Sunday comes in a Western wheat harvest with such sweet and sudden
relaxation to man and beast that it would be holy for that reason, if
for no other, and Sundays are usually fair in harvest-time. As one goes
out into the field in the hot morning sunshine, with no sound abroad
save the crickets and the indescribably pleasant silken rustling of the
ripened grain, the reaper and the very sheaves in the stubble seem to be
resting, dreaming.
Around the house, in the shade of the trees, the men sit, smoking,
dozing, or reading the papers, while the women, never resting, move
about at the housework. The men eat on Sundays about the same as on
other days, and breakfast is no sooner over and out of the way than
dinner begins.
But at the Smith farm there were no men dozing or reading. Mrs. Smith
was alone with her three children, Mary, nine, Tommy, six, and little
Ted, just past four. Her farm, rented to a neighbor, lay at the head of
a coolly or narrow gully, made at some far-off post-glacial period by
the vast and angry floods of water which gullied these tremendous
furrows in the level prairie--furrows so deep that undisturbed portions
of the original level rose like hills on either side, rose to quite
considerable mountains.
The chickens wakened her as usual that Sabbath morning from dreams of
her absent husband, from whom she had not heard for weeks. The shadows
drifted over the hills, down the slopes, across the wheat, and up the
opposite wall in leisurely way, as if, being Sunday, they could take it
easy also. The fowls clustered about the housewife as she went out into
the yard. Fuzzy little chickens swarmed out from the coops, where their
clucking and perpetually disgruntled mothers tramped about, petulantly
thrusting their heads through the spaces between the slats.
A cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a calf answered from a little
pen near by, and a pig scurried guiltily out of the cabbages. Seeing all
this, seeing the pig in the cabbages, the tangle of grass in the garden,
the broken fence which she had mended again and again--the little woman,
hardly more than a girl, sat down and cried. The bright Sabbath morning
was only a mockery without him!
A few years ago they had bought this farm, paying part, mortgaging the
rest in the usual way. Edward Smith was a man of terrible energy. He
worked "nights and Sundays," as the saying goes, to clear the farm of
its brush and of its insatiate mortgage! In the midst of his Herculean
struggle came the call for volunteers, and with the grim and unselfish
devotion to his country which made the Eagle Brigade able to "whip its
weight in wild-cats," he threw down his scythe and grub-axe, turned his
cattle loose, and became a blue-coated cog in a vast machine for killing
men, and not thistles. While the millionaire sent his money to England
for safe-keeping, this man, with his girl-wife and three babies, left
them on a mortgaged farm, and went away to fight for an idea. It was
foolish, but it was sublime for all that.
That was three years before, and the young wife, sitting on the
well-curb on this bright Sabbath harvest morning, was righteously
rebellious. It seemed to her that she had borne her share of the
country's sorrow. Two brothers had been killed, the renter in whose
hands her husband had left the farm had proved a villain; one year the
farm had been without crops, and now the overripe grain was waiting the
tardy hand of the neighbor who had rented it, and who was cutting his
own grain first.
About six weeks before, she had received a letter saying, "We'll be
discharged in a little while." But no other word had come from him. She
had seen by the papers that his army was being discharged, and from day
to day other soldiers slowly percolated in blue streams back into the
State and county, but still her hero did not return.
Each week she had told the children that he was coming, and she had
watched the road so long that it had become unconscious; and as she
stood at the well, or by the kitchen door, her eyes were fixed
unthinkingly on the road that wound down the coolly.
Nothing wears on the human soul like waiting. If the stranded mariner,
searching the sun-bright seas, could once give up hope of a ship, that
horrible grinding on his brain would cease. It was this waiting, hoping,
on the edge of despair, that gave Emma Smith no rest.
Neighbors said, with kind intentions, "He's sick, maybe, an' can't start
north just yet. He'll come along one o' these days."
"Why don't he write?" was her question, which silenced them all. This
Sunday morning it seemed to her as if she could not stand it longer. The
house seemed intolerably lonely. So she dressed the little ones in their
best calico dresses and home-made jackets, and, closing up the house,
set off down the coolly to old Mother Gray's.
