leadin' strap even to craziness, an' that I ain't got an' never had. I
guess folks thinks I'm rill lunar when I take the notion. Only thing
comforts me, they don't know how lunar I rilly can be."
Then she told me about 'Leven.
"A shroud, to look rill nice," Calliope said, "ought to be made as much
as you can like a dress--barrin' t' you can't fit it. Mis' Toplady an'
Mis' Holcomb an' I made Jennie Crapwell's shroud--it was white mull and
a little narrow lace edge on a rill life-like collar. We finished it the
noon o' the day after Jennie died,--you know Jennie was Delia's
stepsister that they'd run away from--an' I brought it over to my house
an' pressed it an' laid it on the back bedroom bed--the room I don't use
excep' for company an' hang my clean dresses in the closet of.
"In the afternoon I went up to the City on a few little funeral
urrants,--a crape veil for Jennie's mother an' like that,--you know
Jennie died first. We wasn't goin' to dress her till the next
mornin'--her mother wanted we should leave her till then in her little
pink sacque she'd wore, an' the soft lavender cloth they use now spread
over her careless. An' we wanted to, too, because sence Mis' Jeweler
Sprague died nobody could do up the Dead's hair, an' Jennie wa'n't the
exception.
"Mis' Sprague, she'd hed a rill gift that way. She always done folks'
hair when they died an' she always got it like life--she owned up how,
after she begun doin' it so much, she used to set in church an' in
gatherin's and find herself lookin' at the backs of heads to see if they
was two puffs or three, an' whether the twist was under to left or over
to right--so's she'd know, if the time come. But none of us could get
Jennie's to look right. We studied her pictures an' all too, but best we
could do we got it all drawed back, abnormal.
"I was 'most all the afternoon in the City, an' it was pretty warm--a
hot April followin' on a raw March. I stood waitin' for the six o'clock
car an', my grief, I was tired. My feet ached like night in preservin'
time. An' I was thinkin' how like a dunce we are to live a life made up
mostly of urrants an' feetache followin'. _Yet_, after all, the right
sort o' urrants an' like that _is_ life--an', if they do ache, 'tain't
like your feet was your soul. Well, an' just before the car come, up
arrove the girl.
"I guess she was towards thirty, but she seemed even older, 'count o'
bein' large an' middlin' knowin'. First I see her was a check gingham
sleeve reachin' out an' she was elbowed up clost by me. 'Say,' she says,
'couldn't you gimme a nickel? I'm starved hollow.' She didn't look it
special--excep' as thin, homely folks always looks sort o' hungry. An'
she was homely--kind o' coarse made, more like a shed than a dwellin'
house. Her dress an' little flappy cape hed the looks o' bein' held on
by her shoulders alone, an' her hands was midnight dirty.
"I was feelin' just tired enough to snap her up.
"'A nickel!' s'I, crisp, 'give you a nickel! An' what you willin' to
give me?'
"She looked sort o' surprised an' foolish an' her mouth open.
"'Huh?' s'she, intelligent as the back o' somethin'.
"'You,' I says, 'are some bigger an' some stronger'n me. What you goin'
to give me?'
"Well, sir, the way she dropped her arms down sort o' hit at me, it was
so kitten helpless. I took that in rather than her silly, sort o'
insultin' laugh.
"'I can't do nothin',' she told me--an' all to once I saw how it was,
an' that that was what ailed her. I didn't stop to think no more'n as if
I didn't hev a brain to my name. 'Well,' I says, 'I'll give you a
nickel. Leastways, I'll spend one on you. You take this car,' I says,
'an' come on over to Friendship with me. An' we'll see.'
"She come without a word, like goin' or stayin' was all of a piece to
her, an' her relations all dead. When I got her on the car I begun to
see what a fool thing I'd done, seemin'ly. An' yet, I donno. I wouldn't
'a' left a month-old baby there on the corner. I'd 'a' _bed_ to 'a' done
for that, like you do--I s'pose to keep the world goin'. An' that woman
was just as helpless as a month-old. Some are. I s'pose likely,"
Calliope said thoughtfully, "we got more door-steps than we think, if we
get 'em all located.
