God's Green Country

"Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

The young birds are chirping in their nest;

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

The young flowers are blowing toward the West-

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free."

-Mrs. Browning.

Something was wrong-a little more than usual-at the Withers farm.

A spirit of foreboding seemed to hang in the quietness of the untravelled road past the gate, in the clamorous squeaks of the new litter of Tamworths in the barnyard, nosing sleepily into their mother's side. It seemed to come up from the swamp in the spring night's pollen-scented breath, like the air in a little close parlor after an anchor of hyacinths has been carried out on a coffin.

Billy felt the weight in the atmosphere, but he was too young to analyse it. Of all the old human emotions stirring the ten long bitter years of his short life, fear had been the most exercised; and it was fear that troubled him now-fear of his father. Because it had been there always, he had never wondered about it. He knew that somehow, in spite of it all, he would grow up-then he would put the Swamp Farm and all he could forget about it as far away from him as possible. In the meantime, with the merciful forgetfulness of childhood, he enjoyed whatever passing pleasures came between. Just now he was down by the milk-house with little Jean, bending over her pathetic garden of four potato plants and a pansy. Billy had never had a garden for himself. It was too much like playing. Besides, as far back as he could remember he had had quite as much gardening as he wanted, taking care of the "hoed crops." It was good, though, to see Jean take the potato top affectionately in her little cupped hands, proud that she had made it grow. Billy was glad she was a girl, so she could have time for such things. Not that he minded work, of course, he soliloquized. He remembered how he had begged daily to go to help his grandfather before he died.

It was working with his father that was disagreeable. Come to think of it, it was the dread of that more than anything else that was bothering him to-night. In the morning the potato planting started. It wasn't difficult to get help just then, but for some reason of his own Dan Withers had decided to take Billy out of school and "break him in" to farm work, just when he was getting ready to try the entrance, too, and the entrance meant such a long step towards qualifying for a job away from home!

Moreover, Billy liked to go to school. It was so different-to work where the teacher showed you how without calling you a stupid-oh, lots of names-and praised you sometimes. Remembering past experiences working with his father his heart sank. Somehow he was just beginning to wonder why, but not for years yet would he realize the injustice of being brought into the world entirely without his own willing, only to be made the prey of a chain of cruel circumstances. He couldn't even see the reason for each individual tribulation. Only his mother knew that, generally, and because she knew and anticipated for the children, hers was a twofold suffering.

Dan Withers came out to the little sagging wooden porch and lit his pipe. Judging from his physique he might have managed the tillable acres of his Swamp Farm with one hand. Also he was not the caricatured work-driven, grasping type of farmer, bent and wooden-jointed and prematurely old, as a result of his struggle to wrest a living from the elements. He had the build of an athlete without the bearing-a laziness of movement and a slouch of the shoulders that was almost insolent, except when he walked before a crowd. He could command a military spine the instant it seemed worth the effort. When the occasion required it the hard cunning in his little brown eyes could take cover, leaving them as soft and honest as a spaniel's. The coarseness of speech that had become a habit in his own family could, with an effort, give way to a more refined vernacular, as eloquent as it was unnatural. He was not a farmer from choice; farm work irritated him. If some vocational expert could have taken him young enough, and put him on the stage, he might have developed into a master actor. As it was, his gift of address was divided among various implement agencies. The run-down farm was a hopeless sideline that supported the family.

Perhaps because Nature is always working to keep her balance and save the race, Mary Withers was made of an entirely different kind of clay. When she followed her husband out to the porch to-night it was under the strain of preparation for one of the thousand battles which, with her gentle, appealing logic, she tried to fight for her children. Her intercessions were never of any avail, but she was no strategist and she knew no other tactics. Moreover she had never been trained to fight. She had come to Dan with no experience outside the shelter of a rosemary, white-linen home, and he had taken the heart out of her so suddenly and overwhelmingly directly after, that she was not likely to ever take any very radical initiative again.

She brought her mending to the porch with her. It was too dark to sew; but when she had to ask Dan for anything she always felt less nervous if she had something in her hands. It was hard to begin.

"The fall wheat yonder is coming on nicely," she ventured cheerfully.

He pressed the hot tobacco into his pipe a little harder than was necessary.

"Oh, yes," he conceded after some deliberation. "Things'll come along nice enough, if a man slaves from one year's end to the other without any help, like I'm fixed."

"I thought perhaps you could get Jonas to help with the potatoes to-morrow. He isn't working."

"Oh, you did, did you? An' while you were thinkin' so active, did you think where the money was comin' from to pay Jonas? I've throwed away enough good money hirin' men. It don't ever occur to you, I suppose, thet we've a boy of our own thet's never done much to pay for his keep yet? He's got to take holt now."

