482 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
March  24,  1923 
HOPE  FARM  NOTES 
“My  First  Woman” 
Part  II 
That  Fall  I  happened  to  be  at  the  State 
fair,  and  at  a  point  near  the  racetrack  I 
ran  upon  John  Marshall. 
“I  suppose  you  ain’t  heard,”  he  said, 
“but.  my  woman  died  last  June.  I 
thought  she  was  all  right — was  eating 
well  and  doing  well,  far  as  I  could  see; 
but  one  day  she  went  out  to  pick  straw¬ 
berries.  Didn’t  come  back  for  a  long 
time,  so  I  went  out  and  hollered.  Still 
she  didn’t  show  up,  and  I  went  hunting 
for  her.  She  was  stretched  out  under 
some  currant  bushes.  We  picked  her  up 
and  carried  her  in,  and  by  and  by  she 
came  to  for  a  minute  or  so.  Kinder 
looked  at  me  a  minute  and  said  something 
1  cannot  rightly  understand.  Sounded  to 
me  like  one  of  them  pieces  you  spoke 
down  to  our  church  that  night ;  but,  of 
course,  that  couldn’t  be  so.  Pretty  rough 
to  have  a  useful  woman  die  off  on  you 
right  in  the  season.” 
What  could  one  say  at  such  a  time  ex¬ 
cept  some  perfunctory  remark  of  regret? 
“I  suppose  you  miss  her?” 
"Well,  yes;  she  was  a  useful  woman, 
but  too  much  curl  in  her  hair  to  be  prac¬ 
tical.  Too  many  fool  notions  about  thi» 
beauty  and  such.  I  thought  I  had  her 
cured  of  most  of  ’em,  but  now  and  again 
1  think  the  roots  was  alive  down  in  her. 
Maybe  she  worried  over  it.  But  now  I 
got  my  eye  on  No.  2  all  right.  Yon  re¬ 
member  that  fine  woman  with  a  red  bon¬ 
net  and  a  blue  dress  sitting  up  in  front 
that  night  at  the  church?  That’s  going 
to  be  No.  2.  No  curls  about  her — clean 
business.  A  terrible  worker.  Her  and 
I  agree  on  all  points.  Come  down  and 
see  us!  You  must  leax-n  how  to  master 
the  women  right  off  at  the  start.” 
And  as  it  happened  the  next  Summer 
1  worked  for  a  farmer  not  many  miles 
away,  and  one  Sunday  afternoon  I  went 
over  to  see  John  .  He  met  me  and  we 
drove  home  together.  But  here  was  a  new 
character.  He  seemed  like  a  man  very 
much  tamed  and  subdued.  I  wanted  to 
be  polite,  and  so,  of  course  I  asked  : 
“How  is  Mrs.  Marshall?” 
“Oh,  smart  enough !  Smai-t  enough. 
Too  smart,  you  might  say.  I  ain’t  no  man 
to  spend  time  in  the  past,  but  I  won’t 
deny  there  are  times  when  I  miss  my  first 
woman.” 
I  l'emembered  how  on  my  first  visit  a 
small,  timid  woman  ran  out  to  unharness 
the  hoi*se.  This  time  there  was  no  dainti¬ 
ness  or  timidity  about  the  large  black- 
haired  woman  who  filled  the  kitchen  door 
and  pointed  a  threatening  linger  at  us. 
“Now,  John  Marshall,  where  have  you 
been  all  this  time,  riding  with  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry  on  Sunday?  Don’t  you  know 
that  black  horse  is  lame.  You  unhitch 
that  horse  and  come  right  in,  or  you’ll 
have  no  dinner.” 
And  we  were  very  prompt,  I  can  tell 
you.  As  we  walked  to  the  kitchen  John 
remarked  apologetically  once  more : 
“I  can  tell  you  I  miss  my  first  woman.” 
It  was  a  good  dinner,  but  I  was  afraid 
to  pass  my  plate  for  more  chicken.  This 
"new  woman,”  Sally,  was  evidently  spend¬ 
ing  John’s  money  royally  after  her 
fashion.  She  had  fitted  up  a  new  dining¬ 
room.  There  was  a  fine  tablecloth,  nap¬ 
kins  and  silvei*.  aud  around  the  walls 
specimens  of  Sally’s  idea  of  art — hideous 
ci-ayon  drawings  of  homely  relatives. 