"When we got to my house I pumped her a pitcher o' water an' pointed to
the back bedroom door. 'First thing,' s'I, blunt, 'clean up'--bein' as I
was too tired to be very delicate. 'An',' s'I, 'you'll see a clean
wrapper in the closet. Put it on.' Then I went to spread
supper--warmed-up potatoes an' bread an' butter an' pickles an' sauce
an' some cocoanut layer cake. It looked rill good, with the linen clean,
though common.
"I donno how I done it, excep' I was so ramfeezled. But I clear forgot
Jennie Crapwell's shroud, layin' ready on the back bedroom bed. An'
land, land, when the woman come out, if she didn't hev it on.
"I tell you, when I see her come walkin' out towards the supper table
with them fresh-ironed ruffles framin' in her face, I felt sort o'
kitterin'-headed--like my i-dees had fell over each other to get away
from me. The shroud fit her pretty good, too, barrin' it was a mite
long-skirted. An' somehow, it give her a look almost like dignity. Come
to think of it, I donno but a shroud does become most folks--like they
was rilly well-dressed at last.
"She come an' set down to table, quiet as you please--an' differ'nt.
Your clothes don't make you, by any means, but they just do sort o' hem
your edges, or rhyme the ends of you, or give a nice, even bake to your
crust--I donno. They do somethin'. An' the shroud hed done it to that
girl. She looked rill leaved out.
"How she did eat. It give me some excuse not to say anything to her till
she was through with the first violence. I did try to say grace, but she
says: 'Who you speakin' to? Me?' An' I didn't let on. I thought I
wouldn't start in on her moral manners. I just set still an' kep'
thinkin': You poor thing. Why, you poor thing. You're nothin' but a
piece o' God's work that wants doin' over--like a back yard or a poor
piece o' road or a rubbish place, or sim'lar. An' this tidyin' up is
what we're for, as I see it--only some of us lays a-holt of our own
settin' rooms an' butt'ry cupboards an' sullars an' cleans away on
_them_ for dear life, over an' over, an' forgets the rest. I ain't
objectin' to good housekeepin' at all, but what I say is: Get your
dust-rag big enough to wipe up somethin' besides your own dust. The
Lord, He's a-housekeepin' too.
"So, with that i-dee, I got above the shroud an' I begun on the woman
some like she was my kitchen closet in the spring o' the year.
"'What's your name?' s'I.
"''Leven,' s'she.
"'Leaven,' s'I, 'like the Bible?'
"'Huh?' s'she.
"'Why--oh, _'leven'_,' s'I, 'that ain't a name at all. That's a number.'
"'I know it,' s'she, indiffer'nt, 'that was me. I was the 'leventh, an'
they'd run out a'ready.'
"'For the land,' s'I, simple.
"An' that just about summed her up. They seemed to 'a' run out o'
everything, time she come.
"She hadn't been taught a thing but eat an' drink. Them was her only
arts. Excep' for one thing: When I ask' her what she could do, if any,
she says like she had on the street corner:--
"'I can't do nothin'. I donno no work.'
"'You think it over,' s'I. She had rill capable hands--them odd,
undressed-lookin' hands--I donno if you know what I mean?
"'Well,' s'she, sort o' sheepish, 'I can comb hair. Ma was allus sick
an' me an' Big Lil--she's the same floor--combed her hair for her. But I
could do it nicest.'
"Wan't that a curious happenin'--an' Jennie Crapwell layin' dead with
her hair drawn tight back because none of us could do it up human?
"'Could you when dead?' s'I. 'I mean when them that has the hair is?'
"An' with that the girl turns pallor white.
"'Oh ...' s'she, 'I ain't never touched the dead. But,' s'she, sort o'
defiant at somethin', 'I could do it, I guess, if you want I should.'
"Kind o' like a handle stickin' out from what would 'a' been her
character, if she'd hed one, that was, I thought. An', too, I see what
it'd mean to her if she knew she was wearin' a shroud, casual as calico.
