Harriet Goes Away
Girls on the Border came to womanhood early. At fifteen my sister
Harriet considered herself a young lady and began to go out to dances
with Cyrus and Albert and Frances. She was small, moody and silent, and
as all her interests became feminine I lost that sense of comradeship
with which we used to ride after the cattle and I turned back to my
brother who was growing into a hollow-chested lanky lad--and in our
little sister Jessie we took increasing interest. She was a joyous
child, always singing like a canary. SHE was never a "trial."
Though delicate and fair and pretty, she manifested a singular
indifference to the usual games of girls. Contemptuous of dolls, she
never played house so far as I know. She took no interest in sewing, or
cooking, but had a whole yard full of "horses," that is to say, sticks
of varying sizes and shapes. Each pole had its name and its "stall" and
she endlessly repeated the chores of leading them to water and feeding
them hay. She loved to go with me to the field and was never so happy as
when riding on old Jule.--Dear little sister, I fear I neglected you at
times, turning away from your sweet face and pleading smile to lose
myself in some worthless book. I am comforted to remember that I did
sometimes lift you to the back of a real horse and permit you to ride "a
round," chattering like a sparrow as we plodded back and forth across
the field.
Frank cared little for books but he could take a hand at games although
he was not strong. Burton who at sixteen was almost as tall as his
father was the last to surrender his saddle to the ash-bin. He often
rode his high-headed horse past our house on his way to town, and I
especially recall one day, when as Frank and I were walking to town (one
fourth of July) Burt came galloping along with five dollars in his
pocket.--We could not see the five dollars but we did get the full force
and dignity of his cavalier approach, and his word was sufficient proof
of the cash he had to spend. As he rode on we, in crushed humility,
resumed our silent plodding in the dust of his horse's hooves.
His round of labor, like my own, was well established. In spring he
drove team and drag. In haying he served as stacker. In harvest he bound
his station. In stacking he pitched bundles. After stacking he plowed or
went out "changing works" and ended the season's work by husking corn--a
job that increased in severity from year to year, as the fields grew
larger. In '74 it lasted well into November. Beginning in the warm and
golden September we kept at it (off and on) until sleety rains coated
the ears with ice and the wet soil loaded our boots with huge balls of
clay and grass--till the snow came whirling by on the wings of the north
wind and the last flock of belated geese went sprawling sidewise down
the ragged sky. Grim business this! At times our wet gloves froze on our
hands.
How primitive all our notions were! Few of the boys owned overcoats and
the same suit served each of us for summer and winter alike. In lieu of
ulsters most of us wore long, gay-colored woolen scarfs wound about our
heads and necks--scarfs which our mothers, sisters or sweethearts had
knitted for us. Our footwear continued to be boots of the tall cavalry
model with pointed toes and high heels. Our collars were either
home-made ginghams or "boughten" ones of paper at fifteen cents per box.
Some men went so far as to wear "dickies," that is to say, false shirt
fronts made of paper, but this was considered a silly cheat. No one in
our neighborhood ever saw a tailor-made suit, and nothing that we wore
fitted,--our clothes merely enclosed us.
Harriet, like the other women, made her own dresses, assisted by my
mother, and her best gowns in summer were white muslin tied at the waist
with ribbons. All the girls dressed in this simple fashion, but as I
write, recalling the glowing cheeks and shining eyes of Hattie and Agnes
and Bess, I feel again the thrill of admiration which ran through my
blood as they came down the aisle at church, or when at dancing parties
they balanced or "sashayed" in _Honest John_ or _Money Musk_.--To me
they were perfectly clothed and divinely fair.
The contrast between the McClintocks, my hunter uncles, and Addison
Garland, my father's brother who came to visit us at about this time was
strikingly significant even to me. Tall, thoughtful, humorous and of
frail and bloodless body, "A. Garland" as he signed himself, was of the
Yankee merchant type. A general store in Wisconsin was slowly making him
a citizen of substance and his quiet comment brought to me an entirely
new conception of the middle west and its future. He was a philosopher.
He peered into the years that were to come and paid little heed to the
passing glories of the plain. He predicted astounding inventions and
great cities, and advised my father to go into dairying and diversified
crops. "This is a natural butter country," said he.