"Old Widder Gray" lived at the "mouth of the coolly." She was a widow
woman with a large family of stalwart boys and laughing girls. She was
the visible incarnation of hospitality and optimistic poverty. With
Western open-heartedness she fed every mouth that asked food of her, and
worked herself to death as cheerfully as her girls danced in the
neighborhood harvest dances.
She waddled down the path to meet Mrs. Smith with a broad smile on her
face.
"Oh, you little dears! Come right to your granny. Gimme a kiss! Come
right in, Mis' Smith. How are yeh, anyway? Nice mornin', ain't it? Come
in an' set down. Everything's in a clutter, but that won't scare you
any."
She led the way into the best room, a sunny, square room, carpeted with
a faded and patched rag carpet, and papered with white-and-green-striped
wall-paper, where a few faded effigies of dead members of the family
hung in variously sized oval walnut frames. The house resounded with
singing, laughter, whistling, tramping of heavy boots, and riotous
scufflings. Half-grown boys came to the door and crooked their fingers
at the children, who ran out, and were soon heard in the midst of the
fun.
"Don't s'pose you've heard from Ed?" Mrs. Smith shook her head. "He'll
turn up some day, when you ain't lookin' for 'm." The good old soul had
said that so many times that poor Mrs. Smith derived no comfort from it
any longer.
"Liz heard from Al the other day. He's comin' some day this week.
Anyhow, they expect him."
"Did he say anything of--"
"No, he didn't," Mrs. Gray admitted. "But then it was only a short
letter, anyhow. Al ain't much for writin', anyhow.--But come out and see
my new cheese. I tell yeh, I don't believe I ever had better luck in my
life. If Ed should come, I want you should take him up a piece of this
cheese."
It was beyond human nature to resist the influence of that noisy,
hearty, loving household, and in the midst of the singing and laughing
the wife forgot her anxiety, for the time at least, and laughed and sang
with the rest.
About eleven o'clock a wagon-load more drove up to the door, and Bill
Gray, the widow's oldest son, and his whole family, from Sand Lake
Coolly, piled out amid a good-natured uproar. Every one talked at once,
except Bill, who sat in the wagon with his wrists on his knees, a straw
in his mouth, and an amused twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Ain't heard nothin' o' Ed, I s'pose?" he asked in a kind of bellow.
Mrs. Smith shook her head. Bill, with a delicacy very striking in such a
great giant, rolled his quid in his mouth, and said:
"Didn't know but you had. I hear two or three of the Sand Lake boys are
comin'. Left New Orleenes some time this week. Didn't write nothin'
about Ed, but no news is good news in such cases, mother always says."
"Well, go put out yer team," said Mrs. Gray, "an' go'n bring me in some
taters, an', Sim, you go see if you c'n find some corn. Sadie, you put
on the water to bile. Come now, hustle yer boots, all o' yeh. If I feed
this yer crowd, we've got to have some raw materials. If y' think I'm
goin' to feed yeh on pie--your jest mightily mistaken."
The children went off into the fields, the girls put dinner on to boil,
and then went to change their dresses and fix their hair. "Somebody
might come," they said.
"Land sakes, I hope not! I don't know where in time I'd set 'em, 'less
they'd eat at the second table," Mrs. Gray laughed, in pretended dismay.
The two older boys, who had served their time in the army, lay out on
the grass before the house, and whittled and talked desultorily about
the war and the crops, and planned buying a threshing-machine. The older
girls and Mrs. Smith helped enlarge the table and put on the dishes,
talking all the time in that cheery, incoherent, and meaningful way a
group of such women have,--a conversation to be taken for its spirit
rather than for its letter, though Mrs. Gray at last got the ear of them
all and dissertated at length on girls.
"Girls in love ain't no use in the whole blessed week," she said.
"Sundays they're a-lookin' down the road, expectin' he'll come. Sunday
afternoons they can't think o' nothin' else, 'cause he's here. Monday
mornin's they're sleepy and kind o' dreamy and slimpsy, and good f'r
nothin' on Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday they git absent-minded, an'
begin to look off toward Sunday agin, an' mope aroun' and let the
dishwater git cold, right under their noses. Friday they break dishes,
an' go off in the best room an' snivel, an' look out o' the winder.