"But when I told her about Jennie Crapwell, an' how they had a good
picture, City-made, of her side head, she took it quite calm.
"'I'll try it,' she says, bein' as she'd done her ma's hair layin' down,
though livin'. 'Big Lil always helps dress 'Em,' she says, 'an' guess I
could do Their hair.'
"I got right up from the supper table an' took 'Leven over to Crapwell's
without waitin' for the dishes. But early as I was, the rest was there
before me. I guess they was full ten to Crapwell's when we got there,
an' 'Leven an' I, we walked into the sittin'-room right in the midst of
'em--that is, of what wasn't clearin' table or doin' dishes or sweepin'
upstairs. Mis' Timothy Toplady an' Mis' Holcomb-that-was-Mame-Bliss was
the group nearest the door--an' the both of 'em reco'nized that shroud
the minute they clamped their eyes on it. But me, bein' back o' 'Leven,
I laid my front finger on to my shut lips with a motion that must 'a'
been armies with banners. An' they see me an' kep' still, sudden an' all
pent up.
"'This,' s'I, 'is a friend o' mine. She's goin' to do up Jennie's hair
from her City photograph.'
"Then I hustled 'Leven into the parlour where Jennie was layin' under
the soft lavender cloth. Nobody was in there but a few flowers, sent
early. An' it was a west window an' open, an' the sky all sunset--like
the End. 'Leven hung back, but I took her by the hand an' we went an'
looked down at Jennie in that nice, gentlin', after-supper light--'Leven
in Jennie's shroud an' neither of 'em knew it.
"An' all out o' the air somethin' says to me, Now--_now_--like it will
when you get so's you listen. I always think it's like the Lord had
pressed His bell somewheres for help in His housekeepin'--oh, because
_how_ He needs it!
"So I says, ''Leven, you never see anybody dead before. What's the
differ'nce between her an' you?'
"'She can't move,' 'Leven says, starin' down.
"'Yes, sir,' s'I, 'that's it. She's through doin' the things she was
born to do, an' you ain't.'
"With that 'Leven looks at me.
"'I _can't_ do nothin',' she says again.
"'Why, then,' says I, brisk, 'you're as good as dead, an' we'd best bury
you, too. What do you think the Lord wants you 'round for?'
"An' she didn't say nothin', only stood fingerin' the shroud she wore.
"'Here,' s'I, then, 'is the comb. Here is Jennie's picture. The pins is
in her hair. Take it down an' do it over. _There's_ somethin' to do an'
ease her mother about Jennie not lookin' natural.'
"An' with that I marched myself out an' shut the door.
"Mis' Toplady an' Mis' Holcomb was high-eyebrows on the other side of
it, an' they come at me like _tick_ lookin' for _tock_.
"'Well,' s'I, 'it _is_ Jennie's shroud she's wearin'. But I guess we'll
hev to bury 'Leven in it to get it underground. _I_ won't tell her.'
"I give 'em to understand as much as I wanted they should know,--not
includin' exactly how I met 'Leven. An' we consulted, vague an'
emphatic, like women will. There wasn't time to make another one an' do
it up an' all. An' anyway, I was bound not to let the poor thing know
what she'd done. The others hated to, too--I donno if you'll know how we
felt? I donno but mebbe you sense things like that better when you live
in a little town.
"'Well said!' Mis' Amanda bursts out after a while, 'I'm reg'lar put to
it. I can scare up an excuse, or a meal, or a church entertainment on as
short notice as any, but I declare if I ever trumped up a shroud. An'
you know an' I know,' she says, 'poor Jennie'd be the livin' last to
want to take it off'n the poor girl.'
"'An',' s'I, 'even if I should give her somethin' else to put on in the
mornin', an' sly this into the coffin on Jennie, I donno's I'd want to.
The shroud,' s'I, ''s been wore.'
"Mis' Holcomb sort o' kippered--some like a shiver.
"'I donno what it is about its bein' wore first,' s'she, 'but I guess it
ain't so much what it is as what it ain't. Or sim'lar.'
"An' I knew what she meant. I've noticed that, often.
