR>know how many. They got dead being born or in <BR>a few days after. One 
  had got quite sizable, but it <BR>had the misery one night and cried, and Sam 
  <BR>picked it off the bed and shook it and whipped it <BR>and it died. She had 
  told no one about Sam's <BR>doing that. <BR>Her children were all dead. 
  <BR>Children. When she went to the <BR>schoolhouse exercises what did she see? 
  Mixed- <BR>upness she saw, a child with the name of one, the <BR>face of 
  another man. But, <BR>"All my chillen's Sam's," she said. <BR>"All my 
  chillen's Sam's." It was like a <BR>verse from The Book--she the preacher 
  reading, <BR>the answer from the scowling black pews of the <BR>night. 
  <BR>"An' he kick yoh in de breas'." <BR>"All my chillen's Sam's." <BR>"An' he 
  kick yoh in de breas'." <BR>She sat up and leaned forward and stared. <BR>The 
  night--something was happening to it. <BR>The black had red in it. Red. 
  <BR>The moon rising was red. In the red the <BR>cottonwood across the rocky 
  path stretched up its <BR>arms, the night bent down about it. This she saw. 
  <BR>White arms went up, blackness bent to them. <BR>But there was redness. 
  There was blood. <BR>There was blood. <BR>Neah-white. No back to huh dress. 
  <BR>Smellin' rich. <BR>Cackles of the women plaguing her. <BR>"An' he kick 
  yoh--in de breas'." <BR>Brown and tall, beautiful, Sam--thin nose, <BR>small 
  mouth. Sam, eyes narrowed upon her, even <BR>as he looked at a dog tied to be 
  beaten. Sam. <BR>"He kick yoh in de breas'." <BR>A flash. Against the red into 
  the blackness <BR>and the white, the flash of a keen blade, of an iron 
  <BR>blade. <BR>She leaned and watched. <BR>Again the flash of a keen blade, 
  and again. <BR>She leaned and watched. She laughed <BR>aloud. <BR>She laughed 
  and clapped her hands. The <BR>pain in her breast was no pain. It was burning 
  <BR>which was becoming joy. She bowed; like a <BR>spring she uprose. She stood 
  and walked on the <BR>floor. Well and whole she walked, came to the <BR>yard, 
  to the woodpile, stooped and felt and got <BR>into her hands what she found. 
  <BR>Sweet in her hands, as she carried it back, <BR>the smooth handle of the 
  axe. Sweet to her <BR>fingers the sharp blade. She stepped across the 
  <BR>hollow of the doorway, low even for her, a low, <BR>bent woman. <BR>She 
  could be there, just inside. When he <BR>bowed his head to come in, she would 
  be there. <BR>She waited, she, black, in the blackness of <BR>the house. She 
  laughed with the red moon <BR>laughing. <BR>She had no more pain. <BR>Laughing 
  joy was where pain had been. <BR>She waited and she could wait any time-- 
  <BR>short time, long time--from sun-up to sun-down to <BR>sun-up, from one 
  time to snow to the next. When <BR>he came--whenever that should be--she would 
  be <BR>there. <BR>She waited. She waited for the ring of <BR>stiff new shoes 
  on the stones of the way twisting <BR>down to Niggertown from White Folks' 
  Town. <BR>The lodge-room would be dark now, the women <BR>in their red capes, 
  having marched and bowed and <BR>marched, would be gone. She would be there, 
  and <BR>he, only. But he would come home. He would <BR>come. <BR>She waited. 
  <BR>She waited, and the ring of hard new <BR>leather was in her ears. 
  <BR>Louder, the ring of hard new leather on <BR>stone. <BR>She spat on her 
  hands as when she split <BR>stove-wood. She knew all about an axe. <BR>Tall 
  along the bleached carcass of the <BR>canning-factory he passed. <BR>Into the 
  shadow of the cottonwood he was <BR>gone--came out, came on. <BR>She saw him, 
  hat off, coat off, collar loose, <BR>come sauntering out of the path, through 
  the <BR>leaning gate, along by the honeysuckle tangle. He <BR>yawned. He 
  looked up at the moon, and the <BR>moon was on him, on his softly shining 
  brown <BR>throat. <BR>Now, he was nearly at the step. <BR>Now, his foot was on 
  the step. <BR>She waited. <BR>Now-- <BR>But then his foot was off the step. He 
  <BR>stood, breathing softly, deeply. He put his hand <BR>out to the big open 
  cabbage roses on the sprawling <BR>bush beside the warped boarding. He pressed 
  his <BR>face against the dew-wet open roses, strange and <BR>pale under the 
  moon, murmured to them, set them <BR>to nodding, to brushing his cheek and 
  nose and <BR>lips. He chuckled at their tickling. he chuckled <BR>and talked 
  to the roses--a little boy, a little sweet <BR>boy. <BR>Where hot red had been 
  to her eyes, there <BR>was gray. She felt a flowing and a dripping--her 
  <BR>sweat rolling from her. So flowed away her <BR>burning, her strength, her 
  desire. <BR>Her hands came down. <BR>Her bare flat feet made no noise. Under a 
  <BR>pile of rags, she pushed something--covering up <BR>its shining 
  surface--and crept to her pallet on the <BR>floor beside the bed where Sam 
  would be. 
  <P>----------------------------------------------------------------- 
  <P>As It Began to Dawn <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>The old doctor rested the milk bucket on <BR>the stile and stood to regard 
  the west. He did this <BR>every night after he had milked, after he had bed- 
  <BR>ded down Dolly the horse and Spot the cow and <BR>was on his way to the 
  house and supper. He liked <BR>to see the sky the last thing and know what the 
  <BR>weather was to be like tomorrow. He was better <BR>at telling the weather 
  than the Kansas City Journ- <BR>al, better than his neighbor, old Sanderson, 
  who <BR>was so positive about things. Tonight his study of <BR>cloud and wind 
  and the feeling in his bones was <BR>interrupted. A man in a shabby buggy had 
  <BR>stopped in front of the house. <BR>"Hey! Doc! C'm 'ere!" the man called. 
  <BR>The doctor snapped his jaws together. <BR>Getz! <BR>He clambered stiffly, 
  frowning, over the <BR>stile and carried the milk into the kitchen. His 
  <BR>daughter was getting supper. She did not look at <BR>him. She did not like 
  him. His wife had not, <BR>after the first years. She had been ambitious, his 
  <BR>wife, and he had been no good to collect from <BR>rich or poor. Now she 
  was dead. He strained the <BR>milk--he always did that, though women mostly 
  <BR>strained--put on his cap again and went out to the <BR>man in the buggy. 
  <BR>The man's face was yellow and oily. His <BR>eyes smouldered and stared. He 
  was dirty. He <BR>turned his head and scowled down at the doctor <BR>standing 
  at the wheel. The doctor frowned up at <BR>him. They were not friendly, these 
  two. <BR>"She's took," the man in the buggy said. <BR>"You c'n come out hour 
  'r so." <BR>The doctor went back into the house. The <BR>man in the buggy 
  rattled on into town. <BR>The doctor sat down opposite his daughter <BR>in the 
  dining-room and they silently ate. It was a <BR>good wholesome supper, and the 
  tablecloth was <BR>shining white. His daughter was a particular 
  <BR>housekeeper. She was determined to do her duty. <BR>After supper he went 
  to get a chunk of wood to <BR>put in the Franklin stove in his room. Perhaps 
  the <BR>room would be a little warm when he got back. <BR>When he had the 
  chunk in his arms out in the <BR>yard he heard the rattle of wheels. In the 
  dim <BR>dusk he saw the buggy with the man sitting out <BR>forward holding the 
  lines. Three women at least <BR>were in the buggy behind him. The doctor's 
  head <BR>was bowed as he went into the house. He knew <BR>what kind of night 
  was before him. He put on his <BR>sheep-skin lined coat, his fur cap, two 
  pairs of <BR>gloves, and his overshoes. He turned out the gas- <BR>light in 
  his bleak, littered room--his wife and <BR>daughter had given up years ago 
  trying to keep <BR>papa's room decent--and went out through the <BR>dining 
  room toward the kitchen. His black <BR>medicine case was in one hand and his 
  bag of <BR>instruments in the other. His daughter was <BR>studying her Sunday 
  School lesson at the dining- <BR>room table. <BR>"I'm going out to Getz's," he 
  told her. <BR>She did not look up, did not say anything, <BR>and he went out. 