Saturdays they have queer spurts o' workin' like all p'ssessed, an'
spurts o' frizzin' their hair. An' Sunday they begin it all over agin."
The girls giggled and blushed, all through this tirade from their
mother, their broad faces and powerful frames anything but suggestive of
lackadaisical sentiment. But Mrs. Smith said:
"Now, Mrs. Gray, I hadn't ought to stay to dinner. You've got--"
"Now you set right down! If any of them girls' beaus comes, they'll have
to take what's left, that's all. They ain't s'posed to have much
appetite, nohow. No, you're goin' to stay if they starve, an' they ain't
no danger o' that."
At one o'clock the long table was piled with boiled potatoes, cords of
boiled corn on the cob, squash and pumpkin pies, hot biscuit, sweet
pickles, bread and butter, and honey. Then one of the girls took down a
conch-shell from a nail, and going to the door, blew a long, fine, tree
blast, that showed there was no weakness of lungs in her ample chest.
Then the children came out of the forest of corn, out of the creek, out
of the loft of the barn, and out of the garden.
"They come to their feed f'r all the world jest like the pigs when y'
holler 'poo-ee!' See 'em scoot!" laughed Mrs. Gray, every wrinkle on her
face shining with delight.
The men shut up their jack-knives, and surrounded the horse-trough to
souse their faces in the cold, hard water, and in a few moments the
table was filled with a merry crowd, and a row of wistful-eyed
youngsters circled the kitchen wall, where they stood first on one leg
and then on the other, in impatient hunger.
"Now pitch in, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Gray, presiding over the table.
"You know these men critters. They'll eat every grain of it, if yeh give
'em a chance. I swan, they're made o' India-rubber, their stomachs is, I
know it."
"Haf to eat to work," said Bill, gnawing a cob with a swift, circular
motion that rivalled a corn-sheller in results.
"More like workin' to eat," put in one of the girls, with a giggle.
"More eat 'n work with you."
"You needn't say anything, Net. Any one that'll eat seven ears--"
"I didn't, no such thing. You piled your cobs on my plate."
"That'll do to tell Ed Varney. It won't go down here where we know yeh."
"Good land! Eat all yeh want! They's plenty more in the fiel's, but I
can't afford to give you young uns tea. The tea is for us women-folks,
and 'specially f'r Mis' Smith an' Bill's wife. We're a-goin' to tell
fortunes by it."
One by one the men filled up and shoved back, and one by one the
children slipped into their places, and by two o'clock the women alone
remained around the débris-covered table, sipping their tea and telling
fortunes.
As they got well down to the grounds in the cup, they shook them with a
circular motion in the hand, and then turned them bottom-side-up quickly
in the saucer, then twirled them three or four times one way, and three
or four times the other, during a breathless pause. Then Mrs. Gray
lifted the cup, and, gazing into it with profound gravity, pronounced
the impending fate.
It must be admitted that, to a critical observer, she had abundant
preparation for hitting close to the mark, as when she told the girls
that "somebody was comin'." "It's a man," she went on gravely. "He is
cross-eyed--"
"Oh, you hush!" cried Nettie.
"He has red hair, and is death on b'iled corn and hot biscuit."
The others shrieked with delight.
"But he's goin' to get the mitten, that red-headed feller is, for I see
another feller comin' up behind him."
"Oh, lemme see, lemme see!" cried Nettie.
"Keep off," said the priestess, with a lofty gesture. "His hair is
black. He don't eat so much, and he works more."
The girls exploded in a shriek of laughter, and pounded their sister on
the back.
At last came Mrs. Smith's turn, and she was trembling with excitement as
Mrs. Gray again composed her jolly face to what she considered a proper
solemnity of expression.
"Somebody is comin' to you," she said, after a long pause. "He's got a
musket on his back. He's a soldier. He's almost here. See?"