"In the end we done what I'd favoured from the beginnin': We ask' Mis'
Crapwell if we couldn't bury Jennie in her white mull.
"'A _shroud_,' says Mis' Crapwell, grievin', 'made by a dressmaker with
buttons?'
"'It's the part o' Jennie that wore it before that'll wear it now,' I
says, reasonable, 'an' her soul never was buttoned into it anyways. An'
it won't be now.'
"An' after a while we made her see it, an' that was the first regular
dress ever wore to a buryin' in Friendship, by the one that was the one.
"I'll never forget when 'Leven come out o' that room, after she'd got
through. We all went in--Mis' Crapwell an' Mis' Toplady an' Mis' Holcomb
an' I, an' some more. An' I took 'Leven back in with me. An' as soon as
I see Jennie I see it was Jennie come back--hair just as natural as if
it was church Sunday mornin' an' her in her pew. We all knew it was so,
an' we all said so, an' Mis' Crapwell, she just out cryin' like she'd
broke her heart. An' when the first of it was over, she went acrost to
'Leven, an' 'Oh,' s'she, 'you've give her back to me. You give her back.
God bless you!' she says to her. An' when I looked at 'Leven, I see the
'Huh?' look wasn't there at all. But they was a little somethin' on her
face like she was proud, an' didn't quite want to show it--along of her
features or complexion or somethin' never havin' had it spread on 'em
before.
"Nex' mornin' o' course 'Leven put on the shroud again. I must say it
give me the creeps to see her wearin' it, even if it did look like
everybody's dresses. I donno what it is about such things, but they make
somethin' scrunch inside o' you. Like when they got a new babtismal dish
for the church, an' the minister's sister took the old one for a cake
dish.
"S'I, to 'Leven, after breakfast:--
"We're goin' to line Jennie's grave this mornin'. I guess you'd like to
go with us, wouldn't you?'
But I see her face with the old look, like the back o' somethin', or
like you'd rubbed down the page when the ink was wet, an' had blurred
the whole thing unreadable. An' I judged that, like enough, she knew
nothin' whatever about grave-linin', done civilized.
"'I mean, I thought mebbe you'd like to help us some,' I says.
"'I would!' s'she, at that, rill ready an' quick. An' it come to me 't
she knew now what _help_ meant. She'd learnt it the night before from
Jennie's mother--like she'd learnt to answer a bell when Somebody
pressed it. Only, o' course she never guessed Who it was ringin'
it--like you don't at first.
"So I made up my mind I'd take her to the cemet'ry. We done the work up
first, an' 'Leven spried 'round for me, wipin' the dishes with the
wipin' cloth in a bunch, an' settin' 'em up wrong places. An' I did hev
to go in the butt'ry an' laugh to see her sweep up. She swep' up some
like her broom was a branch an' the wind a-switchin' it.
"Mis' Toplady an' Mis' Holcomb stopped by for us, with the white cotton
cloth an' the tacks, an' by nine o'clock we was over to the cemet'ry.
The grave was all dug an' lined with nice pine boards, an' the dirt
piled 'longside, an' the boards for coverin' an' the spades layin' near.
Zittelhof was just leavin', havin' got in his pulley things to lower
'em. Zittelhof's rill up to date. Him an' Mink, the barber, keep runnin'
each other to see who can get the most citified things. No sooner'd
Zittelhof get his pulleys than Mink, he put in shower-baths. An' when
Mink bought a buzz fan, Zittelhof sent for the lavender cloth to spread
over 'em before the coffin comes. It makes it rill nice for Friendship.
"'Who's goin to get down in?' says Mis' Toplady, shakin' out the cloth.
Mis' Toplady always use' to be the one, but she can't do that any more
since she got so heavy. An' Mis' Holcomb's rheumatism was bad that day
an' the grave middlin' damp, so it was for me to do. An' all of a sudden
I says:--
"''Leven, you just get down in there, will you? An' we'll tell you how.'
"'_In the grave?_' says 'Leven.