  <BR>He thought it was going to snow. Either <BR>that or the wind would veer 
  from southwest to <BR>north and by morning it would be cold and clear. 
  <BR>This was the regular Easter storm, this spell of <BR>weather they were 
  having. <BR>He hitched Dolly without talking to her. <BR>He was getting a bit 
  old for a thing like this. But <BR>Getz never paid, the young doctors in town 
  would <BR>not relish the job, and besides he could get Minnie <BR>Getz through 
  better than any of the others. She <BR>never had an easy time. Many prolific 
  women <BR>were like animals, had 'em easy. Minnie Getz <BR>went through hell 
  and nearly died every time. <BR>After two miles the road became rocky. <BR>He 
  tried to see the white stones in time to avoid <BR>them, but it was too dark 
  and he settled down to <BR>endure the jolts. The southwest wind at his back 
  <BR>found its way in through his sheepskin coat as a <BR>southwest wind in 
  early Spring is bound to do. <BR>He turned up his collar, stooped over, and 
  went <BR>bumping on, three more miles. He knew every <BR>turn, every tree, 
  every rise in the land, and every <BR>house--houses in the bare stretch here 
  were scarce <BR>--and he knew every telephone pole gauntly <BR>visible against 
  the sky. In 'sixty-nine he had <BR>come, before the railroads, before roads 
  even. <BR>Thousands and thousands of miles he had <BR>travelled, on horseback, 
  in a spring cart, in a <BR>buggy, all over this country in blizzards, in 
  <BR>drouths, in high-water time, and in cyclone <BR>weather. Not many people 
  called for him now. <BR>He was--old. Old they said he was. <BR>A high wailing, 
  now driven back by the <BR>wind, now surmounting it, came to his ears. 
  <BR>Ejaculations and shrieks in women's voices he <BR>could distinguish 
  presently, now and then a <BR>raucous shout he recognized as Getz's. He ground 
  <BR>his teeth, flapped the lines, and jolted over the <BR>rocks and went on, 
  making Dolly hurry her old <BR>bones. <BR>He hitched Dolly to a leaning, 
  rotting post <BR>of the rotting fence, got out his medicine case, put <BR>his 
  hand on the bag of instruments, and took it <BR>off. She might get through 
  this time--without <BR>that. He left the bag under the buggy seat and 
  <BR>picked his way through the mud beginning to <BR>stiffen in the cold wind 
  toward the small black <BR>porchless house. He knocked on the back door. 
  <BR>Nobody came. Nobody could hear his knocking <BR>because the wails and 
  shrieks in women's voices <BR>and the monstrous shouts of Getz covered any 
  <BR>other sound. He lifted the latch and went in. A <BR>small kerosene lamp 
  with a smoke-blackened <BR>chimney sat on a rickety table covered with brown 
  <BR>oil-cloth and dirty dishes. On the woodbox, with <BR>short legs dangling, 
  sat four children, their dark <BR>eyes staring out between wisps of long 
  unkempt <BR>hair. A big boy leaned against a cupboard <BR>whittling. Beside 
  the stove was a rocking chair <BR>with a dirty red cushion on its back. A girl 
  of <BR>about thirteen sat in the chair holding against her a <BR>child of 
  three. A baby younger, just able to walk, <BR>leaned against her knee. The 
  child in the girl's <BR>arms kept rubbing its head back and forth on her 
  <BR>breast. The girl rocked and patted its back. The <BR>door was partly open 
  into another room. The <BR>women in there were screaming, "Have faith, 
  <BR>sister!" And "Glory! Glory! Glory!" The man's <BR>words were 
  incomprehensible. <BR>The doctor went up to the girl in the <BR>rocking-chair. 
  He bent and put his lips to her ear. <BR>"What's the matter with her?" He 
  nodded <BR>toward the crying child. <BR>"Earache," he caught by watching the 
  girl's <BR>lips. <BR>He moved some dishes on the table, <BR>opened his case in 
  the lamplight, and prepared <BR>some drops. The child opened its mouth when he 
  <BR>put the medicine in her ear and doubtless <BR>screamed, but its noise was 
  not heard. The big <BR>girl pressed the small agonized head against her 
  <BR>and began to rock again and pat. Presently the <BR>child grew quiet, her 
  eyes closed. The doctor <BR>nodded and ceased to observe her. He hung his 
  <BR>coat on a nail, and his cap and gloves, and went to <BR>the stove and 
  stretched his hands out over it. It <BR>was not very hot. He lifted the lid 
  and signed to <BR>the boy to put more wood in. The boy lounged <BR>over, swept 
  the children off the woodbox, and <BR>yawning laid cobs and chips and an oak 
  stick on <BR>the coals. The children climbed back on the <BR>woodbox and the 
  boy returned to his whittling. <BR>The doctor, with compressed lips and 
  <BR>frowning brows, went toward the door into the <BR>other room. Three women 
  knelt at the sides of <BR>the bed and Getz at the foot. The eyes of two 
  <BR>women were closed, their mouths open. The <BR>woman in the bed twisted her 
  hands, her body, so <BR>that the grimy comforter over her writhed like a 
  <BR>serpent. Sweat stood out on her forehead, and her <BR>head moved from side 
  to side continually. No, <BR>the doctor thought, this time's going to be no 
  <BR>easier than the others. <BR>He put his hand on the shoulder of the 
  <BR>woman nearest him and shook her. She jerked her <BR>eyes open. Her face 
  blanched, and she and the <BR>woman beside her stopped shouting and stood up. 
  <BR>The woman across on the other side of the bed <BR>had her eyes open, but 
  they saw nothing until, <BR>finding her voice unsupported, she winked three 
  <BR>times, smiled vacuously, at last focussed her eyes <BR>on the doctor. This 
  woman was nearly exhausted <BR>and lopped over on the bed panting. Getz ceased 
  <BR>to shout, got slowly to his feet, his eyes averted <BR>from the doctor and 
  from his wife in the bed. <BR>Now her shuddering sighs could be heard, and 
  <BR>presently a gurgling scream. <BR>"All of you clear out of here but Mrs. 
  <BR>Mastin," the doctor said. He had been a lieutenant <BR>in the Union Army. 
  When he said go, men went, <BR>and even women. "Mrs. Gow, you see there's 
  <BR>plenty of hot water. Keep the fire up, Getz. <BR>Bring me that bag under 
  the seat in my buggy." <BR>He had taken off his coat and was rolling up his 
  <BR>sleeves. <BR>There would be no more praying that <BR>night. <BR>There was 
  working. The old doctor <BR>worked. Minnie Getz worked, though she was 
  <BR>wearied of working, had planned this time not to. <BR>But the doctor put 
  his will in her torn body, his <BR>spirit in her frail soul. Tender and full 
  of life and <BR>power his old wrinkled gnarled hands. <BR>At dawn a new voice 
  cried in the world. <BR>Minnie Getz lay alive in her bed after her worst 
  <BR>time. <BR>The doctor closed his medicine case, <BR>snapped shut the old 
  brown bag on his <BR>instruments. <BR>"You keep her in bed three weeks this 
  <BR>time, Getz. Understand? She may die yet." <BR>He had said three weeks so 
  that Minnie <BR>Getz would have a week to rest instead of three <BR>days. 
