588 
Z3/>e R U R AL N EW-Y O R K E R 
AprU 21, 1917. 
What Jim Buuce don’t know about 
ht^ns, ain’t wuth knowin’. He’s kep’ 
’em so long he’s ha’f hen hisself. I re- 
c’leet something he said in one of our 
nrgyments—I don’t remember what it 
was about, now. 
“Ezry,” he sez, “they’s one thing I ad-, 
mire about a hen-r-when •she makes up 
hor mind about anything, it stays made 
up. If she decides that old Sam’s man¬ 
ger is the one place on this here green 
earth to lay her eggs, she’ll lay ’em 
there! Old Sam may bunt her out o’ 
there forty-nine times a hour, all day 
Sunday, and Sam’s boss may play all 
kind tV low-down tricks on her; buV when 
they come in f'um work, Monday noon, 
they’ll be a egg there in plain sight. On 
the other hand, if her ch’ice falls on 
Madge’s —she don’t care if ev'ry hen on 
the place lays in her manger; her meet- 
in’ no oppersition wun’t make no dif- 
f’rence. She wun’t lay on’y the usual 
number of eggs in Sam’s manger, and she 
wun’t drop below the av'ridge in 
Madge’s. 
“Wimmen-folks ain't built that W’ay,” 
he sez. “A woman's as much stuck on 
havin’ her own way as a hen is, but after 
she gits it she dunno what to do with 
it. And if she ain’t opposed she gits 
suspicious, and like as not wun’t have 
it, anyway.” 
I’m moved to give Jim’s remarks bu- 
cause mebbe they'll e.vplain better’ll I can 
how he come to figger things up better’n 
the rest of US in what fullers. 
T’'s folks didn’t lose no sleep over that 
Showalter feller that come within a 
brace o’ shakes of tradin’ me one hun- 
derd highly orn’mental and consid’rably 
wuthless pieces o’ paper for my balance 
in the bank; but we took quite a shine 
to his w’ife, and we often used to won¬ 
der what had become of her, and how she 
was makin’ it. We didn’t lay up his do- 
in’s agin her, fur Edie ’d told us quite a 
few things as showed us she was a dif- 
f’rent breed f’um him—to say nothin’ 
about how she tried to help me out. 
Ilow’somever, we didn't hear’ f’um her, 
and what with Henry and Edith gittin’ 
married to Em’ly and Sheldon, and a 
hull lot more happenin’s that wouldn’t 
int’rest you none, she passed out o’ 
mind, as people you don’t hear of will. 
A year ago last Fall me and Henry and 
Jim Bunco was as busy as beavers a- 
puttin’ up a new silo on my place. We 
had a big corn crop, and another silo 
was the only way I could see to take 
care on it. .Tim’s a born carpenter, and 
he was takiu’ as much int’rest as if it 
was his’n. We was pretty well .along' 
with it, when Mary come out one day 
with a letter the carrier ’d dropped in 
our free-deliv’ry box. 
“Sizin’ Up a Woman” 
As Related by Elzra Barlow 
to US in some way. She'd explain when 
she come, if we’d have her. 
“Huh! So he’s under a cloud, is he?” 
sez Jim. “Well, I s'pose the uniforms in 
a Federal prison is diff'rent fum them in 
a State pen’tentiary.” 
I was glad Mary’s look wa’n’t aimed at 
me. 
“What’ll wc do about it, Ezry?” she 
ast me. 
“Whatever you say goes, Mary,” I 
sez. “I cal’late a good woman in the 
country 'll know about what to say to 
another good woman, fightin’ a hard bat¬ 
tel single-handed in a big city. Bemembcr 
the Golden Rule, and that you and ine’s 
pardners.” 
I’m rather hefty for ord’nary bidders, 
now-a-days, but I wa’n’t goin’ to have 
her do that in front of Jim—I wouldn’t 
’a’ minded Henry. 
It was one o’ them Fall days, when the 
view f’um our yard puts you in mind o’ 
heaven, when Edie went down in Shel¬ 
don’s car to meet her. Girls now^adays 
is too delikit to run a hay-rake, but you 
don’t ketch me tryin’ to run one o’ them 
things. Mary’s got the notion, and, soon¬ 
accomp'uymeuts them days! It w'as the 
click-click of the corn-harvester, or else 
the whir of the cutter and the zm-m-m 
of the blower all day, and Mary’s tongue 
clackin’ till I went to sleep ev’ry night. 
I picked up a little ev’ry night, till, 
finely, my mind was all stuck up with 
it—the way a cow picks up a few burrs 
.ev’ry day, till, finely, if she hits you w ith 
her brush you think you’ve bin struck 
with a sledge-hammer. The tune she 
hammered on w^as made up of the sor- 
rers and virtues of Mrs. Showalter, and 
the gineral wuthlessness of her husband. 
