Dan seated himself and grasped the handle bars, while with straining
muscles I bent desperately to the task of getting the heavy load in
motion. The tires seemed glued to the rough, uneven surface of the
prairie, and when at last with sobbing breath I was able to leap into
the front saddle, we were almost on the horns of a heavy animal that
blocked the way. But to hesitate meant death, so with a blood curdling
yell I headed full at his nose. He crowded aside, I swerved, and we
passed between the rows of cattle with room so scant that we almost
brushed the hairy flanks. I could hear the thunder of hoofs as the herd
got into motion behind us. The protecting fence seemed very far away.
Bushes slapped at us in passing. The difference between riding on even a
poor road and pedalling over this unsurfaced plain, level as it was,
became increasingly evident. And how to cross the fence to safety with a
crippled man and a laden wheel, even though we survived that long, was a
problem. The front wheel struck a sharp, projecting snag and air hissed
from the flattening tire. An instant later the rear tire also gave way,
but we pedalled desperately on, bumping along on the rims, which each
moment threatened to let us down.
We were nearing the western boundary when I heard a shout and glancing
to the right saw a man on horseback tearing down the road in our
direction. He began swinging his hat and shooting in the air, and as the
wheel struck the fence, almost throwing me to the ground, his horse
reared to a stop directly before us. To help Dan through, slip under
myself and drag the wheel to safety was the work of a moment and I was
free to watch the herd as they swerved away to the south.
“Gosh all hemlock, that was a close shave,” gasped the cowboy. “How in
Sam Hill did you all get into such a scrape?”
As I started to explain, he noticed that Dan was lame. He leaped from
the saddle and in a trice had loaded Dan onto the horse. Then, giving me
a hand with the wheel, started briskly in the direction of a
thrifty-looking farm.
We halted at last beneath a tree at the edge of the road. Dan let
himself down from his perch, and upon my firm assurance that we would be
all right, our rescuer resumed his interrupted journey. I kindled a
fire, brought water from a well, then sought the house, which stood well
back from the road, to secure the loan of a deep bucket. A timid little
woman accommodated me without demur; then followed curiously into camp.
At once I treated Dan’s ankle with a prolonged hot bath, followed by a
careful massage and the application of arnica-soaked bandages. The
little woman followed every motion with the keenest interest, and
discovering that I was a doctor, burst into a detailed account of an
accident that had befallen her young son. He had fallen from a tree and
sprained his wrist, which remained somewhat stiff. Would I be so kind as
to examine it and see what was wrong? This I agreed to do before
leaving, but for the present decided to make camp for the night, rest,
and calm my quivering nerves.
Next morning Dan was able to get to work on the wheel, replacing the
ruined tires with extras purchased in Kearney for some such emergency.
Again we rested during the heat of the day, and resolved to resume the
journey next morning.
The tandem was packed for the road when the farmer’s wife came hurrying
out to remind me of my promise regarding her boy. We entered the
farmyard, which swarmed with hogs of all sizes, and were led to an
enclosed shed where I shut in the wheel for safe keeping while we
entered the house.
But the lad was nowhere to be found. After an hour of searching, the
mother, assisted by an older brother, dragged the patient, struggling
and howling, from his hiding place in the attic; then held him while I
discovered a slight displacement of one of the small bones of the wrist.
This I reduced after considerable trouble, due to the boy’s unruly
temper, and bandaged the arm as the clock struck eleven. The mother then
insisted that we stay to dinner and as Dan was still rather in need of
rest, we accepted gratefully.
The head of the house, a great, burly, red-haired farmer, came in with
the oldest son, a perfect chip off the old block, and we sat down to a
repast of fried salt pork, fried potatoes, fried onions, hot biscuits
and coffee.
The meal concluded, the whole family went out to see us off. As I
rounded the corner of the shed, I noticed the door which I had latched
so carefully, standing open. Then what a sight met my eyes!
The wheel lay flat on the floor, groceries, bedding and equipment
scattered all about, while a shoving, grunting, struggling mass of hogs
rooted, trampled and fought over it. Chains were broken, tires torn from
the wheels, spokes out, skirt guard bent and twisted, while through and
over all was cocoa, sugar, coffee, plumbago, clothing, oil and pieces of
the repair kit.
“Haw, haw,” roared the farmer, delighted with the novel sight. “Them
hawgs sure have made a mash on that there bicycle.”