He was an invalid, and it was through him that we first learned of
graham flour. During his stay (and for some time after) we suffered an
infliction of sticky "gems" and dark soggy bread. We all resented this
displacement of our usual salt-rising loaf and delicious saleratus
biscuits but we ate the hot gems, liberally splashed with butter, just
as we would have eaten dog-biscuit or hardtack had it been put before
us.
One of the sayings of my uncle will fix his character in the mind of the
reader. One day, apropos of some public event which displeased him, he
said, "Men can be infinitely more foolish in their collective capacity
than on their own individual account." His quiet utterance of these
words and especially the phrase "collective capacity" made a deep
impression on me. The underlying truth of the saying came to me only
later in my life.
He was full of "_citrus-belt_" enthusiasm and told us that he was about
to sell out and move to Santa Barbara. He did not urge my father to
accompany him, and if he had, it would have made no difference. A
winterless climate and the raising of fruit did not appeal to my
Commander. He loved the prairie and the raising of wheat and cattle, and
gave little heed to anything else, but to me Addison's talk of "the
citrus belt" had the value of a romance, and the occasional Spanish
phrases which he used afforded me an indefinable delight. It was
unthinkable that I should ever see an _arroyo_ but I permitted myself to
dream of it while he talked.
I think he must have encouraged my sister in her growing desire for an
education, for in the autumn after his visit she entered the Cedar
Valley Seminary at Osage and her going produced in me a desire to
accompany her. I said nothing of it at the time, for my father gave but
reluctant consent to Harriet's plan. A district school education seemed
to him ample for any farmer's needs.
Many of our social affairs were now connected with "the Grange." During
these years on the new farm while we were busied with breaking and
fencing and raising wheat, there had been growing up among the farmers
of the west a social organization officially known as The Patrons of
Husbandry. The places of meeting were called "Granges" and very
naturally the members were at once called "Grangers."
My father was an early and enthusiastic member of the order, and during
the early seventies its meetings became very important dates on our
calendar. In winter "oyster suppers," with debates, songs and essays,
drew us all to the Burr Oak Grove school-house, and each spring, on the
twelfth of June, the Grange Picnic was a grand "turn-out." It was almost
as well attended as the circus.
We all looked forward to it for weeks and every young man who owned a
top-buggy got it out and washed and polished it for the use of his best
girl, and those who were not so fortunate as to own "a rig" paid high
tribute to the livery stable of the nearest town. Others, less able or
less extravagant, doubled teams with a comrade and built a "bowery
wagon" out of a wagon-box, and with hampers heaped with food rode away
in state, drawn by a four or six-horse team. It seemed a splendid and
daring thing to do, and some day I hoped to drive a six-horse bowery
wagon myself.
The central place of meeting was usually in some grove along the Big
Cedar to the west and south of us, and early on the appointed day the
various lodges of our region came together one by one at convenient
places, each one moving in procession and led by great banners on which
the women had blazoned the motto of their home lodge. Some of the
columns had bands and came preceded by far faint strains of music, with
marshals in red sashes galloping to and fro in fine assumption of
military command.
It was grand, it was inspiring--to us, to see those long lines of
carriages winding down the lanes, joining one to another at the cross
roads till at last all the granges from the northern end of the county
were united in one mighty column advancing on the picnic ground, where
orators awaited our approach with calm dignity and high resolve. Nothing
more picturesque, more delightful, more helpful has ever risen out of
American rural life. Each of these assemblies was a most grateful relief
from the sordid loneliness of the farm.
Our winter amusements were also in process of change. We held no more
singing schools--the "Lyceum" had taken its place. Revival meetings were
given up, although few of the church folk classed them among the
amusements. The County Fair on the contrary was becoming each year more
important as farming diversified. It was even more glorious than the
Grange Picnic, was indeed second only to the fourth of July, and we
looked forward to it all through the autumn.
It came late in September and always lasted three days. We all went on
the second day, (which was considered the best day) and mother, by
cooking all the afternoon before our outing, provided us a dinner of
cold chicken and cake and pie which we ate while sitting on the grass
beside our wagon just off the racetrack while the horses munched hay and
oats from the box. All around us other families were grouped, picnicking
in the same fashion, and a cordial interchange of jellies and pies made
the meal a delightful function. However, we boys never lingered over
it,--we were afraid of missing something of the program.