  <BR>"I'll be back this morning later," the old <BR>doctor said and began to 
  walk across the kitchen. <BR>Getz was coming along behind him. A door 
  <BR>partly opened, leading to a cellar, was between <BR>them and the outside 
  door. The children had all <BR>been put somewhere to sleep, some of them on 
  the <BR>floor in a corner of the kitchen. But the oldest <BR>girl, thirteen, 
  was in the cellar-way. She was <BR>leaning in the dim place, her hands over 
  her face. <BR>She was crying, shaking with sobbing. <BR>The doctor knew why 
  she was crying. He <BR>liked the oldest girl. She was good to the 
  <BR>children. She had hardly been a child herself <BR>ever, having at five to 
  take care of younger ones. <BR>Getz pushed past the doctor and caught the girl 
  in <BR>his dark bony hand by the arm. He twisted the <BR>arm. <BR>"Bawlin', 
  are yuh? Bawlin'? I'll learn ye <BR>to bawl! I'll give ye somethin' to bawl 
  about!" <BR>The girl put her free hand over her mouth. <BR>Her eyes were 
  raised in a piteous agony of fear to <BR>Getz's convulsed face and cruel 
  fanatic's eyes. <BR>"Don't whip me, Pop! I'll be good! I'll <BR>be good, Pop!" 
  <BR>Getz gave her arm another twist and his <BR>eyes moved to a strap hanging 
  from a nail near <BR>the cellar door. <BR>"Come out here, Getz," the doctor 
  <BR>commanded. <BR>Out in the black yard under the sky <BR>growing grey with 
  the light tardily coming, the <BR>old doctor went and stood very close to 
  Getz. His <BR>eyes blazed. Getz's eyes fell. The doctor opened <BR>his mouth. 
  And closed it. <BR>There was no use saying anything. <BR>The old doctor turned 
  and moved toward <BR>his buggy and Dolly waiting. He pushed the case <BR>and 
  the bag under the seat. He unhitched Dolly, <BR>his feet a ton each in weight, 
  his knees as unstable <BR>as milk. He got into the buggy, took up the lines, 
  <BR>and clucked feebly. He kept his eyes on the lines <BR>in his hands and on 
  Dolly's red flanks moving <BR>from side to side. He did not watch for the 
  stones <BR>in the stiff yellow clay road. He was too weak, <BR>too weary. And 
  so the wheel hit a stone and <BR>shook him nearly out of the buggy. Dolly, 
  <BR>misinterpreting the jerk at her mouth, ambled to a <BR>telephone pole and 
  stood as if hitched. Wheels <BR>and hoofs silent, he heard distantly a 
  blue-bird's <BR>sweet complaining. Above it the wind, the North <BR>Wind, 
  voice of life that flows and flows on, on <BR>and on. His eyes opened and he 
  saw. <BR>He saw a cross against the sky. Against <BR>the dawn sky a cross 
  clear and black. On the <BR>cross a figure with stretched arms. The face--was 
  <BR>the face now as he had seen it in good books; now <BR>it was the face of 
  Minnie Getz ten times racked; <BR>now it was the face of the oldest girl, 
  thirteen. <BR>Again it bore the lineaments of his old mother <BR>long a-dying 
  of a terrible trouble at her liver. It <BR>was the face of a young man he had 
  seen, broken <BR>by a machine, dying a little more each day, his <BR>bride 
  waiting beside him. It was the face of <BR>anyone he had seen suffering 
  without fault. And <BR>none was sad. And none was pale. Each was <BR>aflush as 
  with the light of Spring dawn. Triumph <BR>sat upon the brow of each. <BR>For 
  these were the Innocent Crucified, the <BR>worshipped. <BR>The old doctor 
  nodded affirmation. Now <BR>he heard a robin. And now the sun came up 
  <BR>glowing out of a black fringe of woodland. It had <BR>cleared. The Easter 
  storm was over. <BR>The old doctor went on down the hill. 
  <P>----------------------------------------------------------------- <BR>Maybe 
  So <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Sarah Robison was out watering the <BR>newest chicks, putting fresh starter 
  out for them, <BR>and thinking where she would put the turkeys <BR>beginning 
  to hatch out today. In the coops the <BR>mother-hens spread themselves and 
  clucked, <BR>putting her in mind of some of her daughters and 
  <BR>daughters-in-law. Several of her grandchildren <BR>had wanted to come with 
  her, but they might step <BR>on the chicks, so she had slipped out of the 
  house <BR>while all the women and some of the children <BR>were in the front 
  room laughing about a fellow <BR>named Charley, on the radio. How full the 
  <BR>kitchen had been all day; she wasn't used to <BR>women talking around. The 
  men were lying out <BR>on the grass now, hearing the radio through the 
  <BR>open windows--except Reverend Cunningham, <BR>husband of her second 
  daughter, a big man with a <BR>big jaw, a big chest a big voice boomed out of, 
  <BR>and good dark preacher clothes; and except Bud <BR>Tilton, husband of her 
  youngest child, Mary, and <BR>Number One farmer if he was only twenty-two 
  <BR>years old. Reverend Cunningham and Bud were <BR>talking by the fence, 
  their backs to her. <BR>"Now, Bud," she heard Reverend <BR>Cunningham boom, 
  rocking on his blacked shoes, <BR>"we've no call to get mixed-up with people's 
  wars <BR>other side of the globe. Costs a lot of money and <BR>--'course--it's 
  wrong." <BR>Bud Tilton bent down and pulled a long <BR>stem of grass. "To 
  hell," he said, when he was up <BR>again, "with worryin' about money. If I was 
  like <BR>Frank--" <BR>"Like Frank, eh?" Reverend Cunningham <BR>put in in a 
  hurry, "Young man, we're coming to <BR>convoys!" <BR>"What's them?" Bud said. 
  <BR>"It's our warships full of our fine <BR>American boys--going to 
  fight--going to make the <BR>world safe for democracy--again!" Reverend 
  <BR>Cunningham sort of laughed, like Bud didn't <BR>know too much,--being 
  young and a farmer. <BR>Bud turned his face toward the house and <BR>toward 
  Mary in her blue dress doing something on <BR>the back porch. After a minute 
  he walked way. <BR>Sarah hoped Reverend Cunningham <BR>wouldn't be mad. Some 
  people said the second <BR>Robison girl had done right well, marrying a 
  <BR>preacher. And, yes, she had, Sarah knew. A <BR>preacher was one to 
  respect. Reverend <BR>Cunningham like the rest. What had been going <BR>on all 
  day she hadn't rightly got the sense of. <BR>There'd been excitement and the 
  radio had been <BR>on most of the time, while she worked, making <BR>dumplings 
  to go with the stewed chicken, mashing <BR>potatoes, getting five kinds of pie 
  out of the cellar, <BR>jars of pickles and preserves, putting plenty of 
  <BR>sugar and vinegar on the lettuce she picked out of <BR>the garden, seeing 
  the children had all they wanted <BR>to eat, and Reverend Cunningham the white 
  meat <BR>and the liver he liked. <BR>She didn't know why Bud had said, "If I 
  <BR>was like Frank." <BR>"Yoo-hoo, Mother Robinson!" one of her <BR>three 
  daughters-in-law called from the back door. <BR>"We're about going!" <BR>She 
  picked up a chick that looked like <BR>having the gaps, took in her other hand 
  water- <BR>bucket and starter-can and went toward the house, <BR>a thick 
  woman, wide-hipped, strong-legged, <BR>bending forward to get wherever she was 
  going as <BR>soon as she could. She would wrap the chick in a <BR>piece of 
  flannel, pour coal-oil down its throat and <BR>see whether it would get the 
  gaps. She couldn't <BR>ever do away with a sick chick. <BR>She fixed the chick 
  and laid it in the <BR>warming-oven in the kitchen, dusted her hands <BR>and 
  went on into the front room full of people <BR>talking, putting on hats, 
  pulling at children's <BR>clothes to make them decent for going home. 
