For days Mary could think of little else, but as week followed week, her
thoughts merged into memories--memories that were stored away and stirred
in their hiding places less and less often.
"Dad knew best," she finally told herself. "He bore it in silence all
those years, so it wouldn't worry me, and I'm not going to start now.
Perhaps--he's dead, too. Anyhow," she sternly repeated, "I'm not going to
worry. I've seen enough of worry to start doing that."
Besides, she had too much else on her mind--"to start doing that."
As the war in Europe had progressed--America drawing nearer the crimson
whirlpool with every passing month--a Red Cross chapter was organized at
New Bethel. Mary took active part in the work, and whenever visitors came
to speak at the meetings, they seldom went away without being entertained
at the house on the hill.
"I love to think of it," she told Aunt Patty one day. "The greatest
organization of mercy ever known--and practically all women's work!
Doesn't that mean a lot to you, Aunt Patty? If women can do such
wonderful things for the Red Cross, why can't they do wonderful things in
other ways?"
Her own question set her thinking, and something seemed to tell her that
now or never she must watch her chance to make old dreams come true.
Surely never before in the history of the world had woman come to the
front with such a splendid arrival.
"We'll get things yet, Aunt Delia," she whispered in confidence, "so that
folks will be just as proud of a girl baby as a boy baby." Whereupon she
wagged her finger as though to say, "You mark my words!" and went rolling
away to hear a distinguished lecturer who had just returned from Europe
with a message to the women in America of what their sisters were doing
across the seas.
The address was given at the Red Cross rooms, and as Mary listened she
sewed upon a flannel swaddling robe that was later to go to Siberia lest
a new-born babe might perish. At first she listened conscientiously
enough to the speaker--"What our European sisters have done in
agriculture--"
"I do believe at times that it's the women more than the men who make a
country great," she thought as she heard of the women ploughing,
planting, reaping. To Mary's mind each stoical figure glowed with the
light of heroism, and she nodded her head as she worked.
"Just as I've always said," she mused; "there's nothing a man can do that
a woman can't do."
From her chair by the window she chanced to look out at an old circus
poster across the street.
"Now that's funny, too," she thought, her needle suspended; "I never
thought of that before--but even in such things as lion taming and
trapeze performing--where you would think a woman would really be at a
disadvantage--she isn't at all. She's just as good as a man!"
The voice of the speaker broke in upon her thoughts.
"I am now going to tell you," she said, "what the women of Europe are
doing in the factories--"
And oh, how Mary listened, then!
It was a long talk--I cannot begin to give it here--but she drank in
every word, and hungered and thirsted for more.
"There is not an operation in factory, foundry or laboratory," began the
speaker, "where women are not employed--"
As in a dream Mary seemed to see the factory of Spencer & Son. The long
lines of men had vanished, and in their places were women, clear-eyed,
dexterous and happy at escaping from the unpaid drudgery of housework.
"It may come to that, too," she thought, "if we go into war."
"In aeroplane construction," the speaker continued, "where an undetected
flaw in her work might mean an aviator's life, woman is doing the
carpentry work, building the frame work, making the propellers. They are
welding metals, drilling, boring, grinding, milling, even working on the
engines and magnetos--"
A quiver ran up and down Mary's back and her eyes felt wet. "Just what
I've always said," she thought. "Ah, the poor women--"
"They are making telescopes, periscopes, binoculars, cameras--cutting and
grinding the lenses--work so fine that the deviation of a hair's breadth
would cause rejection--some of the lenses as small as a split pea. They
make the metal parts that hold those lenses, assemble them, adjust them,
test them. These are the eyes of the army and navy--surely no small part
for the woman to supply."
Mary's thoughts turned to some of the homes she had seen--the
surroundings--the expression of the housewife. "All her life and no help
for it," she thought. And again, "Ah, the poor women...."
"To tell you the things she is making would be to give you a list of
everything used in modern warfare. They are making ships, tanks, cannon,
rifles, cartridges. They are operating the most wonderful trip hammers
that were ever conceived by the mind of man, and under the same roof they
are doing hand work so delicate that the least extra pressure of a file
would spoil a week's labour. More! There isn't a process in which she has
been employed where woman has failed to show that she is man's equal in
speed and skill. In many operations she has shown that she is man's
superior--doing this by the simple method of turning out more work in a
day than the man whose place she took--"
Mary invited the speaker to go home with her, and if you had gone past
the house on the hill that night, you would have seen lights burning
downstairs until after one o 'clock.
How did they train the women?
How did they find time to do their washing and ironing?
What about the children? And the babies? And the home?
As the visitor explained, stopping now and then to tell her young hostess
where to write for government reports giving facts and figures on the
subject which they were discussing, Mary's eyes grew dreamier and
dreamier as one fancy after another passed through her mind. And when the
clock struck one and she couldn't for shame keep her guest up any longer,
she went to her room at last and undressed in a sort of a reverie, her
glance inward turned, her head slightly on one side, and with such a look
of thoughtful exaltation that I wish I could paint it for you, because I
know I can never put it into words.
Still, if you can picture Betsey Ross, it was thus perhaps that Betsey
looked when first she saw the flag.
Or Joan of Arc might once have gazed that way in Orleans' woods.