Our interest in the races was especially keen, for one of the citizens
of our town owned a fine little trotting horse called "Huckleberry"
whose honest friendly striving made him a general favorite. Our survey
of fat sheep, broad-backed bulls and shining colts was a duty, but to
cheer Huckleberry at the home stretch was a privilege.
To us from the farm the crowds were the most absorbing show of all. We
met our chums and their sisters with a curious sense of strangeness, of
discovery. Our playmates seemed alien somehow--especially the girls in
their best dresses walking about two and two, impersonal and haughty of
glance.
Cyrus and Walter were there in their top-buggies with Harriet and Bettie
but they seemed to be having a dull time, for while they sat holding
their horses we were dodging about in freedom--now at the contest of
draft horses, now at the sledge-hammer throwing, now at the candy-booth.
We were comical figures, with our long trousers, thick gray coats and
faded hats, but we didn't know it and were happy.
One day as Burton and I were wandering about on the fair grounds we came
upon a patent medicine cart from which a faker, a handsome fellow with
long black hair and an immense white hat, was addressing the crowd while
a young and beautiful girl with a guitar in her lap sat in weary
relaxation at his feet. A third member of the "troupe," a short and very
plump man of commonplace type, was handing out bottles. It was "Doctor"
Lightner, vending his "Magic Oil."
At first I perceived only the doctor whose splendid gray suit and
spotless linen made the men in the crowd rustic and graceless, but as I
studied the woman I began to read into her face a sadness, a weariness,
which appealed to my imagination. Who was she? Why was she there? I had
never seen a girl with such an expression. She saw no one, was
interested in nothing before her--and when her master, or husband, spoke
to her in a low voice, she raised her guitar and joined in the song
which he had started, all with the same air of weary disgust. Her
voice, a childishly sweet soprano, mingled with the robust baritone of
the doctor and the shouting tenor of the fat man, like a thread of
silver in a skein of brass.
I forgot my dusty clothes, my rough shoes,--I forgot that I was a boy.
Absorbed and dreaming I listened to these strange new songs and studied
the singular faces of these alien songsters. Even the shouting tenor had
a far-away gleam in the yellow light of his cat-like eyes. The leader's
skill, the woman's grace and the perfect blending of their voices made
an ineffaceable impression on my sensitive, farm-bred brain.
The songs which they sang were not in themselves of a character to
warrant this ecstasy in me. One of them ran as follows:
O Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was black as jet,
In the little old log cabin in the lane;
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb went too, you bet.
In the little old log cabin in the lane.
In the little old log cabin O!
The little old log cabin O!
The little old log cabin in the lane,
They're hangin' men and women now
For singing songs like this
In the little old log cabin in the lane.
Nevertheless I listened without a smile. It was art to me. It gave me
something I had never known. The large, white, graceful hand of the
doctor sweeping the strings, the clear ringing shout of the tenor and
the chiming, bird-like voice of the girl lent to the absurd words of
this ballad a singular dignity. They made all other persons and events
of the day of no account.
In the intervals between the songs the doctor talked of catarrh and its
cure, and offered his medicines for sale, and in this dull part of the
program the tenor assisted, but the girl, sinking back in her seat,
resumed her impersonal and weary air.
That was forty years ago, and I can still sing those songs and imitate
the whoop of the shouting tenor, but I have never been able to put that
woman into verse or fiction although I have tried. In a story called
_Love or the Law_ I once made a laborious attempt to account for her,
but I did not succeed, and the manuscript remains in the bottom of my
desk.
No doubt the doctor has gone to his long account and the girl is a gray
old woman of sixty-five but in this book they shall be forever young,
forever beautiful, noble with the grace of art. The medicine they
peddled was of doubtful service, but the songs they sang, the story they
suggested were of priceless value to us who came from the monotony of
the farm, and went back to it like bees laden with the pollen of new
intoxicating blooms.
* * * * *
Sorrowfully we left Huckleberry's unfinished race, reluctantly we
climbed into the farm wagon, sticky with candy, dusty, tired, some of us
suffering with sick-headache, and rolled away homeward to milk the cows,
feed the pigs and bed down the horses.