  <BR>Reverend Cunningham stood with his hat in his <BR>hand. Some of the other 
  men had their hats on. <BR>Bud Tilton was in overalls Mary had patched. 
  <BR>"You said goodbye to Frank?" one then <BR>another asked. <BR>"Oh, let him 
  alone!" Mary said, and they <BR>all stood a moment and looked out at Frank 
  <BR>playing ball with the Cunningham boys on the <BR>grass. Frank had his 
  shirt off and his brown neck <BR>and arms and good chest looked healthy. He 
  <BR>played ball on the county seat team and they were <BR>always after him to 
  dive in matches at the <BR>swimming-pool. Frank had had more schooling 
  <BR>than the other Robison boys, maybe because he <BR>was the youngest. If 
  something happened to <BR>Frank, Sarah thought, it would be worse than 
  <BR>anything except something happening to Mary. <BR>She felt a sudden hard 
  beating inside her and <BR>couldn't get her breath for a minute. If she could 
  <BR>put Mary and Frank up in their beds tonight and <BR>lock all the doors of 
  the house as she used to-- <BR>Mary, slim, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed, knowing 
  <BR>stenography, graduated from the County High <BR>School, not taking the 
  good job she could have <BR>had but marrying Bud Tilton one Saturday night 
  <BR>and moving to Bud's farm; Frank, cutting up, <BR>teasing, but smart and 
  steady in his job.... <BR>"Well, Mom," one of her daughters said <BR>with the 
  youngest asleep in her arms, "we've had <BR>a grand time. You had a grand 
  dinner for us." <BR>"She sure did," one of her daughters-in-law <BR>joined in, 
  "I always say Mother Robison can't be <BR>beat for chicken and dumplings." 
  <BR>"Birthdays for mothers are a great <BR>invention," Bud Tilton said. "Gives 
  their children <BR>a chance at a square meal once a year." <BR>"Now, Bud," her 
  daughter with the baby <BR>said, "we all brought her something. She don't 
  <BR>ever say much but I think she appreciates that <BR>vase I brought for her 
  cockscomb when it's in <BR>bloom." <BR>Reverend Cunningham made his way 
  <BR>through the crowd beginning to trickle out through <BR>the front door, and 
  held out his big hand to her. <BR>"I sincerely hope, Mother Robison," he said, 
  while <BR>all the rest listened and she felt as if she had come <BR>to church 
  (she hadn't had time in years), "I most <BR>sincerely hope--and pray--that you 
  will not be <BR>called upon to pin a gold star to your bosom!" <BR>He strode 
  away after his jaw, hat in hand, <BR>all the women that were her daughters and 
  <BR>daughters-in-law and the men who were her sons- <BR>in-law, making a 
  respectful lane for him. Mrs. <BR>Cunningham--Etta--came and kissed her mother 
  <BR>and rustled out after her husband. <BR>She stood near the door out to the 
  kitchen <BR>while they all said goodbye. She'd never been <BR>one to kiss and 
  her children weren't, so she wasn't <BR>kissed by anybody except Etta and one 
  or two <BR>grandchildren pushed at her by her daughters-in- <BR>law. As they 
  went streaming out she moved <BR>across to the front door and stood while the 
  cars <BR>got filled up and started off, one big and shiny, <BR>several big and 
  shabby, others small and shabby, <BR>and Mary's and Bud's jalopy Mary laughed 
  about <BR>and rode in with her yellow hair flying back and <BR>her cheeks 
  pink. <BR>Bud and Mary weren't in a hurry. They <BR>stood together beside a 
  lilac bush and watched the <BR>others. Frank hadn't gone yet either. He would 
  <BR>when a neighbor, Demps Dugan, stopped by for <BR>him. <BR>Now all the cars 
  were gone but the jalopy. <BR>Bud and Mary touched hands and then Bud was 
  <BR>out of sight around the house and Mary came to <BR>her mother. "Mom," she 
  said, "got a su'prise for <BR>you: goin' to have a baby. Ain't that something? 
  <BR>Bud's tickled but scared. I'm tickled but I'm not <BR>any more scared than 
  Frank is!" Mary laughed, <BR>touched her mother on the shoulder and went off 
  <BR>down the steps. Bud came and they went to the <BR>jalopy. Mary got in, Bud 
  cranked it, and they <BR>went banging and roaring across the bright May 
  <BR>grass to the lane. Mary looked back and waved. <BR>Her hair was blowing 
  and she was laughing. So <BR>young, Mary, so young, not knowing. Her four 
  <BR>sisters had been young, not so slim and pretty as <BR>Mary, but young; now 
  they spread themselves and <BR>clucked and their eyes showed a knowingness 
  that <BR>to bear and dig for young ones was what there <BR>was for 
  females....Mary had said, not any more <BR>scared than Frank is.... <BR>"Hey, 
  Mom!" It was Frank and he had <BR>come behind her and put his strong young 
  arms <BR>around her and lifted her thick body. "Mom! Got <BR>a surprise for 
  you!" <BR>She held her body still, and waited. <BR>"Mom, I'm in the Navy now! 
  You know-- <BR>I'll be on a ship--like you heard 'em talkin' about <BR>today. 
  Joined up last Thursday, leavin' Tuesday. <BR>Gosh, there's Demps coming for 
  me." He let her <BR>down. "Tell him I'll be ready soon as I get my <BR>shirt 
  on." <BR>She stood in the door to tell Demps. A <BR>ship. Reverend Cunningham 
  had told Bud Tilton <BR>our fine American boys are going to fight. All the 
  <BR>talking she hadn't rightly heard all day, the <BR>excitement, she could 
  make something of now. <BR>She remembered about John Paul Jones in the 
  <BR>school reader: a picture there was of men with <BR>their clothes torn half 
  off, of men lying in the <BR>black spots that were blood, of one with his hair 
  <BR>streaming back, clutching his breast with one <BR>hand, holding up a sword 
  with the other, and the <BR>ship they were on with its sails tattered lay half 
  on <BR>its side, with waves of foaming water ready to <BR>sweep over all. She 
  stood in the door to tell <BR>Demps Frank would be ready when he got his 
  <BR>shirt on...and saw the old picture. <BR>Here Frank was, coming around the 
  house, <BR>with his shirt on but its tail out, his hat brim <BR>between his 
  teeth. He took his hat down with one <BR>hand, buttoned at his shirt with the 
  other, his eyes <BR>shining, his white even teeth showing in his smile <BR>at 
  her. "Good I passed the tests, wasn't it, Mom? <BR>Kinda proud, ain't you? 
  Piddlin' sort of kid I <BR>was. I remember you fixin' me up nights I useta 
  <BR>have the croup. Well, Mom!" He brushed her <BR>heavy cheek with his lips, 
  ran between the lilacs <BR>to the lane and the car that had stopped there 
  <BR>while Demps Dugan passed the time of day with <BR>Mary and Bud in their 
  jalopy. Frank waved at <BR>Mary, jumped in beside Demps. Mary waved at 
  <BR>Frank, they both turned and waved at her standing <BR>in the front door; 
  the caterwauling of the cars <BR>began again and they went rocking down the 
  lane. <BR>She pushed open the screen, went out of <BR>the empty house, crossed 
  to the edge of the porch, <BR>and stood bent forward, watching the road where 
  <BR>she could see bits of it between the peach trees. <BR>One car and then the 
  other she saw, once, twice, <BR>and then no more. The knot of hair on the back 
  <BR>of her neck shook; the shaking went on down her <BR>broad back, down the 
  gathers of her grey skirt. <BR>And then she was still. <BR>She was still and 
  her head turned and she <BR>saw the tethered calf under the Grimes Golden 
  <BR>tree, the calf, the white calf, she must carry a <BR>bucket of water to. 