There  was  a  set  of  gaudy  furniture  which 
John  explained  later  cost  the  price  of 
four  cows.  It  was  all  glaring,  vulgar  and 
out  of  taste.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
how  with  half  the  money  Sarah  would 
have  made  this  home  a  beauty  spot.  It 
was  just  the  diffei*ence  between  vulgar 
display  and  art.  And  after  the  dinner 
at  a  word  from  the  “new  woman”  John 
Marshall  actually  put  on  an  apron  and 
washed  the  dishes,  -while  Sally  and  I  sat 
out  on  the  porch.  I  think  she  saw  some¬ 
thing  of  my  wonder  as  I  looked  in  and 
saw  John  sweating  in  the  hot  kitchen 
over  his  menial  task. 
“Yes,  it’s  so !  John  Marshall  just 
killed  his  first  wife  by  meanness.  She 
ought  to  have  fought  him  off.  A  man 
like  that  has  no  real  spunk  ;  but  she,  poor 
thing,  couldn’t  do  that.  I  know  she 
broke  her  heart  just  longiug  for  the  little 
things  she  loved.  Now  I  have  no  art.  or 
beauty,  as  she  called  it,  and  I  know  it.  But 
I’ve  got  a  sense  of  justice,  and  when  John 
Marshall  came  a-meaching  round  me,  1 
says  to  myself,  says  I.  now,  then.  I’ll 
make  him  toe  the  mark  to  pay  for  it. 
He  had  to  give  me  half  his  money  and 
sign  a  joint  deed  before  I  married  him. 
and  now  he  knows  what’s  what.  I  ain’t 
as  fine  a  woman  as  Sarah  was,  and  I 
know  it ;  but  I’ve  got  this  mean  man 
where  he  ought  to  be,  and  that’s  some¬ 
thing.”  ;  y' 
A  few  weeks  ago,  in  speaking  of  some 
characteristics  of  women.  I  said  that  it 
seemed  strange  to  me  why  Mary,  Queen 
<if  Scots,  ever  married  that  rascal  and 
brute,  Bothwell,  It  occurred  to  me  that 
Sunday  afternoon  that  if  Queen  Elizabeth 
had  ever  married,  her  man  would 
have  had  full  occasion  to  sympathize  with 
John  Marshall. 
After  dinner  John  started  to  show  me 
over  the  farm.  But  even  here  Sally  as¬ 
serted  herself. 
“If  you’re  going  walking  over  this  dusty 
farm,  yon  go  upstairs  and  change  your 
pants,  or  put  on  your  overalls. 
“But,  Sally.” 
“Don’t  you  ‘but’  me  or  do  a  thing  ex¬ 
cept  change  your  pants.  I’m  not  going 
to  spend  half  of  my  time  cleaning  your 
clothes.” 
Even  the  worm  will  turn  a  little,  but 
the  only  turning  John  felt  like  attempting 
was  to  start  saying: 
“You  see — the  woman — ” 
But  that  was  as  far  as  he  got,  for  Sally 
broke  right  iu : 
“I  ain’t  your  woman ;  I’m  your  wife, 
and  as  such  I  run  this  house.  You  go  up 
and  change  your  pants.” 
And  John  dutifully  went  upstairs.  He 
was  a  very  silent  man  as  he  led  me  up 
the  lane.  His  wheat  was  i*eady  for  har¬ 
vest,  and  it  was  the  best  in  town,  but 
John  could  not  bi'ag  about  it.  The  or¬ 
chard  was  loaded,  but  even  the  Summer 
Sweetings  were  like  sour  grapes,  for 
John  Marshall,  the  he-man  of  the  com¬ 
munity,  was  bossed  by  his  new  woman, 
and  everybody  knew  it.  He  seemed  to  be 
thinking  aloud. 
“I  miss  my  first  woman  bad.  I  guess 
I  didn’t  appreciate  hei\  This  one  is  smart 
as  a  trap — but  her  hair’s  too  straight. 
Young  fellow,  I  advise  you  to  marry  a 
curly-headed  woman,  and  be  careful  you 
don’t  mistake  some  of  these  haix-pin  ruf¬ 
fles  and  crimps  for  genuine  curls.  This 
second  woman  of  mine  crimped  her  hair. 
That  sorter  led  me  astray.” 
“But  you  told  me  they  had  such  fool 
notions.” 
“So  they  have !  So  they  have  !  But 
since  this  new  woman  came  I’ve  had  more 
time  to  think  about  it.  I  don’t  spend 
quite  so  much  time  ’round  the  house  since 
I  got  married.  I  climb  this  hill  more.  I 
catch  myself  looking  off  across  the  valley 
at  them  clouds.  Ain’t  they  fine  today? 
