MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN (1862– >

The realism of the later years of the century, the depressed 'veritism' or 'naturalism' of the French school and of Thomas Hardy found its New England representative in Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. She was born in a New England village.— Randolph, not far from Boston, and later she lived in a Vermont town where her father kept a country store. She received her education in small schools, and, then, after the death of her parents, at Mt. Holyoke Seminary. Her short stories, which began to appear in the eighties, seem to have been influenced little by the fiction of the period. They came from her experience of the more somber side of New England life, and they were spontaneous and artless. In her earlier volumes, like A Humble Romance, 1887, A New England Nun, 1891, and Pembroke, 1894, she painted pictures bare of ornament, severe, and cold. She dealt with repressed lives, with surroundings bare of joy, the sad after-crop of Puritanism. She is at her best with the short story: her unit of measure is short. She can tell with convincing power the story of the culminating climax of a repressed life, but she is unable to trace convincingly the gradual development of a soul. In her later fiction she has become more and more a conscious artist, more finished, more ornate in style, but what she has gained in finish she has lost in convincingness and biting power. She will hold her place in American literature on account of her earlier tales, rather than the more conscious art of her later period.

THE REVOLT OF MOTHER'1 'Father!'

'What is it?'

'What are them men diggin' over there in the field for?'

There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower part of the old man's face, as if some heavy weight had settled

like a child in her brown cotton gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth curves of gray hair; there were meek downward lines about 5 her nose and mouth; but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the meekness had been the result of her own will, never of the will of another.

They were in the barn, standing before

therein; he shut his mouth tight, and went 10 the wide open doors. The spring air, full

on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her neck with a jerk.

'Father!'

of the smell of growing grass and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of wood; on the edges, close

The old man slapped the saddle upon 15 to the fence and the house, the grass was the mare's back.

'Look here, father, I want to know what them men are diggin' over in the field for, an' I'm goin' to know.'

'I wish you'd go into the house, 20 mother, an' 'tend to your own affairs,' the old man said then. He ran his words together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate as a growl.

But the woman understood; it was her 25 most native tongue. I ain't goin' into the house till you tell me what them men are doin' over there in the field,' said she.

Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short and straight-waisted 30 1 Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers, owners of the copyright.

a vivid green, and there were some dandelions.

The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the last buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable to him as one of the rocks in his pastureland, bound to the earth with generations of blackberry vines. He slapped the reins over the horse, and started forth from the barn.

'A barn.'.

'A barn? You ain't goin' to build a barn over there where we was goin' to have a house, father?'

The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard, jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy.

The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she went out of the barn 10 across a corner of the yard to the house. The house, standing at right angles with the great barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings, was infinitesimal compared with them. It was scarcely as com- 15 modious for people as the little boxes under the barn eaves were for doves.

5

A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was looking out of one of the house windows. She was watching three 20 men who were digging over in the field which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned quietly when the woman entered.

What are they digging for, mother?' 25 said she. Did he tell you? ` They're diggin' for

new barn.

a cellar for a

Oh, mother, he ain't going to build another barn?'

That's what he says.'

A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his brown hair

her soft curves did not look as if they covered muscles.

Her mother looked sternly at the boy. 'Is he goin' to buy more cows?' said she. The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes.

Sammy, I want you to tell me if he's goin' to buy more cows.' 'I s'pose he is.' 'How many?' 'Four, I guess.'

His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap from a nail behind the door, took an old arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He was lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his loose home-made jacket tilt up in the rear.

The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that were piled up there. Her mother came promptly out of the pantry, and shoved her aside. You wipe 'em,' said she; 'I'll wash There's a good many this mornin'.'

The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. 'Mother,' 30 said she, don't you think it's too bad father's going to build that new barn, much as we need a decent house to live in?'

Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. in a smooth hillock over his forehead. 35' You ain't found out yet we 're womenHe did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation.

'Sammy, did you know father was going to build a new barn?' asked the girl. The boy combed assiduously.

'Sammy!

folks, Nanny Penn,' said she.

You ain't seen enough of men-folks yet to. One of these days you'll find it out, an' then you'll know that we know only what men40 folks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to reckon menfolks in with Providence, an' not complain of what they do any more than we do of the weather.'

He turned, and showed a face like his father's under his smooth crest of hair. 'Yes, I s'pose I did,' he said, reluctantly. 'How long have you known it?' asked +5 his mother.

"'Bout three months, I guess.' 'Why didn't you tell of it?

'Didn't think 't would do no good.'

'I don't see what father wants another 50 barn for,' said the girl, in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again to the window. and stared out at the digging men in the field. Her tender, sweet face was full of gentle distress. Her forehead was as 55 bald and innocent as a baby's, with the light hair strained back from it in a row of curl-papers. She was quite large, but

'I don't care; I don't believe George is anything like that, anyhow,' said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed pink, her lips pouted softly, as if she were going to cry.

You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better than other men. You had n't ought to judge father, though. He can't help it, 'cause he don't look at things jest the way we do. An' we've been pretty comfortable here, after all. The roof don't leak — ain't never but once that's one thing. Father's kept it shingled right up.'

'I do wish we had a parlor.'

large doors. Sarah Penn's showed itself to-day in flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the pies faithfully, while across the table she could see, when she glanced up 5 from her work, the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul- the digging of the cellar of the new barn in the place where Adoniram forty years ago had promised her their new house should

I ain't complained either, mother.' 'Well, I don't think you'd better, a good father an' a good home as you've got. S'pose your father made you go out an' work for your livin'? Lots of girls 10 stand. have to that ain't no stronger an' better able to than you be.'