"I guess I'm some firm-mannered, just by takin' things for granted, an'
I says, noddin':--
"'Yes. You're the lightest on your feet,' I says--an' I sort o' shoved
at her, bird to young, an' she jumped down in, not bein' able to help
it.
"'Here,' s'I, flingin' her an end o' cloth, 'tack it 'round smooth to
them boards.'
"'Mother o' God,' says she, swallowin' in her breath.
"But she done it. She knelt down there in the grave, her poor, frowzy
head showin,' an' she tacked away like we told her to, an' she never
said another word. Mis' Toplady an' Mis' Holcomb didn't say nothin',
either, only looked at me mother-knowin'. Them two--Mis' Toplady more'n
anybody in Friendship, acts like bein' useful is bein' alive an' nothin'
else is. They see what I was doin', well enough--only I donno's they'd
'a' called it what I did, 'bout the Lord's housekeepin' an all. An' I
knew I couldn't gentle 'Leven into the _i_-dee, but I judged I could
shock it into her--same as her an' the Big Lil kind have to hev. Some
folks you hev to shoot _i_-dees at, muzzle to brain.
"I donno if you've took it in that when you're in a grave, or 'round
one, your talk sort o' veers that way? Ours did. Mis' Banker Mason's
baby had just died in March, an' the choir'd made an awful scandal,
breakin' down in the fifth verse of 'One poor flower has drooped and
faded.' They'd stood 'em in a half circle where they could look right
down on the little thing. An' when the choir got to
"But we feel no thought of sadness
For our friend is happy now,
She has knelt in heartfelt gladness
Where the holy angels bow,
they just naturally broke down an' cried, every one of 'em. An' then the
little coffin was some to blame, too--it was sort of a little Lord
Fauntleroy coffin, with a broad white puff around, an' most anybody
would a' cried when they looked in it, even empty. But Doctor June, he
just stood up calm, like his soul was his body, an' he begun to pray
like God was there in the parlour, Him feelin' as bad as we, an' not
doin' the child's death Himself at all, like we'd been taught--but
sorrowin' with us, for some o' His housekeepin' gone wrong. An' by the
time Banker an' Mis' Mason got in the close' carriage an' took the
little thing's casket on their knees--you know we do that here, not
havin' any white hearse--why, we was all feelin' like God Almighty was
hand in hand in sorrow with us. An' it's never left me since. I know He
is.
"We talked that over while 'Leven tacked the evergreen on the white
cloth. An' I know Mis' Toplady says she'd stayed with Mis' Banker Mason
so much since then that she felt God had sort o' singled her--Mis'
Toplady--out, to give her a chanst to do His work o' comfortin'. 'I've
just let my house go,' s'she, 'an' I've got the grace to see it don't
matter if I have.' Mis' Toplady ain't one o' them turtle women that
their houses is shells on 'em, burden to back. She's more the bird
kind--neat little nest under, an' wings to be used every day, somewheres
in the blue.
"So 'Leven done all Jennie Crapwell's grave. She must 'a been down in it
an hour. An' when she got through, an' looked up at us from down in the
green, an' wearin' Jennie's shroud an' all, I just put out my hands, to
help her up, an' I thought, almost like prayin': 'Oh, raise up, you
Dead, an' come forth--come forth.' Sort o' like Lazarus. An' I know I
wasn't sacrilegious from what happened; for when Mis' Toplady an' Miss
Holcomb come up to 'Leven an' says, rill warm, how well she'd done it
an' how much obliged they was, I see that little look on the girl's face
again like--oh, like she'd wrote somethin' on the blurry page, somethin'
you could read.
