"Mainly it is long and wearyful, and has a home of toil at one end and a
dull little town at the other."
I
When Markham came in from shovelling his last wagon-load of corn into
the crib he found that his wife had put the children to bed, and was
kneading a batch of dough with the dogged action of a tired and sullen
woman.
He slipped his soggy boots off his feet, and having laid a piece of wood
on top of the stove, put his heels on it comfortably. His chair squeaked
as he leaned back on its hinder legs, but he paid no attention; he was
used to it, exactly as he was used to his wife's lameness and ceaseless
toil.
"That closes up my corn," he said after a silence. "I guess I'll go to
town to-morrow to git my horses shod."
"I guess I'll git ready and go along," said his wife, in a sorry attempt
to be firm and confident of tone.
"What do you want to go to town fer?" he grumbled.
"What does anybody want to go to town fer?" she burst out, facing him.
"I ain't been out o' this house fer six months, while you go an' go!"
"Oh, it ain't six months. You went down that day I got the mower."
"When was that? The tenth of July, and you know it."
"Well, mebbe 'twas. I didn't think it was so long ago. I ain't no
objection to your goin', only I'm goin' to take a load of wheat."
"Well, jest leave off a sack, an' that'll balance me an' the baby," she
said spiritedly.
"All right," he replied good-naturedly, seeing she was roused. "Only
that wheat ought to be put up to-night if you're goin'. You won't have
any time to hold sacks for me in the morning with them young ones to get
off to school."
"Well, let's go do it then," she said, sullenly resolute.
"I hate to go out agin; but I s'pose we'd better."
He yawned dismally and began pulling his boots on again, stamping his
swollen feet into them with grunts of pain. She put on his coat and one
of the boy's caps, and they went out to the granary. The night was cold
and clear.
"Don't look so much like snow as it did last night," said Sam. "It may
turn warm."
Laying out the sacks in the light of the lantern, they sorted out those
which were whole, and Sam climbed into the bin with a tin pail in his
hand, and the work began.
He was a sturdy fellow, and he worked desperately fast; the shining tin
pail dived deep into the cold wheat and dragged heavily on the woman's
tired hands as it came to the mouth of the sack, and she trembled with
fatigue, but held on and dragged the sacks away when filled, and brought
others, till at last Sam climbed out, puffing and wheezing, to tie them
up.
"I guess I'll load 'em in the morning," he said. "You needn't wait fer
me. I'll tie 'em up alone."
"Oh, I don't mind," she replied, feeling a little touched by his
unexpectedly easy acquiescence to her request. When they went back to
the house the moon had risen.
It had scarcely set when they were wakened by the crowing roosters. The
man rolled stiffly out of bed and began rattling at the stove in the
dark, cold kitchen.
His wife arose lamer and stiffer than usual, and began twisting her thin
hair into a knot.
Sam did not stop to wash, but went out to the barn. The woman, however,
hastily soused her face into the hard limestone water at the sink, and
put the kettle on. Then she called the children. She knew it was early,
and they would need several callings. She pushed breakfast forward,
running over in her mind the things she must have: two spools of thread,
six yards of cotton flannel, a can of coffee, and mittens for Kitty.
These she must have--there were oceans of things she needed.
The children soon came scudding down out of the darkness of the upstairs
to dress tumultuously at the kitchen stove. They humped and shivered,
holding up their bare feet from the cold floor, like chickens in new
fallen snow. They were irritable, and snarled and snapped and struck
like cats and dogs. Mrs. Markham stood it for a while with mere commands
to "hush up," but at last her patience gave out, and she charged down on
the struggling mob and cuffed them right and left.
They ate their breakfast by lamplight, and when Sam went back to his
work around the barnyard it was scarcely dawn. The children, left alone
with their mother, began to tease her to let them go to town also.
"No, sir--nobody goes but baby. Your father's goin' to take a load of
wheat."
She was weak with the worry of it all when she had sent the older
children away to school and the kitchen work was finished. She went into
the cold bedroom off the little sitting room and put on her best dress.
It had never been a good fit, and now she was getting so thin it hung in
wrinkled folds everywhere about the shoulders and waist. She lay down on
the bed a moment to ease that dull pain in her back. She had a moment's
distaste for going out at all. The thought of sleep was more alluring.
Then the thought of the long, long day, and the sickening sameness of
her life, swept over her again, and she rose and prepared the baby for
the journey.
It was but little after sunrise when Sam drove out into the road and
started for Belleplain. His wife sat perched upon the wheat-sacks behind
him, holding the baby in her lap, a cotton quilt under her, and a cotton
horse-blanket over her knees.
Sam was disposed to be very good-natured, and he talked back at her
occasionally, though she could only understand him when he turned his
face toward her. The baby stared out at the passing fence-posts, and
wiggled his hands out of his mittens at every opportunity. He was merry
at least.