  <BR>She went around the house to the well, <BR>pumped the water, lifted the 
  bucket, and went <BR>across the yard. <BR>George Robison, her husband, was 
  coming <BR>from the cow shed with a halter in his hand. <BR>"Won't have to 
  carry water tomorrow," he said, <BR>"Lafe Ditzler'll be here little after 
  sunup to take <BR>the critter up to the yard in Parsons. Price on veal 
  <BR>calves 's as good as it's goin' to be." <BR>She went on and set the bucket 
  of water <BR>down beside the calf, waited while it drank. It <BR>was a good 
  calf, pindling at first, but she had fed <BR>it the way the county agent said 
  to and now it was <BR>an extra good calf. She stood beside it and her <BR>eyes 
  went to the lane, but quickly away, back to <BR>the calf again, quickly away 
  from the calf. Her <BR>face twisted up, she swallowed twice, picked up <BR>the 
  bucket the calf had emptied and was nuzzling <BR>now, and turned to go back 
  toward the house. <BR>She didn't see George Robison frowning at her <BR>with 
  the halter in his hand till he said: <BR>"Sary." <BR>Usually he called her Ma. 
  "Sary," he said <BR>again now. "I never knowed ye to git worked up <BR>'bout 
  sellin' a veal calf before. It's nachrel, that's <BR>what 'tis. Look at that 
  there wheat over in the <BR>field. We worked an' ploughed an' planted it. It 
  <BR>growed. Come a few weeks we'll cut it down-- <BR>make feed out of it, make 
  flour, an' it'll be some <BR>use. Calf there'll be some use. A thing ye raise 
  <BR>up an' gets to be some use--that's all right, Sary." <BR>"Maybe so," she 
  said and went on, stooped <BR>over, to get where she was going to work next. 
  <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Quinine and Honey <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>"One theng..." It was Silas piping up <BR>now, face all puckered like a 
  wild-cucumber pod-- <BR>"we c'n throw away th' quinine!" <BR>"Yep! 
  Honey--everything 'll be--" George <BR>squeaked in one of his voices, growled 
  in the <BR>other, "--honey fr'm now on!" <BR>"Whee-ee!" George and Silas, 
  Florellen, <BR>Demos, Phemie, Pinner, Poppy--and Mommy!--all <BR>laughed when 
  Silas clumped over to the cupboard <BR>and took the paper of quinine and went 
  and <BR>pitched it out of the door. <BR>But that wasn't what made something in 
  <BR>Demos go floppity. It wasn't Silas and the <BR>quinine. No. <BR>It was 
  Mommy looking at Poppy! <BR>That was what made Demos have to wink <BR>his eyes 
  and same time laugh and yell. Mommy <BR>was looking at Poppy and saying 
  something to <BR>him. It was only, "My! My!" but she was saying <BR>it to him. 
  She hadn't done that since--why, not <BR>since 'way back in March, and here it 
  was May! <BR>Just before "Aunt Julia" had dropped in it <BR>was, Mommy had 
  last said anything to Poppy. <BR>They were cleaning up after that highest 
  water <BR>they'd ever had when Aunt Julia did what she did. <BR>She wasn't any 
  aunt; she just said to call her that. <BR>She was grown up from the girl Mommy 
  had <BR>looked up to most the year she had gone to town- <BR>school. <BR>Aunt 
  Julia's long ear-rings bobbed against <BR>her red cheeks. Her pointed shoe 
  tapped the <BR>floor-boards while she sat on the edge of the chair <BR>Mommy 
  had wiped off with her dress-tail. When <BR>Florellen came in carrying Pinner, 
  Aunt Julia said, <BR>"My, Effie! These some more o' your kids? <BR>How many 
  you got, anyway?" <BR>Mommy had stood there in front of Aunt <BR>Julia with 
  her hair stringing down and her dress <BR>was her oldest one because she had 
  been scraping <BR>mud off the front-room walls today. Mommy's <BR>face got 
  red. Aunt Julia got up and kind and <BR>friendly and sorry, said: <BR>"You let 
  your man run over you, Effie! If <BR>I was you I'd make him take that dirty 
  old river <BR>away somewheres else, or me away from it! Or-- <BR>I'd quit 
  havin' kids! Well, so long, Effie. So <BR>long, kiddies!" <BR>Supper-time 
  Poppy came back from <BR>milking for George Caldwell laid up with the flu. 
  <BR>Mommy was fixing to take up the sausage cakes <BR>on a platter Florellen 
  was holding. In the loudest <BR>voice Mommy said to Florellen: <BR>"A man 
  hasn't any more gumption 'n to <BR>work for folks for nothin'!" <BR>Florellen 
  had nearly dropped the platter. <BR>Poppy's eyes went sticking away out. 
  <BR>"W'y, Mommy," he said. "You crazy? I <BR>never wanted pay for helpin' out 
  a sick neighbor, <BR>an' I never will." <BR>Mommy didn't look at him from then 
  on. <BR>She said to Florellen, while she slapped down a <BR>sausage-cake on 
  the platter: <BR>"Florellen, if ever you're foolish 'nough to <BR>get married, 
  don't pick out a man with frog- <BR>fever!" <BR>Well, of course, frog-fever 
  did mean liking <BR>to go fishing, and that was what Poppy liked to do 
  <BR>best and he didn't like to plough. But it was a <BR>hard thing for Mommy 
  to say. <BR>Poppy came not to be in the house at all, <BR>not even to sleep. 
  He staid in the barn nights and <BR>when it was raining. Sunny days he sat a 
  lot on <BR>the big cottonwood the river had laid across the <BR>yard. At last 
  somebody, George maybe, told <BR>Poppy about Aunt Julia, or Poppy wouldn't 
  ever <BR>have had any idea why Mommy was acting this <BR>way. <BR>But now all 
  that was over. Everything was <BR>going to be fine. Mommy had said something 
  to <BR>Poppy, and she'd laughed. <BR>And no more quinine, from now on. No 
  <BR>more quinine. No more skeeters. No more frogs. <BR>No more garden drowned 
  out by high water. <BR>None of these pesky things. And no more of <BR>Mommy 
  mad! Because--because they were going <BR>to move up on the prairie. To stay 
  f'rever. They <BR>were all going. Everything was going. The house <BR>was 
  going. <BR>The old house was going, the old house <BR>yellow once--long time 
  ago--and fixed for porches <BR>that had never got nailed on. The house was 
  <BR>going. <BR>Pop had got Skeet Imrine to do the job. <BR>Skeet had horses 
  big as el'phunts, fast, too: four <BR>grey, four black. Couldn't they pull! 
  <BR>It was Demos that had stood up there in <BR>town and tipped back his head 
  and watched and <BR>listened while Skeet explained to Poppy just how <BR>it 
  was going to be done. Skeet said he'd jack the <BR>house up, slip some 
  "trucks" under her and pull <BR>her right along. <BR>Demos had acted it all 
  out the way it <BR>would be and Florellen and Phemie and Pinner-- <BR>and even 
  George and Silas--stood and watched <BR>and listened. George and Silas were 
  big fellas <BR>that ploughed and they said Demos was a runt, but <BR>they 
  listened with their eyes sticking out, while <BR>Demos made motions of horses 
  walking along, <BR>cables stretching, and house moseying up the road. 
  <BR>Florellen and Phemie said: <BR>"Do we set right in the house whilst it's 
  a- <BR>goin'?" <BR>Demos stuck out his stomach big as Skeet <BR>Imrine's. 