“Ya, hah. I fixed ’em, I fixed ’em,” shrieked my erstwhile patient,
jumping about in glee. The little woman burst into tears.
Dan seized a heavy single-tree, which stood in a corner, and laid about
him fiercely, sending the squealing drove pell-mell from the building.
Before the farmer could stay his hand, he had laid low with a broken
back a fine young boar. A few moments later a sow showed evidences of
internal trouble, was taken with convulsions, and while we were
gathering up the almost hopeless wreck, laid down and died, much to the
grief of friend farmer, whose mirth was turned to mourning. Dan declared
that the sow had swallowed his razor and wanted to hold an autopsy on
the remains, but was forced to let the cause of death stand as acute
indigestion.
The owner of the hogs cursed bitterly as we started to drag the poor old
wheel back to our little camp, where Dan spent a day and a half
endeavouring to repair it. But the case was hopeless. The good green
tandem would never take the open road again.
The world seemed desolate that night as we sat beside our dying campfire
discussing the situation. The mournful call of some night bird through
the vast silence waked melancholy echoes in my lonely heart. The wind,
moaning across the barren plains, spoke of darkness, inchoate,
overwhelming. The stars seemed to stare coldly down upon the whirling
mote to which we poor humans cling so doggedly. A gleam from a lighted
window of the farmhouse only added to my feeling of isolation. I
visioned the thousands of family groups gathered round the evening
lamps, enjoying the cosy comforts of home, the sense of peace and
security that springs from a recognised place in society, the feeling of
love and protection, the intimate companionship, and opportunity for
service,—the mother with her sewing, the father with magazine or paper,
the children with school books or toys—all unwitting, unheeding,
uncaring, utterly indifferent to the fate of the thousands who roam the
highways even as we, having no place to lay their heads. These, outcast,
abandoned, wretched, are exiles from a land of plenty through no fault
of their own—their only roof, the threatening vault of heaven, their
only couch, the bare cold ground, their evening lamp some solitary
campfire. Their naked souls shudder in the relentless blast of endless
ostracism.
Our little hoard of silver was running low. We knew by experience that
no work was to be had in this inhospitable land. Our only hope lay in
pressing forward.
Early next morning we cooked a meagre breakfast, packed such articles as
were worth saving into two bundles, swung these on our shoulders and
were off. We had covered perhaps eight miles and Dan was beginning to
complain of his ankle when in the distance we sighted a little
settlement strung out along the railroad track. As we approached, I took
both bundles and turned toward the railroad station to wait while Dan
searched for work.
As I crossed the right-of-way my attention was attracted by a man seated
on the ground, his back against a telegraph pole. As I walked past, he
raised his hat and spoke.
“I would advise you to stay away from the depot, madam. The station
agent is having a little dispute with a couple of drunken cowboys. It is
scarcely the place for a lady.”
“It is kind of you to warn me,” I replied. “It was my intention to wait
there for my husband, but we can scarcely miss one another in this
town.”
The stranger sprang to his feet. “Permit me to offer you my telegraph
pole,” he exclaimed with a winning smile. Lifting one of the blanket
rolls, he placed it for a seat, and as I settled myself, sank down on
the other bundle and entered into conversation.
He was a man on the sunny side of forty, tall, slender, but possessed of
evident strength. His mouth was at once humorous and stern, his nose,
high-arched with sensitive nostrils, gave him a cold, patrician air,
which one forgot when he spoke. Then white teeth flashed from his
sunbrowned face, and his eyes, of a peculiarly intense reddish-brown,
twinkled roguishly. Never had I listened to a more musical human voice.
With the utmost tact he led me to tell of our experiences. Soon he was
in possession of the salient features of our journey.
“I am a sort of Ishmaelite myself,” he declared. “I take my home with
me. I pay no rent, no interest, no taxes. I do no worrying. I make no
plans. I dream no dreams. I enjoy all in the way of good living that a
human animal can hope for. When this civilisation is tottering to its
fall, I shall be safe in a mountain resort known to me alone, prepared
to round out my days in peace and comfort.”
“Too bad that such a nice appearing man should be so crazy,” I said to
myself as he ceased speaking. As though in answer to my thought he burst
out laughing.
“Oh, I’m not as crazy as I sound. At any rate, I’m mighty practical
about it, as I shall soon demonstrate to you. My modern prairie
schooner, a home on wheels, will be along presently, and then I hope to
initiate you into a rational method of living in an insane world. Yonder
the caravan approaches.”