My  fii-st  woman  would  have  gone  crazy 
over  that  color.  First  Summer  we  owned 
the  place  we  stood  right  here  one  Sunday 
afternoon  and  looked  off  at  the  clouds — 
just  like  they  are  today.  The  woman 
just  caught  hold  of  my  arm  and  pointed 
to  the  sky.  Say,  I  wish  she  was  here 
right  now,  so  we  could  look  at  it  to¬ 
gether.” 
But  well  I  knew'  that  if  Sarah  could 
have  been  there  John  would  not  have 
understood.  Some  faint  glimmering  of 
the  appreciation  which  the  living  had 
longed  for  could  only  come  to  such  a  man 
as  John  Marshall  out  of  death.  Pity  ’tis, 
’tis  true  of  so  many  of  us. 
Wie  walked  on  until  we  came  to  the  little 
graveyard.  It  was  clean  and  well  kept 
then.  Three  generations  were  buried 
there.  The  stones  were  simple, 
as  were  the  names  carved  upon  them. 
Plain  aud  simple  like  the  men  and  women 
who  had  found  this  last  resting  place 
after  the  long  burden  of  their  years.  The 
clouds  were  glorious  in  the  west.  Long 
splinters  of  sunshine  silvered  down 
through  the  great  trees  along  the  western 
wall.  The  crows  flapped  noisily  away. 
A  red  squirrel  chattered  on  the  wall,  and 
a  robin  pei-ched  on  a  high  headstone  eyed 
us  curiously. 
John  Marshall  went  straight  to  Sarah’s 
grave.  He  took  off  his  straw  hat  as  he 
stood  there.  No  doubt  he  would  have 
said  that  he  did  this  to  cool  his  head 
after  the  long  walk,  but  I  think  something 
which  he  would  hardly  admit  prompted 
him. 
There  was  a  rose  bush  clumsily  planted 
at  the  foot  of  the  grave. 
“I  paid  50  cents  for  that  bush,”  said 
John.  “She  liked  pretty  things.  Once 
in  a  while  I  kinda  wish  I  could  have  bad 
some  such  ideas  as  she  had.” 
“Foolish  notions!” 
“I  know  it;  but  true  as  I  stand  here 
there  comes  a  time  when  they  ’pear  to 
be  mighty  satisfying.  I  wish  I  could  have 
understood  my  first  woman  better.  But 
don’t  you  tell  my  new  woman  I  said  so. 
We  sat  on  the  fence  for  some  little 
time  in  silence.  It  is  hard  to  think  of 
any  silence  more  profound  than  that 
which  comes  with  Sunday  afternoon  in 
the  country.  A  bird  sang  near  us,  the 
wind  hummed  a  little  in  the  tree  by  the 
wall;  far  off  across  the  valley  a  cow  was 
calling  for  her  calf.  John  sat  watching 
those  cloud's,  and  finally  he  spoke  up : 
“Young  feller,  you  remember  that 
piece  Sarah  asked  you  to  speak  that 
night?  Say  it  now.” 
So  in  that  lonely  little  graveyard  I 
recited  those  lines  from  “The  First  Set¬ 
tler’s  Story.”  It  is  doubtful  if  any  “elo¬ 
cutionist”  ever  had  a  more  attentive  audi¬ 
ence  than  John  Marshall,  the  red  squirrel 
on  the  Avail,  a  woodchuck  over  in  the  pas¬ 
ture,  the  bird  on  grandfather’s  gravestone 
and  the  rabbit  which  started  out  of  the 
fence  row.  Surely  an  attentive  audience! 
We  stayed  there  longer  than  we  should 
have  done — but  there  was  great  sweetness 
and  rest  in  the  air.  Then  I  suddenly  re¬ 
membered  that  my  Sunday  chores  were 
many  miles  away.  There  came  the  sound 
of  a  horn  behind  us,  and  there  was  Sally 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  lane  making  im¬ 
perious  gestures,  which  surely  meant 
“come  home.” 
So  we  walked  home,  and  half  wav  down 
the  lane  John  glanced  back  at  the  little 
graveyard. 
"Say,  young  feller,  I  know  the  value  of 
a  dollar  as  well  as  any  man,  and  what  I 
say  I  mean.  I’d  give  all  of  that  new  80, 
half  the  cattle  and  throw  in  this  new 
woman — give  it  all  and  willing,  if  I 
could  only  have  my  first  woman  back 
again,  and  she  could  have  all  the  fool  no¬ 
tions  she  wanted !”  H.  W,  C. 
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