  "Sure!" <BR>"My, my!" Mommy said, again to Poppy, <BR>and then, "I ain't been 
  hearin' nothin' but frogs <BR>nigh onto 20 year--" <BR>Poppy's eyes were so 
  black they made his <BR>face white as a Leghorn's first feathers. "Ye 
  <BR>won't hear frogs no more!" he said. "Won't be <BR>no frogs up onto th' 
  prairie, wind won't be <BR>creakin' no trees nor a-swishin' of 'em around; 
  <BR>aint no trees up onto th' prairie!" <BR>Front teeth every one gone, that 
  little <BR>Phemie yelled out: <BR>"I thpect you kin thee fur!" <BR>"Listen at 
  ye!" big Silas said, "'course you <BR>c'n see fur: clean to the aidge o' th' 
  land, where <BR>th' sky sets on it." <BR>"No thkeeterth up onto th' prairie!" 
  Phemie <BR>began to scratch; they all did, but they'd soon stop <BR>that. 
  <BR>"Grand site fer a home!" Poppy said, and <BR>Mommy nodded at him. <BR>"I 
  got to git to bed!" George was feeling <BR>his muscle. "Skeet Imrine'll more'n 
  likely need <BR>me to help." <BR>"Me too!" Demos said. <BR>"Haw! Haw!" George 
  went, and then Silas <BR>and all the rest. That runt thinking he could move 
  <BR>a house! <BR>Demos dug his toe around in the rag carpet <BR>piece beside 
  the stove and then he hurried and <BR>went upstairs. He wasn't going to bawl. 
  My, my! <BR>the fine prairie place! <BR>Aw, listen to them danged frogs! 
  Seemed <BR>like they knowed this was the last night for <BR>somebody to hear 
  all that caterwaulin'! <BR>"Grrrrumph!" Some of them went, like a thing a 
  <BR>hundred times bigger than any frog. Sitting on <BR>the floor by the 
  upstairs window that came down <BR>to the bare boards Florellen scrubbed even 
  over <BR>under the bed where George and Silas slept, <BR>Demos let himself see 
  the fine prairie place. <BR>Wouldn't be a thing a fellow wouldn't just love! 
  <BR>S'pose George and Silas did call him the runt! <BR>S'pose summers they 
  didn't have any room for <BR>him in the bed, saying it'd be cooler on the 
  floor! <BR>S'pose they did stick him in the middle of the bed <BR>winters, 
  needing him to warm their feet on! Up <BR>on the prairie everything'd be fine! 
  He sat and <BR>hugged his knees, hearing the river going trickle- 
  <BR>trickle-trickle the way he'd heard it since the day <BR>he was born. He 
  heard the wind swishing at the <BR>big hackberry Pop said he'd ought to cut 
  down <BR>before it cleaned every bit of the weather-boarding <BR>off this side 
  the house (but he never would do it!) <BR>and he heard the rope in the square 
  wooden box <BR>of the well go flapping against the boards. A bird <BR>in a 
  whisper said something then was still, a <BR>sheep-bell tinkled. Oh, it would 
  be fine, fine, up <BR>on the prairie! Oh, wouldn't it be fine! <BR>Then it was 
  morning--the morning--calves, <BR>hogs, roosters, sheep, birds, and old river, 
  all at it. <BR>Skeet Imrine was there in the yard, big <BR>feller, big black 
  mus-tache, red flannel shirt <BR>stretched across his giant shoulders and down 
  his <BR>tree-trunk arms, overall straps straining at their job <BR>of 
  harnessing, a nail or so in the button-places. <BR>Skeet's horses! My! Well, 
  they'd got to be big, <BR>and there'd got to be eight of 'em, moving a 
  <BR>house with people in it! Oh, it would be fine up <BR>on the prairie! 
  <BR>In the kitchen Mommy and Florellen flew <BR>around. George and Silas came 
  rubbing their eyes <BR>and growling around because Demos had beat <BR>them 
  seeing Skeet Imrine and the horses. Skeet <BR>Imrine looked at them, and then 
  he looked at <BR>Demos. He winked at Demos. He was friends <BR>with Demos. 
  Friends with a runt. Skeet was a <BR>funny feller. Skeet was as fine as a man 
  could be. <BR>My! Wasn't that the grandest sight when <BR>the old house began 
  to go! The old house taking <BR>that first step away from where she'd always 
  been, <BR>and setting out for the fine, new, open prairie <BR>place waiting 
  for her a mile up the road--wasn't <BR>that something to see? <BR>Demos took 
  his eyes off Skeet and put <BR>them on the house, then he put them on Skeet 
  <BR>again. But suddenly it was not Skeet he had his <BR>eyes on, and not the 
  house. It was Poppy he was <BR>seeing. Poppy wasn't as big as Skeet. Poppy was 
  <BR>a little man. A runt? But wasn't Poppy laughing <BR>hard--wasn't he 
  running around and busy? Busy? <BR>My! He went here, there, jingling a nail 
  against <BR>the penny he had left in his pocket after he'd paid <BR>Skeet 
  Imrine. He stood and frowned at the old <BR>house waving up there among the 
  trees it was <BR>going away from forever, and he went galloping <BR>to Skeet 
  and told him to look out for them <BR>plagued branches! Then he hurried and 
  looked in <BR>at the door and sang out to Mommy: <BR>"Well, how are ye?" 
  <BR>"We're makin' out," Mommy answered in <BR>the voice she used important 
  times like getting <BR>everybody and a big basket dinner ready for the 
  <BR>last day of school. <BR>Poppy--Poppy didn't go near the river. <BR>Poppy 
  didn't look at it. Poppy was busy--and yet <BR>he wasn't doing a thing. 
  <BR>Poppy was acting funny. Demos tried to <BR>look at Skeet Imrine, horses, 
  moving house, but <BR>Poppy was always getting in between. <BR>Well, they got 
  there. A little while before <BR>sunset. <BR>Skeet said seeing it was so near 
  night he'd <BR>just let the house stay jacked up; might as well <BR>leave the 
  trucks under her too, till Pop had got his <BR>foundation kind of fixed up. 
  <BR>And so sundown Skeet and his eight horses <BR>went jingling down the road 
  they'd come up. <BR>Skeet said he'd likely sleep down at the old place, <BR>if 
  it was all the same with Pop. <BR>Demos watching saw Skeet stand and look 
  <BR>back a minute or so before he went over the lip of <BR>the hill where the 
  tops of the trees showed <BR>feathery and golden in the last sun rays. There 
  <BR>Skeet stood with his black hat on the back of his <BR>head and his sweaty 
  face turned toward the house <BR>and Poppy and Mommy and George and Silas and 
  <BR>Florellen and Demos and Phemie and Pinner in a <BR>crooked row in front of 
  it, like getting a picture <BR>taken. The cows were in the picture too, that 
  <BR>George and Silas had driven up, standing huddled <BR>as if they were 
  trying to keep warm, though it <BR>wasn't cold. <BR>"Skeet frowned," Demos 
  said to himself. <BR>"He frowned." <BR>Mommy went in to get supper. She didn't 
  <BR>look around more than just one quick look. She <BR>kind of put her hand up 
  to her neck and hurried <BR>in. <BR>Pinner looked around a minute and then he 
  <BR>began to howl, "Me yawnta go home!" and <BR>Florellen picked him up and 
  took him in the <BR>house. <BR>"Plenty grass up here," George said and it 
  <BR>wasn't in his deep voice at all, it was in one like <BR>Pinner's. 
  <BR>"Plenty sky too, y'ask me!" Silas put in. <BR>Poppy's black head went up. 
  "Grand site <BR>fer a home!" he said in a loud voice, and began to <BR>sing. 
  <BR>Demos didn't like Poppy's singing up here. <BR>Sounded like a kyote. 
  <BR>Across the grass Demos went and came to <BR>the edge of the road down to 
  the old place where <BR>Skeet had stood and looked back--and frowned. <BR>In 
  the same place Demos stood and looked--and <BR>frowned. My, that was a tall 
  old house. Looked <BR>thin, like a up-ended lath, switched if it didn't. 