Following his gaze, I saw a team of mules hitched to a long, broad,
light spring wagon with a black cover like a heavy automobile top,
driven by a large fair woman, dressed in a yellow duster. Close behind a
young man followed with a team of horses attached to a smaller wagon or
buckboard.
My acquaintance stepped to the side of the road and hailed the woman,
who halted at the edge of the right-of-way. After a brief conversation,
she turned the mules and moved off across the track. The man turned as
Dan approached and introduced himself at once.
“My name is Adams—Frank Adams,” said he, “and I have been having a chat
with your good wife. As a consequence, there is a matter of business, a
little proposition that I would like to put up to you. But this is no
place to talk. Besides, the hour grows late and we must make
preparations for the night. I have directed my outfit to a camping place
in a grove of trees that I located this morning and I should be very
much pleased to have the two of you come over with me and enjoy a real
open-air dinner. Afterwards we’ll make ourselves comfortable and go
fully into my plan, which I have every reason to believe will result in
pleasure and financial benefit to us all.”
Dan seemed favourably impressed by the stranger’s frank address.
Besides, there was nothing to hope for in our present situation. So he
picked up a bundle, our friend shouldered the other, and we were off for
the camping ground.
As we entered the clump of trees, my eye was caught by a small chicken
coop with slatted bottom, which was suspended beneath the rear end of
the wagon bed. Our guide stepped forward and swung open the door. Three
fine young Plymouth Rock hens, who had been eagerly awaiting this
opportunity, fluttered out and began to peck and scratch vigorously.
“This simple arrangement insures a few fresh eggs for emergencies,” Mr.
Adams informed me. “These hens are very tame and are quite accustomed to
this mode of living. Now and then, as to-day, we get a couple of fryers,
and sometimes a nice fat hen for roasting, which we confine in the rear
compartment until wanted. Thus we are seldom at a loss for fresh meat.
Just step around to the front and I’ll show you the cooking
arrangements.”
At the front of the wagon we found the woman actively engaged in
preparations for supper. Our acquaintance informed her of our situation
in a few crisp sentences and without waiting for a formal introduction
she took up the task of enlightening us in the art of scientific
camping. She directed our attention to the dashboard which pivoted in
the centre on a horizontal axis to form a support or worktable that
could be used for dining purposes if necessary. A hood, which telescoped
under the front edge of the wagon cover, could be pushed forward on such
occasions, and by rolling down the curtains, perfect protection could be
secured from wind and rain. As we gazed, the young man brought a pail of
fresh water and set it in a metal ring which was clamped to a front
upright. The back of the seat was made in two parts, and to the back of
the left-hand one—formed of sheet metal—a gasoline stove with oven
attachment was fastened. The upright back revolved in such a way that
the stove faced the rear when the seat was occupied, but could be turned
to the front for cooking purposes. The housewife—camp-wife would be the
better term in this case—could sit in comfort in the right-hand seat and
secure everything required from the racks or from the boxes on the bed
of the wagon. With competent hands she opened the oven door and withdrew
a pan of cookies which flooded the air with a rich, spicy odour. These
she replaced with a pan of biscuits, then produced a large skillet of
broiling chicken from beneath the spreading burner which heated the
oven. A few deft touches and the savoury pieces went back for further
browning.
“I generally make most of my preparations while travelling,” she
informed me. “The mules are so gentle that they amble along without much
driving and everything is so convenient that I can cook without stepping
from the rig. Even the water is handy.” She pointed to a heavy canvas
bag, beaded with moisture, which hung on the outside wall.
The side walls within were fitted with ingenious racks like a kitchen
cabinet, and a little to the rear and close against the roof I discerned
the wire springs of a suspended bed.
“Yes,” our host explained, in answer to my question. “The top framework
is of metal, made extra strong with a block and tackle arrangement for
hoisting the bed as soon as it is made each morning. The mattress and
springs were made to order and are very light. By disposing of it in
this fashion we gain free access to our stores which, as you see, fill
the bottom of the wagon. The horse feed is in the rear, our clothing
lies in the centre, and the food supplies occupy the front. We have
lived entirely out of doors, summer and winter, for two years now, and
have suffered practically no inconvenience from bad weather.”
“I wouldn’t move into a house again for anything,” his wife exclaimed.