Seems he’d promised her that Summer 
they w’as up here that he wouldn’t try to 
put nothin’ over on us mossbacks. He 
lived up to it till he went to the Grange 
picnic and see how green w^e reely was^— 
and he fell. But that wa’n’t his fust, or 
his W’ust offense. When he courted her 
she was <a green girl f’um the country, 
makin’ a honest livin’ maniperlatin’ one 
o’ these here typewriter things. She never 
knowed his office dowmtown wa’n’t a 
honest place o’ bizness till after she’d bin 
married to him a year, or better. But 
long before that she’d found out that she 
“ Ezrv.” 
“Ezry,” sez she, “yxu can’t guess who 
this letter is from.” 
“Xo,” sez I, “I ain’t got my guessin’- 
clothes on today. And till this silo's up 
and roofed over, I don't cal’late to wuiste 
no time gue.ssin’ about nothin’ except 
whether wee’ll git it done in time so’s we 
can cut that corn before it gits frosted. 
I f it’s f’um the Preserdent, let’s hear it; 
if it ain’t, save it till dinner-time, and 
let’s have it for dessert.” 
“There, .Tim,” she sez, “you see what 
kind of a man I married! When he has 
anything* on hand, he’s all wropped up 
in it. Here we git a letter f’um Mrs. 
Showalter, and he ain’t ha'f as iut’rested 
as he would be if a cow’ got in his corn.” 
By that time .Tim and Henry was 
down on the gi'ound, and they w’a’n’t no 
use handin’ up staves to nobody, so I 
jined ’em. 
“Read it. Mother,” I sez. 
It said she was all alone in the w'orld 
now. She couldn’t go back to her folks 
wuth a cloud over her and her husband; 
and she didn’t have nobody to turn to 
but us. If w’e’d let by-gones be by-gones 
and have her up here for a few’ weeks, 
whilst .she got up stren’th and courage to 
face the world once more, she’d be very 
grateful. She’d bin workin’ very hard, 
and she needed rest very badly. If we 
do it, she knowed God would make it- up 
er or later I'll haf to git one; but Henry 
can run it —I wun't. They ain't no tele¬ 
phone pole.s out in the hay lot; and a 
boss does know’ enough to stop if you 
holler “Whoa” loud enough. 
We was fillin’ silo, so I didn’t see her 
till supper. Rhe hadn’t changed much— 
come to think of it, life couldn't ’a’ bin 
one grand, sweet song with her when she 
was up here with him, knowin’ what she 
did and we didn’t. She was jist as sweet 
and comfortable-like to have around, but 
mebbe not quite so spontau’ous. Her and 
JIary and Edie w’as as thick as clabbered 
cheese by that time, and even Emily— 
she’s Henry’s w’ife, and the quietest lit¬ 
tle thing you ever see—W’as quite w’ell 
acquainted. That’s the way w’ith wdm- 
men-folk59—if they take to anybody they 
swaller ’em down hull; and if they 
don’t, they don’t, and that’s all they is 
to it. Men folks is diff-rent. We got to 
summer and winter with a feller before 
he gits his nose in the same manger with 
us. Ilow’somever, it would ’a’ took a 
Philadelphy lawyer to told w’hich o’ them 
wimmen thought the most of her; and 
when Jim brought Lizzie dow’U it was 
the same thing all over agin. If that 
w’omau hadn’t ’a’ had a level head, 
they’d ’a’ bin trouble amongst our wim¬ 
men. 
I was pretty accustomed to orchestry 
was tied for life to a poor imitation of 
a man. Whilst she w’as cooped up in a 
flat, mendin’ his socks, he was gallivant¬ 
in’ around all hours o’ the night with a 
passel o’ wimmen that wa’n’t no better’n 
they should be in cabarets and sich— 
w’hatever they be. Wust of all, he 
couldn’t tell the truth—not even w’hen a 
lie was a fifth-wheel on a wagon. 
I dunno how long it took our folks to 
git her to where she see things the way 
they did. Howsomever, when Henry 
hitched on to our new rubber-tii-ed buggy 
that I give ’em fur a weddin’ pre,seut, 
and him and Em’ly took her down to 
the Junction, she had her mind all made 
up to git a divorce and start out afresh. 
I thought about the time .she took that 
trip afore as I watched ’em off. I bet 
she did, too, but they said she got on 
the train in the best of sperits. 