The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were home a few minutes after twelve o'clock. The dinner was eaten with serious haste. There was She 15 never much conversation at the table in the Penn family. Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly, then rose up and went about their work.

'I want to know what you're buildin' that new barn for, father?'

'I ain't got nothin' to say about it.' 'It can't be you think you need another barn?'

'I tell ye I ain't got nothin' to say about it, mother; an' I ain't goin' to say nothin'.' 'Be you goin' to buy more cows?' Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.

to set away my victuals in, an' to keep my milk-pans in. Father, I've been takin' care of the milk of six cows in this place, an' now you 're goin' to build a new barn, 5 an' keep more cows, an' give me more to do in it.'

She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight of stairs wound upward from it. There, father,' said she, 10'I want you to look at the stairs that go up to them two unfinished chambers that are all the places our son an' daughter have had to sleep in all their lives. There ain't a prettier girl in town nor a more ladylike one than Nanny, an' that's the place she has to sleep in. It ain't so good as your horse's stall; it ain't so warm an' tight.'

Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. Now, father,' said she, 'I want to know if you think you're doin' right an' accordin' to what you profess. Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you promised me faithful that we should have a new house built in that lot over in the field before the year was out. You said you had money enough, an' you would n't ask me to live in no such place as this. It is forty year now, an' you've been makin' more money, an' I've been savin' of it for you ever since, an' you ain't built no house yet. You've built sheds an' cow-houses an' one new barn an' now you're goin' to build another.

'I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look here Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood before her husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman' I'm goin' to talk real 15 plain to you; I never have sence I married you, but I'm goin' to now. I ain't never complained, an' I ain't goin' to complain now, but I'm goin' to talk plain. You see this room here, father; you look 20 at it well. You see there ain't no carpet on the floor, an' you see the paper is all dirty, an' droin' off the walls. We ain't had no new paper on it for ten year, an' then I put it on myself, an' it did n't cost 25 but ninepence a roll. You see this room, father; it's all the one I've had to work in an' eat in an' sit in sence we was married. There ain't another woman in the whole town whose husband ain't got half 30 the means you have but what's got better. It's all the room Nanny 's got to have her company in; an' there ain't one of her mates but what's got better, an' their fathers not so able as hers is. It's all the 35 Father, I want to know if you think it's room she 'll have to be married in. What would you have thought, father, if we had had our weddin' in a room no better than this? I was married in my mother's parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an' stuffed 40 furniture, an' a mahogany card-table. An' this is all the room my daughter will have to be married in. Look here, father!'

Sarah Penn went across the room as 45 though it were a tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny bedroom, only large enough for a bed and bureau, with a path between. There, father,' said she there's all the room I've had 50 to sleep in forty year. All my children were born there the two that died, an' the two that 's livin'. I was sick with a fever there.'

right. You're lodgin' your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh an' blood. I want to know if you think it's right.'

'I ain't got nothin' to say.'

'You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father. An' there's another thing I ain't complained; I've got along forty year, an' I s'pose I should forty more, if it wa'n't for that if we don't have another house. Nanny she can't live with us after she's married. She'll have to go somewheres else to live away from us, an' it don't seem as if I could have it so, noways, father. She wa'n't ever strong. She's got considerable color, but there wa'n't never any backbone to her. I've always took the heft of everything off her, an' she ain't fit to keep house an' do everything herself. She'll be all worn out inside of a year. Think of her doin' all the washin' and ironin' an' bakin' with them soft white hands an' arms, an'

ing as proudly upright as a Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder.

It seemed to her all through the spring months that she heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of saws and hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice for this little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it to her, although sometimes, upon a return

'Father, won't you think it over, an' have a house built there instead of a 15 from inspecting it, he bore himself with barn?' injured dignity.

'I ain't got nothin' to say.'

Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom. When she came out, her eyes were red. She had a roll of un- 20 bleached cotton cloth. She spread it out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for her husband. The men over in the field had a team to help

It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new barn,' he said, confidentially, to Sammy one day.

Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy; he had learned it from his father.

The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week in July. Adoniram

them this afternoon; she could hear their 25 had planned to move his stock in on halloos. She had a scanty pattern for the shirts; she had to plan and piece the sleeves.

Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her needlework. She 30 had taken down her curl-papers and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately fine and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red 35 flamed all over her face and neck. 'Mother,' said she.

What say?'

- I don't see how

'I've been thinking we're goin' to have any wedding in 40 this room. I'd be ashamed to have his folks come if we didn't have anybody else.'

'Mebbe we can have some new paper

Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which changed his plans. He came in with it early in the morning. Sammy's been to the post-office,' said he, 'an' I've got a letter from Hiram.' Hiram was Mrs. Penn's brother, who lived in Vermont.

'Well,' said Mrs. Penn, 'what does he say about the folks?'

I guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come up country right off there's a chance to buy jest the kind of a horse I want.' He stared reflectively out of the window at the new barn.

Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very pale, and her heart beat loudly.

I dun' know but what I'd better go, before then; I can put it on. I guess you 45 said Adoniram. I hate to go off jest won't have no call to be ashamed of your belongin's.'

'We might have the wedding in the new barn,' said Nanny, with gentle pettishness. Why, mother, what makes you 50 look so?'

Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious expression. She turned again to her work, and spread out a pattern carefully on the cloth. 'Noth- 55 in,' said she.

Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-wheeled dump cart, stand

now, right in the midst of hayin', but the ten-acre lot's cut, an' I guess Rufus an the others can git along without me three or four days. I can't get a horse round here to suit me, nohow, an' I've got to have another for all that wood-haulin' in the fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an if he got wind of a good horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go.'

I'll get out your clean shirt an' collar.' said Mrs. Penn calmly.

She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes on the bed in the lit