“You have no idea what a pleasant life this is. Housework is reduced to
almost nothing, we get a chance to see the country and are as free as
air.”
“Don’t you find it rather crowded at times?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Every few days we make a regular camp where we stay for a day
or two. Then I get out the portable oven, make a wood fire, bake bread
and cake, cook meat and vegetables, wash the clothes, and plan for the
next jump.”
Our host went to the rear, lifted off the flat top of a fibre trunk,
unfolded a set of legs and set it up as a table. Then he lifted out the
seat from the second wagon, unloaded three folding camp chairs and
proceeded to set the table with white enamel dishes.
Meanwhile, the young man, Peter Bates, had come in from caring for the
livestock, and was introduced. We all sat down to broiled chicken,
boiled potatoes warmed in gravy, hot biscuits and honey, stewed fruit,
cookies and tea. The food was delicious.
“What do you think of the cooking?” enquired our host, serving us a
second helping of chicken. “Not many places where you can get meals like
this. We live on the fat of the land the whole year round, don’t we,
honey-drips?”
“You’re quite right. That’s just what we do. And nothing to worry us,
either,” responded his wife.
Mine host produced a bottle of port, while Bates brought out cigars.
They greeted our pleasant refusal to indulge with uplifted brows, and
when Dan passed by the perfectos as well Mr. Adams remarked: “And not
even a cigarette? You are a Puritan, if I may be pardoned for saying so.
Well, maybe we can do business in spite of handicaps.” He paused to
light a cigar, then lounged back in the wagon seat.
“I’m a sort of sublimated pedler. I travel from town to town selling a
couple of styles of window signs, which our young friend Pete here, puts
up for me. Then, to insure continuous action, I take orders for a
special lamp and for handy tools—combinations, you know—in the country
districts. Thus I am never out of a job. The lamp orders are filled by a
mail order house in Chicago, as are the ones for tools, so that I carry
nothing but a sample. The signs consist of letters which are pasted on
the inner side of the window glass.... You’ve seen them many times.
“Peter wants to quit us and push on to Cheyenne, and while I am
perfectly competent to put up the orders, I dislike to do so. Why work,
when I can profit from the labour of others? And that is where you come
in. I’ll get the orders and pay you so much for each sign that you put
up. In fact, I’ll even do better. If you are able to pick up an order
here and there, I’ll sell you the supplies for ten per cent above cost
to me. The work is easy. Any mechanical man with a true eye can manage
with a little instruction and a day or two of experience.”
“Oh, yes,” young Bates broke in, “I’ve always been a clerk, but I had no
difficulty in getting the hang of this thing. I wanted to go to
Cheyenne, and this gave me a fine chance to see the country and make a
little dough on the side.”
“A man with your experience and training should have no trouble at all
in making two or three dollars a day,” the boss continued. “And it
should be mostly velvet. Honey-drips has a little side line of her own.
She carries a few toilet accessories to sell to the ladies. In the
country districts the housewives are only too glad to have an
opportunity to get such things in exchange for butter, eggs, poultry,
vegetables, or even bread and canned fruit. We can always use the stuff
some way and it cuts the living expenses to almost nothing. I get horse
feed in exchange for tools and lamps, and often I can let the animals
graze for a day at a time. Now your wife can get a supply of these
female fixings for ten per cent above cost and make most of your living.
After you have played the game for a month or two and find you like it,
I’ll fix up that second wagon like this one here. We use it now for
trips off the main line where we don’t want to take the heavy outfit.
“That’s the gist of the plan. Now, how does the scheme strike you?”
“I’d be glad enough to get a couple of dollars a day over our living,”
replied Dan. “What do you think about it, Ethel?”
“I believe it would be an excellent thing for the present, at least. Of
course, I won’t be satisfied till we get back to California, but we
should be able to save money enough to make the trip comfortably in a
few months if we manage carefully.”
“Well, so far as getting to California is concerned,” observed Mr.
Adams, “we expect to arrive there about the middle of next December. We
will work the territory between here and Cheyenne, then swing down
across Colorado, pass through Arizona in November, and work California
in the winter months. Then if you have not come to love this life, as I
think you will, you can leave us and return to the old grubby
existence.”
“Now, that will be splendid,” I cried enthusiastically. “We’ll not only
reach home, but we’ll see the country and save some money for a fresh
start—we’ll need all we can save before we get on our feet again, I’m
afraid.”