She wrote us at Christmas, inclosin’ 
cards wishin’ us all the complerments o’ 
the season. Said she was doin’ nicely, 
but poor Gus was sick down there to 
that dreadful prison, and she w^a’n’t go¬ 
in’ to do nothin’ about the divorce till 
he got better—she "wouldn’t do it around 
Christmas time, anyway. 
Me’n Ilenry’d jist come in f’um spray¬ 
in’ our orchard the follerin’ March—we 
got sick o’ growin’ apples fur worms to 
turn inter hog-seed—when Edie come 
over with another letter f’um her. She was 
stilt doin’ nicely, her wages had bin riz, 
and poor Gus was gettin’ wuss. Her boss 
was a nice man, but she was afraid she’d 
have to look up a new job, because he 
was gettin’ sweet on her. She hadn’t 
done nothin’ about the divorce yit. She 
hoped our folks wouldn’t think she didn’t 
have a mind of her own—she was goin’ 
to git that divorce soon’s he got better— 
but she’d sent him a few little knick- 
knacks to cheer him up. 
They was two or three letters durin’ 
the Summer—mostly about poor Gus’ 
health and less and less about the 
divorce. We kinder expected her up agin 
in the Fall, but she didn’t come—nor no 
more letters, neither. The wimmen-folks 
waited and waited, and fussed about it, 
but dairymen don’t have no time to wait 
fur things to turn up—speshly if it’s 
something you don't want to. If it ain’t 
fre.shenin’ cow.s, it's hogs to butcher, or 
bosses to clip, or the wood fur Winter, 
or fixin’ the reaper and binder, or puttin’ 
up a new fence, or sixty-nine other things 
—to say nothin’ of all the jobs the wim¬ 
men can hatch up. So me’n Henry didn’t 
worry like they did, but we was ankshus 
jist the .same. 
Christmas we got a “^Merry Christmas 
and Happy New Year” pitcher-po.st- 
card, po.st-marked “Atlanta, Ga.” Not a 
word on it, but Mary knowed her hand- 
writin’ in the addres.s. 
Jim and Lizzie’s folks was down to 
our house fur the doin’s that year, and 
when the card got round to him, he 
puffed that old pipe of his’n, jist as un¬ 
concerned, and ,sez, “Why, of course! 
Where else would she be?” 
“She might be settiu’ right here at this 
minute,” sez Mary kind o’ fiery-like; “a 
free woman with her own maiden name, 
and ready fur some good stiddy man to git 
her fur his wife. I wouldn’t wi.sh no 
man better luck ’u to git a wife like her. 
’Stead o’ that, she’s mopin’ around a guv’- 
ment prison and eatin’ her heart out fur 
a imitation man that ain’t fitten fur her 
to wipe her feet on !” 
“Which goes to show,” he sez, “that 
they ain’t a woman on earth that knows 
what another woman’ll do—nor what 
she’ll do herself when things come to a 
pinch. They’s on’y one diff’rence between 
a hen and a woman—you hnow a hen’ll 
do jist what you don’t want her to, but 
you can’t bet on a woman doin’ even 
that.” 
“What’s that got to do with Helen 
Showalter?” sez she. 
“Oh, nothin’,’’ Jim sez, “except that 
she’s a woman.” 
“Well?”—f’um her. 
“Then she ain't a hen,” he sez, and 
.struck another match. 
“.Tim Bunce I” sez Mary, “outside of 
Ezry, you’re the most aggravatin’ man I 
ever see. I don’t know what you’re driv- 
in’ at, nor I don’t believe you do.” 
“Mary,” he sez, “if you was a widder 
and I was a widderer, I’d ast you to 
marry me. Git out the checkers, Ezry, 
and let’s see which one of us is the wust 
checker-player.” But she didn’t cal’late 
to be bunted f’um the waterin’-trough 
that-a-way. 
“.Tim,” sez .she, “if they ever w’as a 
woman that knowed her own mind, ’twas 
Helen Showalter, and the last thing she 
said to me as she was steppin’ f’um our 
hos.s-block into the buggy was that they 
wa’n’t money enough in this county to 
make her live with him agin.” 
“Uh-huh,” sez .Tim. “Ezry, if you can 
spare them two checkers, as is about all 
you’re likely to git in this game, you 
might crown them two o’ mine in your 
king-row.” It does beat all how brave a 
man can be with another feller’s wife! 
I guess that w’as the wust game I ever 
played. 
I don’t rec’lect no wuss snowstorms 
’n we had that Winter. It kep’ me’n 
Henry bu.sy keepin’ on top, so’s we could 
git round to the diff’rent buildin’s, and 
rollin’ the road so’s the children could 
git to school. They was several times 
we couldn’t draw our milk to the sta- 
(Continued on page 598) 