  <BR>Looked--awful. <BR>Supper. Mommy lighted the lamp when it <BR>wasn't dark, 
  and they all pulled up their chairs <BR>with a great clattering, all except 
  Pinner. Pinner <BR>wouldn't get out of the cradle. (Poppy had fished <BR>the 
  old brown cradle out of the river one high- <BR>water before Silas was born.) 
  Pinner just staid in <BR>the cradle with his head all covered up, his dirty 
  <BR>little feet and overalled legs sticking out, and <BR>pretty soon maybe he 
  went to sleep while they all <BR>sat around the table but the supper staid in 
  the <BR>dishes. <BR>Silas said it was cold up here on this <BR>mounting and 
  invited Demos to the bed. But no, <BR>Demos said he'd got kinda used to the 
  floor, <BR>maybe couldn't sleep in the bed. <BR>He couldn't sleep on the 
  floor. Hardest <BR>floor ever was. What was it bothering? What <BR>was it he 
  couldn't get used to? Say, terrible quiet <BR>up here. Quiet. Not a trickle of 
  water. Not a <BR>bird song. Not a swish of new-leaved trees <BR>bending and 
  nodding just because they wanted to. <BR>Not a frog. My! Not a frog! <BR>But 
  it wasn't quiet that way very long. <BR>The wind came. And what was that wind 
  trying <BR>to do? It swept against the flat bare side of the <BR>house, pushed 
  it, went back and came pushing and <BR>sweeping again. It was like a big wide 
  hand <BR>slapping a poor old bare face time and again and <BR>never going to 
  quit. <BR>The bed behind Demos squeaked. George <BR>was thrashing around, and 
  Silas. <BR>And downstairs Pinner was hollering, "No! <BR>No! No!" <BR>Demos 
  kept still as the boards under him. <BR>And after a long, long time of one 
  minute of wind <BR>then a minute of quiet then a minute of wind <BR>again, he 
  heard Silas' kind of snore, and George's. <BR>He sat up. <BR>Steps out there 
  in the night, the cows <BR>walking close to the house, no trees to rub 
  against. <BR>Cows! A kind of plan came into his head. <BR>Then he heard the 
  house-door open, and <BR>out jumped Poppy. Poppy stood there in the grass 
  <BR>and pulled and pulled at his hair with both hands <BR>and shook his head 
  and pulled his hair some more. <BR>After a long time Poppy went slowly 
  climbing <BR>back into the house. <BR>The wind came again. <BR>In the minute 
  of the wind's loudness <BR>Demos got up. He stood and his hands, like 
  <BR>Poppy's, flew to his head and pulled. "Oh, I <BR>gotta!" he said inside of 
  himself. <BR>He began to move slowly in the dark. he <BR>came to the first 
  step of the long steep stair. He <BR>waited. Maybe now everybody'd be so tired 
  <BR>nothing for it but to sleep. Wind had nothing to <BR>blow at but this 
  house in miles and miles and it <BR>was blowing at it all right. "I'll fix 
  ye!" he said <BR>to it. <BR>In the house behind him--was that Pinner 
  <BR>crying? Pinner? No. Was--was it--Pop? <BR>"Course not! Course not!--Say, 
  stars! <BR>Look at 'em! Fine stars! Plenty of 'em--Say, <BR>down home--down 
  home--didn't Big Dipper <BR>behind that old white sycamore stretching up and 
  <BR>up shading the well and the grindstone--didn't Big <BR>Dipper seem like 
  some you knowed? <BR>Got to step high not to make dry grass <BR>swish. There 
  she was, Francie, right on the edge <BR>of the bunch of cows, his own Francie 
  he'd got <BR>from the Calf Club, and the County Agent had <BR>said was some 
  animal. He went and smoothed her <BR>and whispered in her deep soft ear. She 
  bumped <BR>him with her horns, telling her a joke like: <BR>"Oh, ye'll like 
  belongin' to Skeet!" <BR>Across the dark emptiness went boy and <BR>cows, down 
  into the feathery dark where trees <BR>were, along the road scored and scraped 
  by the <BR>wheels and hoofs that had toiled up it in the sun. <BR>The wind 
  wasn't a slapper down here. It <BR>didn't seem here, but it was. It made one 
  tree <BR>acquainted with another, carried sweet dust from <BR>flower to 
  flower, crept softly down, and livened <BR>the dark river with wave and light 
  and shade. <BR>Down, down, into the old way they knew <BR>the cows lumbered in 
  the gray dawn. Birds, hear <BR>'em. Oh, hear 'em. A peep, a trill, a whole 
  song: <BR>robin, thrush, cat-bird, dove, peewee. And the <BR>smell of damp 
  woodsiness. <BR>He must hurry. Skeet Imrine might be <BR>gone-- 
  <BR>"Gid--a-ap!" <BR>That was Skeet. And there the horses <BR>were, big as 
  el'phunts, fresh as daisies. <BR>Mr. Imrine's eyes opened big when he saw 
  <BR>Demos and all the cows. <BR>"Forget where home's at?" He laughed. <BR>And 
  then he stopped. Mr. Imrine knew when a <BR>joke was not a joke. Mr. Imrine 
  stepped around <BR>and opened a horse's mouth and stared into it, till 
  <BR>Demos got fixed to tell whatever he was aiming <BR>to. Demos winked and 
  swallowed and stamped <BR>his foot and made a face. He reached for Francie 
  <BR>and put his arm up over her neck. "Mr. Imrine, <BR>I'm a-going to give 
  ye..." <BR>Mr. Imrine popped the horse's mouth shut, <BR>and spat. And then he 
  talked. Talked and talked. <BR>And while he talked he turned his horses 
  fast--up <BR>the hill. <BR>Funny a man would do a thing like that, <BR>man 
  smart as Mr. Imrine! go exactly in a <BR>contrary way from what you'd know he 
  meant to. <BR>Right up the hill-road those horses jingled <BR>and clattered. 
  They came to the house. They got <BR>hitched to the house, same as yesterday. 
  And the <BR>house began to move, same as yesterday. It went <BR>across the 
  grass to the road, but--not the same as <BR>yesterday--down the hill! 
  <BR>Demos went walking beside the house. <BR>Skeet went walking beside the 
  horses. <BR>And then Demos began to sweat. He <BR>sweat and sweat in the cool 
  morning air. What <BR>was Mommy going to say about this going down? <BR>Demos 
  sweat very much. <BR>Sun-up there Pop was. He didn't say <BR>anything, just 
  stood in the door fixing his galluses, <BR>same as usual. Same as usual, he 
  yelled up at <BR>George and Silas to get up and 'tend to them <BR>chores. Same 
  as usual he got a stick and began to <BR>whittle. He was whittling when George 
  and Silas <BR>came jumping out of the house yelling, "How <BR>come?" when 
  Pinner stuck his tousled head out of <BR>the quilt he had dragged from the 
  cradle, and <BR>toothless Phemie came, and Florellen braiding her <BR>yellow 
  hair. <BR>Mommy--didn't come. Once Demos <BR>looked in and saw Mommy. She was 
  frying <BR>doughnuts. Maybe she didn't know the house was <BR>moving. 