“Very well, then, good people. We’ll consider the matter settled. You
can camp here to-night and begin to learn the ropes the first thing in
the morning.”
The conversation turned on the day’s work and I gathered a fair idea of
the usual activities. Mr. Adams would take the light team and with Mr.
Bates push ahead, leaving Mrs. Adams to pursue a leisurely course with
the mules. The men struck the first little store they came to, or if the
country was very sparsely settled, they stopped at a farm. If they
secured a sign order from the store-keeper, Bates remained to place it,
depending on Mrs. Adams to pick him up as she passed. Meanwhile, Mr.
Adams drove on to solicit more orders, search out a suitable camping
place, and otherwise prepare for the coming of his party. This
particular morning Adams had left the light team with Bates, who was
busy with a sign, and had caught a ride in a passing buggy to the little
town where I had met him. Each day’s programme was the spontaneous
result of immediate needs.
As we rose to say good-night, Mrs. Adams produced milk, eggs and
whiskey, and they prepared a customary night cap. I was startled by the
enormous draught of liquor poured out by our employer, who, noting my
surprise, remarked apologetically, “I’ve been a frightful sufferer from
insomnia for a number of years. That was one of the reasons which led me
to adopt this mode of living, but even the open air has failed to
relieve me. I’ve tried vigorous exercise, long walks, hot food and drink
on retiring, medicines—everything—and I’ve found my only relief in these
stiff jolts of whiskey. At times I am compelled to get up in the night
and find the bottle. But I never become intoxicated.”
“I should think that sort of thing would ruin your digestion.”
“Well, I take certain precautions. I always take my evening dram in the
form of an eggnog, and if I need a drink in the night, I take a large
cup of milk first, which seems to prevent any untoward effects.”
We made camp at the far side of the grove and were up bright and early,
ready for the day’s work with the “California outfit,” as we dubbed the
new caravan. The three men set out with the buckboard, while Mrs. Adams
and I broke camp. After everything was packed and the mules hitched to
the wagon, my companion got out a few handfuls of chicken feed and soon
had the hens nicely settled for the day’s journey. Once the mules were
in the main road and headed in the right direction, she slipped the
lines into a patent clutch and began to unpack her wares.
I was glad to find the goods of excellent quality and reasonable in
price. She gave me a few talking points for each article, told me how
much cash I should demand or about how much I could expect in trade.
Trading, she observed, was an art in itself and worthy of much study.
Stock was replenished by frequent orders to Chicago, the goods being
consigned to the larger towns along the route. Thus she would find a
fresh supply awaiting her at Sydney, Nebraska, and would there place an
order to be shipped to Cheyenne, Wyoming.
I had familiarised myself with the most important details when we
approached a good-sized farmhouse.
“Come in and watch me work this time, and at the next place you can try
it yourself,” she remarked, swinging the mules into the driveway.
A weary-looking woman opened the door at our knock and brightened with
interest when she learned of our errand. She led the way to the closely
shut parlour, and flung open the old-fashioned blinds as Mrs. Adams
prepared her goods for inspection. After long consideration she laid
down the case with a sigh.
“I’d just love to buy some of these things, but I haven’t a cent in the
house. My husband is working way over in the back lot and anyhow I’d
hate to bother him.”
“Now, maybe you’d like to trade for what you want. I would be glad to
get some good, smooth potatoes or nice fresh vegetables if you have any
to spare.”
“Oh, could I do that?” Her voice was eager as a child’s. “Come right
into the kitchen and see what you would like.”
Inside of half an hour we were back in the wagon with a fine assortment
of vegetables. In fact, it seemed to me that we had much the best of the
bargain. In answer to some such observation, Mrs. Adams chuckled.
“When I saw how that woman had been trained, I led her right along. She
has no idea of the value of money or of produce either. How can she,
when her husband never allows her a cent of spending money? The kind of
women who must always beg for every calico dress and pair of shoes, go
wild when they have a chance to trade for themselves. You should do as
much business as possible with them—take anything they have—get flour or
sugar if there is nothing else on hand. String ’em along and you can get
a wagon load of groceries for a dollar’s worth of goods.”
Privately registering a determination to do nothing of the kind, I
observed, “I should think their husbands would find out about that sort
of thing and make trouble.”
“Don’t worry, we’d be well out of the way before they could find out
anything about the business.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you and me, but about the farmer’s wife. Seems
to me she has troubles enough without our adding to her burdens.”