She pointed at two little tea-stems, which really formed a faint
suggestion of a man with a musket on his back. He had climbed nearly to
the edge of the cup. Mrs. Smith grew pale with excitement. She trembled
so she could hardly hold the cup in her hand as she gazed into it.
"It's Ed," cried the old woman. "He's on the way home. Heavens an'
earth! There he is now!" She turned and waved her hand out toward the
road. They rushed to the door to look where she pointed.
A man in a blue coat, with a musket on his back, was toiling slowly up
the hill on the sun-bright, dusty road, toiling slowly, with bent head
half hidden by a heavy knapsack. So tired it seemed that walking was
indeed a process of falling. So eager to get home he would not stop,
would not look aside, but plodded on, amid the cries of the locusts, the
welcome of the crickets, and the rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting
back to God's country, and his wife and babies!
Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the children at the same time,
the little wife, almost hysterical, snatched her hat and ran out into
the yard. But the soldier had disappeared over the hill into the hollow
beyond, and, by the time she had found the children, he was too far away
for her voice to reach him. And, besides, she was not sure it was her
husband, for he had not turned his head at their shouts. This seemed so
strange. Why didn't he stop to rest at his old neighbor's house?
Tortured by hope and doubt, she hurried up the coolly as fast as she
could push the baby wagon, the blue-coated figure just ahead pushing
steadily, silently forward up the coolly.
When the excited, panting little group came in sight of the gate they
saw the blue-coated figure standing, leaning upon the rough rail fence,
his chin on his palms, gazing at the empty house. His knapsack, canteen,
blankets, and musket lay upon the dusty grass at his feet.
He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, hungry eyes devoured the
scene. The rough lawn, the little unpainted house, the field of clear
yellow wheat behind it, down across which streamed the sun, now almost
ready to touch the high hill to the west, the crickets crying merrily, a
cat on the fence near by, dreaming, unmindful of the stranger in blue--
How peaceful it all was. O God! How far removed from all camps,
hospitals, battle lines. A little cabin in a Wisconsin coolly, but it
was majestic in its peace. How did he ever leave it for those years of
tramping, thirsting, killing?
Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the silent figure, Mrs. Smith
hurried up to the fence. Her feet made no noise in the dust and grass,
and they were close upon him before he knew of them. The oldest boy ran
a little ahead. He will never forget that figure, that face. It will
always remain as something epic, that return of the private. He fixed
his eyes on the pale face covered with a ragged beard.
"Who are you, sir?" asked the wife, or, rather, started to ask, for he
turned, stood a moment, and then cried:
"Emma!"
"Edward!"
The children stood in a curious row to see their mother kiss this
bearded, strange man, the elder girl sobbing sympathetically with her
mother. Illness had left the soldier partly deaf, and this added to the
strangeness of his manner.
But the youngest child stood away, even after the girl had recognized
her father and kissed him. The man turned then to the baby, and said in
a curiously unpaternal tone:
"Come here, my little man; don't you know me?" But the baby backed away
under the fence and stood peering at him critically.
"My little man!" What meaning in those words! This baby seemed like some
other woman's child, and not the infant he had left in his wife's arms.
The war had come between him and his baby--he was only a strange man to
him, with big eyes; a soldier, with mother hanging to his arm, and
talking in a loud voice.
"And this is Tom," the private said, drawing the oldest boy to him.
"He'll come and see me. He knows his poor old pap when he comes home
from the war."
The mother heard the pain and reproach in his voice and hastened to
apologize.
"You've changed so, Ed. He can't know yeh. This is papa, Teddy; come and
kiss him--Tom and Mary do. Come, won't you?" But Teddy still peered
through the fence with solemn eyes, well out of reach. He resembled a
half-wild kitten that hesitates, studying the tones of one's voice.
"I'll fix him," said the soldier, and sat down to undo his knapsack, out
of which he drew three enormous and very red apples. After giving one to
each of the older children, he said:
"Now I guess he'll come. Eh, my little man? Now come see your pap."
Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the overzealous Tommy,
and a moment later was kicking and squalling in his father's arms. Then
they entered the house, into the sitting room, poor, bare, art-forsaken
little room, too, with its rag carpet, its square clock, and its two or
three chromos and pictures from Harper's Weekly pinned about.