As I look at a tintype of myself taken at about this time, I can hardly
detect the physical relationship between that mop-headed, long-lipped
lad, and the gray-haired man of today. But the coat, the tie, the little
stick-pin on the lapel of my coat all unite to bring back to me with
painful stir, the curious debates, the boyish delights, the dawning
desires which led me to these material expressions of manly pride. There
is a kind of pathos too, in the memory of the keen pleasure I took in
that absurd ornament--and yet my joy was genuine, my satisfaction
complete.
Harriet came home from school each Friday night but we saw little of
her, for she was always engaged for dances or socials by the neighbors'
sons, and had only a young lady's interest in her cub brothers. I
resented this and was openly hostile to her admirers. She seldom rode
with us to spelling schools or "soshybles." There was always some youth
with a cutter, or some noisy group in a big bob-sleigh to carry her
away, and on Monday morning father drove her back to the county town
with growing pride in her improving manners.
Her course at the Seminary was cut short in early spring by a cough
which came from a long ride in the keen wind. She was very ill with a
wasting fever, yet for a time refused to go to bed. She could not resign
herself to the loss of her school-life.
The lack of room in our house is brought painfully to my mind as I
recall that she lay for a week or two in a corner of our living room
with all the noise and bustle of the family going on around her. Her own
attic chamber was unwarmed (like those of all her girl friends), and so
she was forced to lie near the kitchen stove.
She grew rapidly worse all through the opening days of April and as we
were necessarily out in the fields at work, and mother was busied with
her household affairs, the lonely sufferer was glad to have her bed in
the living room--and there she lay, her bright eyes following mother at
her work, growing whiter and whiter until one beautiful, tragic morning
in early May, my father called me in to say good-bye to her.
She was very weak, but her mind was perfectly clear, and as she kissed
me farewell with a soft word about being a good boy, I turned away
blinded with tears and fled to the barnyard, there to hide like a
wounded animal, appalled by the weight of despair and sorrow which her
transfigured face had suddenly thrust upon me. All about me the young
cattle called, the spring sun shone and the gay fowls sang, but they
could not mitigate my grief, my dismay, my sense of loss. My sister was
passing from me--that was the agonizing fact which benumbed me. She who
had been my playmate, my comrade, was about to vanish into air and
earth!
This was my first close contact with death, and it filled me with awe.
Human life suddenly seemed fleeting and of a part with the impermanency
and change of the westward moving Border Line.--Like the wild flowers
she had gathered, Harriet was now a fragrant memory. Her dust mingled
with the soil of the little burial ground just beyond the village
bounds.
* * * * *
My mother's heart was long in recovering from the pain of this loss, but
at last Jessie's sweet face, which had in it the light of the sky and
the color of a flower, won back her smiles. The child's acceptance of
the funeral as a mere incident of her busy little life, in some way
enabled us all to take up and carry forward the routine of our shadowed
home.
Those years on the plain, from '71 to '75, held much that was alluring,
much that was splendid. I did not live an exceptional life in any way.
My duties and my pleasures were those of the boys around me. In all
essentials my life was typical of the time and place. My father was
counted a good and successful farmer. Our neighbors all lived in the
same restricted fashion as ourselves, in barren little houses of wood or
stone, owning few books, reading only weekly papers. It was a pure
democracy wherein my father was a leader and my mother beloved by all
who knew her. If anybody looked down upon us we didn't know it, and in
all the social affairs of the township we fully shared.
Nature was our compensation. As I look back upon it, I perceive
transcendent sunsets, and a mighty sweep of golden grain beneath a sea
of crimson clouds. The light and song and motion of the prairie return
to me. I hear again the shrill, myriad-voiced choir of leaping insects
whose wings flash fire amid the glorified stubble. The wind wanders by,
lifting my torn hat-rim. The locusts rise in clouds before my weary
feet. The prairie hen soars out of the unreaped barley and drops into
the sheltering deeps of the tangled oats, green as emerald. The lone
quail pipes in the hazel thicket, and far up the road the cow-bell's
steady clang tells of the homecoming herd.
Even in our hours of toil, and through the sultry skies, the sacred
light of beauty broke; worn and grimed as we were, we still could fall
a-dream before the marvel of a golden earth beneath a crimson sky.