It grew warmer as they went on, and a strong south wind arose. The dust
settled upon the woman's shawl and hat. Her hair loosened and blew
unkemptly about her face. The road which led across the high, level
prairie was quite smooth and dry, but still it jolted her, and the pain
in her back increased. She had nothing to lean against, and the weight
of the child grew greater, till she was forced to place him on the sacks
beside her, though she could not loose her hold for a moment.
The town drew in sight--a cluster of small frame houses and stores on
the dry prairie beside a railway station. There were no trees yet which
could be called shade trees. The pitilessly severe light of the sun
flooded everything. A few teams were hitched about, and in the lee of
the stores a few men could be seen seated comfortably, their broad
hat-rims flopping up and down, their faces brown as leather.
Markham put his wife out at one of the grocery-stores, and drove off
down toward the elevators to sell his wheat.
The grocer greeted Mrs. Markham in a perfunctorily kind manner, and
offered her a chair, which she took gratefully. She sat for a quarter of
an hour almost without moving, leaning against the back of the high
chair. At last the child began to get restless and troublesome, and she
spent half an hour helping him amuse himself around the nail-kegs.
At length she rose and went out on the walk, carrying the baby. She went
into the dry-goods store and took a seat on one of the little revolving
stools. A woman was buying some woollen goods for a dress. It was worth
twenty-seven cents a yard, the clerk said, but he would knock off two
cents if she took ten yards. It looked warm, and Mrs. Markham wished she
could afford it for Mary.
A pretty young girl came in and laughed and chatted with the clerk, and
bought a pair of gloves. She was the daughter of the grocer. Her
happiness made the wife and mother sad. When Sam came back she asked him
for some money.
"Want you want to do with it?" he asked.
"I want to spend it," she said.
She was not to be trifled with, so he gave her a dollar.
"I need a dollar more."
"Well, I've got to go take up that note at the bank."
"Well, the children's got to have some new underclo'es," she said.
He handed her a two-dollar bill and then went out to pay his note.
She bought her cotton flannel and mittens and thread, and then sat
leaning against the counter. It was noon, and she was hungry. She went
out to the wagon, got the lunch she had brought, and took it into the
grocery to eat it--where she could get a drink of water.
The grocer gave the baby a stick of candy and handed the mother an
apple.
"It'll kind o' go down with your doughnuts," he said.
After eating her lunch she got up and went out. She felt ashamed to sit
there any longer. She entered another dry-goods store, but when the
clerk came toward her saying, "Anything to-day, Mrs.--?" she answered,
"No, I guess not," and turned away with foolish face.
She walked up and down the street, desolately homeless. She did not know
what to do with herself. She knew no one except the grocer. She grew
bitter as she saw a couple of ladies pass, holding their demi-trains in
the latest city fashion. Another woman went by pushing a baby carriage,
in which sat a child just about as big as her own. It was bouncing
itself up and down on the long slender springs, and laughing and
shouting. Its clean round face glowed from its pretty fringed hood. She
looked down at the dusty clothes and grimy face of her own little one,
and walked on savagely.
She went into the drug store where the soda fountain was, but it made
her thirsty to sit there and she went out on the street again. She heard
Sam laugh, and saw him in a group of men over by the blacksmith shop. He
was having a good time and had forgotten her.
Her back ached so intolerably that she concluded to go in and rest once
more in the grocer's chair. The baby was growing cross and fretful. She
bought five cents' worth of candy to take home to the children, and gave
baby a little piece to keep him quiet. She wished Sam would come. It
must be getting late. The grocer said it was not much after one. Time
seemed terribly long. She felt that she ought to do something while she
was in town. She ran over her purchases--yes, that was all she had
planned to buy. She fell to figuring on the things she needed. It was
terrible. It ran away up into twenty or thirty dollars at the least. Sam
as well as she, needed underwear for the cold winter, but they would
have to wear the old ones, even if they were thin and ragged. She would
not need a dress, she thought bitterly, because she never went anywhere.
She rose and went out on the street once more, and wandered up and down,
looking at everything in the hope of enjoying something.
A man from Boon Creek backed a load of apples up to the sidewalk, and as
he stood waiting for the grocer he noticed Mrs. Markham and the baby,
and gave the baby an apple. This was a pleasure. He had such a hearty
way about him. He on his part saw an ordinary farmer's wife with dusty
dress, unkempt hair, and tired face. He did not know exactly why she
appealed to him, but he tried to cheer her up.
The grocer was familiar with these bedraggled and weary wives. He was
accustomed to see them sit for hours in his big wooden chair, and nurse
tired and fretful children. Their forlorn, aimless, pathetic wandering
up and down the street was a daily occurrence, and had never possessed
any special meaning to him.