“Now, you got to learn the first principles of this business, and the
main thing is to look out for number one. Skin the other woman every
chance you get. Lots of times they’ll stick you and by minding your own
business, you’ll come out about even in the end. And you needn’t think
there is anything new in a wife’s selling the groceries out of the house
to get a few nickels to spend for herself. Why, when I lived in——” She
stopped abruptly, then resumed. “Most grocerymen have cases of women who
make a habit of padding the bills to get a few dollars returned on the
sly. It’s all in the game, and you’ve got to play your end of it.”
“Well, I can’t say I like that kind of a game,” I declared decidedly. “I
hope the day will come soon when men and women will develop a new
psychology along those lines. The first thing that should be settled
after a couple become engaged is the money question. They should have a
definite understanding as to how the money is to be spent after
marriage, and the girl should see to it that she never drifts into a
position where she must plead with some man for what rightfully belongs
to her.”
“That sounds very pretty, my dear, but most girls are glad enough to
catch a man without taking chances by arguing over money matters—they’re
too scared of being old maids.”
“That’s mostly the fault of their training or, I should say, lack of
training. So long as they are led to consider marriage the whole end and
aim of life, I suppose they’ll go on getting into situations where they
are compelled to cheat and steal and lie to secure a few paltry nickels.
If I had a daughter, I should see that she was fully equipped to become
a self-supporting, self-respecting member of society, a woman who would
not look upon marriage as the only possible solution of life’s
problems.”
Mrs. Adams rolled her eyes in horror. “Good gracious, woman, you talk
like one of these here suffragettes. If I had a girl that talked like
that I’d disown her. Why, you want to break up the home!”
“If financial independence for women means breaking up the home, then
let it be broken. Poverty and the economic dependence of woman on man is
the curse of the whole sex relation. It extends from the society matron
who caresses and fawns upon a husband whom she loathes in order to
wheedle him into the gift of a diamond necklace, a new mansion or other
extravagance, through all the middle class women who lie and cheat and
steal the household goods to get spending money, on down to the
daughters of the poor who are forced to sell their bodies in order to
exist. We frown upon European marriages, but expect our own girls to
make good matches, marry for a home, do anything to catch a man. Faugh,
the thought makes me ill. If we support the American idea of matrimony,
then we must admit that the only proper basis for marriage is love. If
we are to have free men, we must have free women who refuse to sell
themselves for a home, social position, or material gain in any form
whatsoever. We must adopt a single standard of morals, and abolish
prostitution, both within and without the marriage relation.”
“Why—why, you—I’m surprised at you,” stuttered my companion. “I never
heard a woman speak such words before. Such talk is indecent, that’s
what it is, indecent.”
“The truth is often considered indecent, I believe, especially the naked
truth. Like the human body, it needs to be concealed by a peek-a-boo
waist of prudery and licentiousness.”
“Stop, stop, not another word.... Such language is positively
shocking ... not fit for a decent woman to listen to.”
At this point in this most shocking conversation, the mules headed for a
wretched two-room shack that stood a little away from the road. To me
the place appeared too poverty-stricken for hope of business, but our
driver let the mules have their way.
A frowsy woman was carrying two heavy pails of water from a well near
which stood a cesspool, a ramshackle shed for stock and a great heap of
refuse. The dooryard swarmed with dogs, hogs and children. A sallow
girl, gathering corncobs for the fire, loosed her loaded petticoat and
dashed forward to greet us. Mrs. Adams seized her sample case and
leaving the mules to their own devices, scrambled from the wagon. I
followed meekly.
The farmer’s wife set down her dripping burden, wiped her hands on her
tattered apron and proffered us a brimming dipper. Thirsty as I was, I
felt impelled to decline—the well’s environment did not appeal to my
taste. No sooner were we within the house, than Mrs. Adams opened
negotiations for a side of bacon.
“We’ve got some extry bacon, but I dunno about sparin’ none. My old
man’s aiming to take some into town to trade in a day or two and I dunno
what he’d say if I let go of a side.”
“Oh, Maw,” broke in the oldest girl, who had been examining our display
with longing eyes, “never mind what Paw says. If he trades the side
meat, he’ll just get drunk on the money. He always does.”
“You shut your mouth and don’t go talking about your Paw.” The mother
gave the girl a sharp slap on the ear as she spoke.
The child’s face crimsoned. “I don’t care. It ain’t right. We don’t ever
do anything but work, work, work, and Paw, he never works. Then
everything goes for hateful old booze. It ain’t right.”