  <BR>Well, she would notice. And what would <BR>she do? <BR>Demos sweat a great 
  deal. <BR>He sweat even when he was shivering from <BR>gladness because Skeet 
  Imrine gave him the lines <BR>for a minute and there he was moving the house 
  <BR>by himself. <BR>Well, the house got back on its old <BR>foundation, and 
  the hackberry began its scratching <BR>at the weather-boarding and the other 
  trees spread <BR>their late afternoon shadows over it. Except that it 
  <BR>leaned over a little more to look into the river you <BR>couldn't tell it 
  had been away. <BR>Poppy came briskly up to Skeet Imrine, his <BR>hand in his 
  pocket jingling penny and nail. "Well, <BR>how much?" You'd think Poppy had 
  some money <BR>somewhere. <BR>"Mister Imrine--" Now it seemed as if <BR>Demos 
  was going to get that said about Francie. <BR>But Mr. Imrine bellered. "Me an' 
  <BR>Demos'll tend to th' pay. I need a feller lot o' <BR>times when I move 
  folks. Demos here's about the <BR>size o' man I c'd use--" <BR>"Demos?" A loud 
  surprised question, loud <BR>as a wind slapping at a house naked on a prairie. 
  <BR>"The runt?" <BR>Mr. Imrine yelled, "Giddap!" and pretty <BR>soon you 
  couldn't hear the harness clink-clanking <BR>any more, couldn't hear the eight 
  horses walking, <BR>just the noise of a farm with night coming on. <BR>(You 
  couldn't hear, getting further and further off, <BR>a great laughing like 
  Skeet Imrine's.) <BR>Demos didn't like to have Skeet gone. <BR>What was Mommy 
  going to do? Was she going <BR>to look at Poppy? Was she going to say anything 
  <BR>to him? <BR>Well, Mommy went around the garden. <BR>Demos still sweat. 
  <BR>Phemie began to swing Pinner in the <BR>barrel-stave hammock under the 
  seedling-peach. <BR>Florellen came out with the oldest broom-stub and 
  <BR>began to sweep the sandy yard the way she was <BR>always doing. George and 
  Silas were doing the <BR>chores, without any grumbling. <BR>And Mommy was 
  walking around in the <BR>garden. <BR>Across the yard slowly went Poppy. Out 
  <BR>of the corner of his eye Demos saw him. Poppy <BR>went and put a foot on 
  the big old cottonwood on <BR>the river bank. Demos went where Poppy was. 
  <BR>Poppy squinted up-stream. Demos squinted up- <BR>stream. Poppy squinted 
  down-stream. Demos <BR>squinted down-stream. Poppy sighed. Demos <BR>sighed. 
  And then they were still and the shadows <BR>reached out over the river. Demos 
  stopped <BR>sweating. <BR>A great bother it was when that pesky <BR>nuisance 
  of a Phemie yelled out, "I feel a <BR>thkeeter!" and stopped swinging Pinner 
  and began <BR>scratching between her shoulders. <BR>Demos began to sweat 
  again. Mommy-- <BR>what was Mommy going to do? <BR>He turned around and 
  looked. Poppy <BR>didn't turn around. Poppy's hand reaching for 
  <BR>whittling-stick was shaking. Demos saw Mommy <BR>coming. She had something 
  in her hand. She <BR>came past Phemie, came across toward the <BR>cottonwood 
  log. Demos turned his face toward <BR>river along with Poppy. Mommy was coming 
  <BR>closer. Soon they'd know. <BR>He heard Mommy's voice. "Here. Turn 
  <BR>'round." <BR>He turned around. But Mommy was not <BR>looking at him. She 
  was looking at Poppy. She <BR>was holding out a spoon. "Found that quinine 
  <BR>Silas pitched out," she said. She said it to Poppy. <BR>Poppy opened his 
  mouth. He didn't make <BR>a face. He said: <BR>"Tas-tes like honey!" <BR>Demos 
  took his spoonful. He said: <BR>"Tas-tes like honey!" <BR>Mommy laughed. 
  "Demos has growed a lot <BR>here lately, ain't he, Poppy?" she said. 
  <P>----------------------------------------------------------------- 
  <BR>BIBLIOGRAPHY 
  <P>"Flame Unseen," Double Dealer, October 1924. <BR>*"As It Began to Dawn," 
  Midland, July 1927, Vol. <BR>12, no. 7, pp. 192-98. <BR>"The Fruit at 
  Singapore," Midland, November- <BR>December 1928. <BR>"Saint," Household 
  Magazine, July 1929. <BR>"Counted Out," Household Magazine, <BR>December 1929. 
  <BR>*"The Voice of the Turtle," Prairie Schooner, <BR>Summer 1929; pp. 177-84. 
  As reprinted in <BR>The Best Short Stories of 1930 (New York: <BR>Dodd, Mead 
  and Company, 1930, pp. 46- <BR>53). <BR>*"As Grass," Prairie Schooner, Summer 
  1930, <BR>Vol. IV, no. 3, pp. 162-71. <BR>"Fourteen," Midland, May-June 1930. 
  <BR>"Dad and the Desert," Household Magazine, <BR>March 1931. <BR>"Farewell 
  and Hail," Household Magazine, March <BR>1931. <BR>"Earmark," Household 
  Magazine, August 1931. <BR>"I Was Young," Prairie Schooner, Winter 1931. 
  <BR>"In Washington Tonight," Household Magazine, <BR>February 1932. 
  <BR>"February Idyl," Household Magazine, February <BR>1935. <BR>*"Quinine and 
  Honey," Kansas Magazine, <BR>February 1936, pp. 34-39. � Kansas <BR>Magazine, 
  Kansas Quarterly. <BR>"Convert," Kansas Magazine, 1937. <BR>"As Her Father Her 
  Mother," University Review, <BR>Summer 1938. <BR>*"L'il Boy," University 
  Review, October 6, 1939, <BR>pp. 29-32. <BR>"While the Little Flags Waved," 
  Kansas <BR>Magazine, 1941. <BR>*"Maybe So," Kansas Magazine, 1942, pp. 81-84. 
  <BR>� Kansas Magazine, Kansas Quarterly. <BR>"Parnells," Clay, No. 3. 
  <P>* Stories in this collection are given full citation. <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Draper also published short stories for juveniles, a <BR>great many 
  newspaper short short stories and over <BR>20 years of daily columns in the 
  Parsons Sun. 
  <P>Additional books available from Washburn Center <BR>for Kansas Studies: 
  <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>That Trick of Silence, poetry from the Flint Hills <BR>by Steven Hind, 
  $5.00 
  <P>Dust and Short Works, a novel, short stories, and a <BR>play by Marcet and 
  Emanuel Haldeman- <BR>Julius, $12.00 
  <P>The Kansas Poems, poetry from the Kansas Dust <BR>Bowl by Kenneth Wiggins 
  Porter, $5.00 <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Please add $1.00 per book for postage and <BR>handling 
  <P>Order from Tom Averill, Center for Kansas <BR>Studies, Washburn University, 
  Topeka, KS 66621 <BR>Phone: (913) 231-1010 ext. 1441 
  <P>***For more information on the Center for Kansas Studies, see the main 
  <BR>menu. <BR>*** 
  <P>� 1994 <BR>Center for Kansas Studies <BR>Washburn University <BR>(this 
  edition only) 
  <P>Introduction � 1994 <BR>Jeffrey Ann Goudie <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>Cover photograph by Terry Evans <BR>Edited by Thomas Fox Averill 
  <BR>Typeset by David Tallman <BR>Design by Thomas Fox Averill and David 
  <BR>Tallman <BR>Photographs: opposite p. 1 courtesty of <BR>Lucy Draper 
  Elwood; p. 50 courtesy <BR>Southeast Kansas Collection, Axe <BR>Library, 
  Pittsburg State University <BR>&nbsp; <BR>&nbsp; 
  <P>This book is published by the Washburn Center <BR>for Kansas Studies as 
  part of its mission to print <BR>and reprint important literary texts either 
  by <BR>Kansans or about Kansas, for educational <BR>purposes. Additional books 
  in this series are listed <BR>on p. 111. 
  <P>For more information about this book, or about <BR>the Washburn Center for 
  Kansas Studies, write c/o <BR>Center for Kansas Studies, Washburn University, 
  <BR>Topeka, KS, 66621.</P></BLOCKQUOTE>
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