"Emma, I'm all tired out," said Private Smith, as he flung himself down
on the carpet as he used to do, while his wife brought a pillow to put
under his head, and the children stood about munching their apples.
"Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips, and Mary, you get the
tea-kettle on, and I'll go and make some biscuit."
And the soldier talked. Question after question he poured forth about
the crops, the cattle, the renter, the neighbors. He slipped his heavy
government brogan shoes off his poor, tired, blistered feet, and lay out
with utter, sweet relaxation. He was a free man again, no longer a
soldier under command. At supper he stopped once, listened and smiled.
"That's old Spot. I know her voice. I s'pose that's her calf out there
in the pen. I can't milk her to-night, though. I'm too tired. But I tell
you, I'd like a drink o' her milk. What's become of old Rove?"
"He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess." There was a moment of sadness
for them all. It was some time before the husband spoke again, in a
voice that trembled a little.
"Poor old feller! He'd 'a' known me a half a mile away. I expected him
to come down the hill to meet me. It 'ud 'a' been more like comin' home
if I could 'a' seen him comin' down the road an' waggin' his tail, an'
laughin' that way he has. I tell yeh, it kind o' took hold o' me to see
the blinds down an' the house shut up."
"But, yeh see, we--we expected you'd write again 'fore you started. And
then we thought we'd see you if you did come," she hastened to explain.
"Well, I ain't worth a cent on writin'. Besides, it's just as well yeh
didn't know when I was comin'. I tell you, it sounds good to hear them
chickens out there, an' turkeys, an' the crickets. Do you know they
don't have just the same kind o' crickets down South? Who's Sam hired
t' help cut yer grain?"
"The Ramsey boys."
"Looks like a good crop; but I'm afraid I won't do much gettin' it cut.
This cussed fever an' ague has got me down pretty low. I don't know when
I'll get rid of it. I'll bet I've took twenty-five pounds of quinine if
I've taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I tell yeh, they taste good,
Emma. I ain't had anything like it--Say, if you'd 'a' hear'd me braggin'
to th' boys about your butter 'n' biscuits I'll bet your ears 'ud 'a'
burnt."
The private's wife colored with pleasure. "Oh, you're always a-braggin'
about your things. Everybody makes good butter."
"Yes; old lady Snyder, for instance."
"Oh, well, she ain't to be mentioned. She's Dutch."
"Or old Mis' Snively. One more cup o' tea, Mary. That's my girl! I'm
feeling better already. I just b'lieve the matter with me is, I'm
starved."
This was a delicious hour, one long to be remembered. They were like
lovers again. But their tenderness, like that of a typical American
family, found utterance in tones, rather than in words. He was praising
her when praising her biscuit, and she knew it. They grew soberer when
he showed where he had been struck, one ball burning the back of his
hand, one cutting away a lock of hair from his temple, and one passing
through the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered to think how near she
had come to being a soldier's widow. Her waiting no longer seemed hard.
This sweet, glorious hour effaced it all.
Then they rose, and all went out into the garden and down to the barn.
He stood beside her while she milked old Spot. They began to plan fields
and crops for next year.
His farm was weedy and encumbered, a rascally renter had run away with
his machinery (departing between two days), his children needed
clothing, the years were coming upon him, he was sick and emaciated, but
his heroic soul did not quail. With the same courage with which he faced
his Southern march he entered upon a still more hazardous future.
Oh, that mystic hour! The pale man with big eyes standing there by the
well, with his young wife by his side. The vast moon swinging above the
eastern peaks, the cattle winding down the pasture slopes with jangling
bells, the crickets singing, the stars blooming out sweet and far and
serene; the katydids rhythmically calling, the little turkeys crying
querulously, as they settled to roost in the poplar tree near the open
gate. The voices at the well drop lower, the little ones nestle in their
father's arms at last, and Teddy falls asleep there.
The common soldier of the American volunteer army had returned. His war
with the South was over, and his fight, his daily running fight with
nature and against the injustice of his fellow-men, was begun again.