"Jennie was buried that afternoon at sharp three. It was a sad funeral,
'count o' Jennie's trouble, an' all. But it was a rill big funeral an'
nicely conducted, if I do say that done the managin'. Mis' Postmaster
Sykes seated the guests--ain't she the kind that always seems to be one
to stand in the hall at funerals with her hat off, to consult about
chairs an' where shall the minister lay his Bible, an' who'd ought to be
invited to set next the bier? An' she always takes charge o' the
flowers. Mis' Sykes can tell you who sent what flowers to who for years
back, an the wordin' on the pillows. She's got a rill gift that way. But
I done the managin' behind the scenes, an' it went off rill well, an' I
got the minister to drop a flower on Jennie's coffin instead of a pinch
o' dirt. An' one chair I did see to: right in the bay, near Jennie, I
set 'Leven--I guess with just a kind of a blind feelin' that I wanted to
get her _near_. Near the flowers or the singin' or what the minister
said or,--oh, near the mystery an' God speakin' from the dead, like He
does. Anyway, I shoved her into the bay window back o' the casket, an'
there I left her in behind a looped-back Nottingham--settin' in Jennie's
shroud an' didn't either of 'em know it.
"It was a queer chapter for Doctor June to read, some said--but I guess
holy things often is queer, only we're better cut out to see queer than
holy. Anyway, his voice went all mellow and gentle, boomin' out soft an'
in his throat, all over the house. It was that about ..." Calliope
quoted piecemeal:--
"'Awake, awake, put on thy strength ... put on thy beautiful garments, O
Jerusalem, the holy city ... shake thyself from the dust, arise and sit
down ... loose thyself from the bonds of thy neck, O captive daughter of
Zion ... how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that
bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that bringeth good tidings
of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion: Thy God
reigneth! Break forth into joy, sing together ... depart ye, depart ye,
go ye out from thence, touch no unclean thing ... be ye clean, that bear
the vessels of the Lord....'
"Sometimes a thing you've heard always will come at you sudden, like a
star had fell on your very head. It was that way with me that day. 'Put
on thy beautiful garments ...' I says over, 'Put 'em on--put 'em on!'
An' all the while I was seein' to the supper for the crowd that was
goin' to be there--train relations an' all--I kep' thinkin' that over
like a song--'Put 'em on--put 'em on--put 'em on!' An' it was in me yet,
like a song had come to life there, when they'd all gone to the
cemetery--'Leven with 'em--an' I'd got through straightenin' the
chairs--or rather crookedin' 'em some into loops from funeral lines--an'
slipped over to my house, back way. For I ain't sunk so low as to be
that sympathetic that I'll stay to supper after the funeral just because
I've helped at it. There's a time to mourn an' there's a time to eat,
an' you better do one with the bereaved an' slip home to your own
butt'ry shelf for the other, _I_ say.
"I was just goin' through the side yard to my house when I see 'em
comin' back from the cemetery, an' I waited a little, lookin' to see
what was sproutin' in the flower-bed. It was a beautiful, beautiful
evenin'--when I think of it it seems I can breathe it in yet. It was
'most sunset, an' it was like the West was a big, blue bowl with eggs
beat up in it, yolks an' whites, some gold an' some feathery. But the
bowl wa'n't big enough, an' it had spilled over an' flooded the whole
world yellowish, or all floatin' shinin' in the air. It was like the
world had done the way the Bible said--put on its beautiful garments. I
was thinkin' that when 'Leven come in the front gate. She was walkin'
fast, an' lookin' up, not down. Her cheeks was some pink, an' the light
made the shroud all pinkey, an' she looked rill nice. An' I marched
straight up to her, feelin' like I was swimmin' in that lovely light:--
"''Leven,' I says, ''Leven--it's like the whole world was made over
to-night, ain't it?'
"'Yes,' says she--an' not 'Huh?' at all.
"'Seems like another world than when we met on the street corner, don't
it?' I says.
"'Yes,' she says again, noddin'--an' I thought how she'd stood there on
the sidewalk, hungry an' her hands all black, an' believin' she couldn't
do anything at all. An' it seemed like I hed sort o' scrabbled her up
an' held her over a precipice, an' said to her: 'See the dead. Look at
yourself. Come forth--come forth! Clean up--do somethin' to help,
anything, if it's only tackin' on evergreens an' doin' the Dead's hair
up becomin'--' oh, I s'pose, rilly, I was sayin' to her: 'Put on thy
beautiful garments. Awake. Put on thy strength.' Only it come out some
differ'nt from me than it come from Isaiah.