Working a farm of fields that stand on edge, without men to help, and
without much machinery, makes women into warriors or kills them. The
grandmother and mother were no longer women. Even when they caressed
the boy their faces were furrowed with invincible will-power. But Lady
Iron-Heels still a woman, was confused in the alternative of manhood
or death. She was indeed a flower not yet torn to pieces by the wind,
greatly shaken, and therefore blooming the faster.
There was a red ribbon streaming over the gray rag-carpet. Lady
Iron-Heels stooped, gave the ribbon a jerk, and a banjo came snarling
from under the bed.
She sat on the warring colors of the crazy-quilt, and played a
dance-tune, storming the floor with one heel. She grew pensive. She
sang:--
“We shall rest in the fair and happy land
Just across on the ever-green shore,
Sing the song of Moses and the Lamb (by and by)
And dwell with Jesus evermore.”
Her neck had a yellow handkerchief round it. A brown lock swept across
her leaping throat. Her cheeks and chin were bold as her iron heels.
Underneath the precious silken sunburn, the blood was beating, beating,
and trying to thicken into manhood to fight off death.
After the music the ladies dipped snuff in the circle around the dim
fire.