“Now, now, Mandy, you orta treat your Paw with respect. I can’t see
what’s getting into the young ones these days, especially the girls.
Mandy here, bellered her head off cause we let Jeffie, that’s our
oldest, stop last winter with my brother Jed to go to school. She
thought she orta gone too.”
“Jeff’s had two years more in school now than I’ve had, and still I’m
ahead of him.”
“That’s all the more reason why you orta stay home and work. Jeffie’s a
boy and needs schoolin’, while you’re a——”
“You’re quite right,” Mrs. Adams interrupted; “a girl don’t need much
book learning. She wants to learn to cook and sew and take good care of
her house so she can make some man a good wife.”
“Yes, so she can plough and harrow and husk corn and carry swill to the
hogs while her man goes to town and gets drunk. I hate men. I hate men.”
The girl’s eyes blazed.
“Get out that door, you ungrateful hussy, or I’ll give you a good
lambasting.” The child burst into tears as her mother pursued her from
the untidy living room. “I can’t see what’s got into the child. She’s
always been such a comfort to me—worked since she was knee high to a
duck. Seems like she’s dead set on going to school, but I can’t spare
her. Why this spring, she and I put in eighty acres of corn with our own
hands, besides milking seven cows and all the other work. I’ve only got
the one boy; he’s the oldest in the family. I aim he should have an
education, but Jeffie hates school. Mandy can learn as much in eight
weeks scattered through the winter term as he can in a year, but the
spite of it is she’s only a girl and don’t need schoolin’.”
“You’re very wise to keep her with you. A woman’s place is in the home.
Now, don’t you think it would be a good idea to trade me that bacon?
It’ll make the girl contented to get these things she wants and she’ll
forget all about that fool notion of going to school. She needs stuff
like this to attract the boys. You make the trade and then figure out
some way of pulling the wool over the old man’s eyes.”
“Well, maybe I can manage some way. I orta get something for the poor
child, I suppose. Paw’ll raise Cain, but he does that anyhow. Now,
what’ll you let me have for a good fat side of bacon?”
Leaving the two women to conclude the bargain, I stepped outside and
sought Mandy. The poor girl seemed only too glad to find a sympathetic
soul to confide in.
She was sixteen years old, she said, and although her opportunities for
study had been so limited, she had managed to keep up with her classes
by studying every spare moment. For the past two years her teacher had
taken a special interest in her and had advised and helped her in every
possible way. She had a great ambition. It was to become a school
teacher and thus be able to help her mother and younger sisters.
“Toots is past fourteen and strong for her age,” she concluded, “and May
is twelve. They could help Maw out if I was gone. If I could only have
Jeff’s chance—just have some place to live while I went to school. But
Maw won’t hear of it. I just don’t know what to do. It’s not for me
alone, it’s all the little ones. Paw gets worse all the time, and Jeff’s
got no ambition. I got to succeed to save the family.” She squared her
wiry little shoulders as though to support the world.
“Sometimes people are willing to take a good, strong girl and let her
earn her board and keep while she goes to school by working mornings and
nights and holidays. It’s a pretty hard way to live. A girl must be a
servant and never gets any fun. Would you want to do that?”
Mandy stretched out her browned and calloused hands. “Do you see those
paws? I’ve milked cows and curried mules and ploughed and suckered corn,
to say nothing of washing dishes and packing wood and water and such
like, all without any hope at all. Give me a chance to earn an education
and I’ll work these fingers to the bone and be glad to do it.”
“Well, I can’t promise you anything definite, but I meet lots of people
and I’ll see what I can do. If I do find a place, how’ll I let you
know?”
“I’ll give you the address of Mrs. Cummings. That’s where my teacher
boarded. You can send a letter there for me and she’ll see that I get it
safely. Oh, if you’ll only get me a chance!”
“Are you sure you have the courage to leave your home in the face of the
opposition of your father and mother and go away alone to work in some
stranger’s kitchen? You’re under age, too, you know, and if your parents
can find you, they can force you to return. You’ll have to cut yourself
off from them for two whole years.”
“Yes, I can do it. I swear to you, I will do it—cross my heart and hope
to die. I wouldn’t leave my mother, if I didn’t feel sure it’s for her
own good. I can do so much for her when I get to be a teacher. You’ll
try to get me a chance, won’t you?”