"But he needs to be at school so badly, just now," she ventured timidly. "The teacher called to-day to say she felt sure he'd pass this summer if he could get to school regularly from now on."

"Well, you can tell the teacher for me, thet we ain't makin' no professor out o' Bill. When I was ten year old I was harrowin' an drivin' team, doin' a man's work. There was no school for me except what I got in the winters. Spite o' that, though, I ain't such a fool as you take me for. I can see as far into a mill stone as them that picks it, an' I ain't more'n usual blind just now. You think what's good enough fer me ain't good enough fer Bill. You don't care how hard I work so's he can get to school an' learn enough tomfoolery to get him a job thet he can clear out to, about the time he's able to be some help. But you jest ain't dealin' with the right man. You've molly-coddled that young one long enough now. To-morrow he starts his career with me, an' he'll maybe think he's struck fire an' brimstone before the day's over."

It wasn't a case for argument. The children were beginning to look up apprehensively, and Mary called them to come to bed. In the darkness of the kitchen when she was getting down the lamp, Billy waited to whisper: "He didn't say I could go to school, did he?"

It was hard to look into the wistful, searching face and say "No." It was harder when Billy turned away quickly and kept his face averted while he got the little tin basin to wash his feet. His mother's hard, gentle hand rested for a moment on his shoulder and dropped away discouraged at the quivering of the resolute little back. Her whole body ached to take him in her arms. He really wasn't much more than a baby yet, but such expressions were denied her in the never-ending struggle to keep her emotions dammed back. Only the anxiety of love, the eagerness of service were busy in a thousand ways from the first stirrings of daylight until long after the family were asleep.

As she hung up the key of the clock Dan came in. At the entrance to the darkness of the little bedroom off the kitchen he stopped, slipping a brace over his shoulder, and looking back with a hard little glitter in his eyes inquired:

"C'n you git that fellow up to catch the horses by five o'clock? .... 'Cause if you can't I kin."

Another of the thousand bitter details!

In the morning Mary kindled the fire and busied herself about the kitchen as long as she dared before climbing the narrow stairs to Billy's room. Then she hesitated. There was something so blue and drawn about the closed eyelids; already his hands were bent and calloused like a man's.

"An' him not much more'n a baby," she murmured. It seemed nothing short of cruel to disturb him. Perhaps he would waken himself if she just kept looking at him.

But Billy didn't waken. Once he twitched nervously, but a boy consumed with the weakening fever of growth doesn't waken easily after working the length of a man's day, with "chores" afterwards. He had to be shaken several times before the slow, painful process began. It started somewhere in his dimmest consciousness, and gradually sent a long, slow quiver down through his healthy little muscles and back again, emerging in a gulping breath that seemed to shake his eyes open. Ordinarily he would have closed them again, but this morning the bewildering memory of something dreadful hanging over him brought him to, suddenly.

It wasn't so bad once he got up. The smarting soon left his eyes, and the stiffness began to go out of his legs. They ached, of course, from the heels up, but that was from trying to keep up to the colts on the harrow yesterday. Then his mother had a berry turnover waiting for him to start out on. She had been telling him that, he remembered, while she tried to get him awake. So he took the halters in one hand and the turnover in the other and started out for the horses in a very philosophical frame of mind, considering everything. The dew on the grass was cool to his bare feet; the robins in the bushes as he passed didn't seem to expect anyone so early, so from their reckless chattering he learned the location of many a new nest. He marked the places so he could show them to Jean. On the hill in the pasture, where the sun was just coming up like a yellow half ball, the young cattle stood out like pieces cut out of black paper and pasted on; they looked funny when they moved. Then it was good to get up on old Nell's broad grey back, and feel the shake of the friendly muscles under him. Altogether, if some miracle could have given him a father who would occasionally see eye-to-eye with him on things agricultural and personal, Billy would almost have played hookey from school for a life like this.

The forenoon seemed to be going uneventfully enough. Dan's rather threatening admonition when they began the planting had been to "look sharp now" and not keep the horses standing, and Billy had determined to keep ahead of them at the sacrifice of any minor details. He had been shown just how far apart to drop the pieces, but when you see the furrow reaching up behind you like an unfriendly snake, and no escape before the end of the row; when the handle of the pail is cutting into the flesh of your arm and the bags of seed are rods down the field, there is a powerful temptation to make what you have go as far as possible. Suddenly the horses stopped and Dan came around to examine the planting.

"Hev you dropped 'em all as far apart as this?" he asked. "I might 'a' knowed I couldn't trust you. Never saw the time yet that you wasn't a durn sight more bother than help. Well, you c'n just stake off these rows, an' when we're through plantin' you c'n dig 'em up with the hoe, an' plant 'em right. Mebby that'll learn you a little more than goin' to school fer a while."

Just when the neighbors' dinner bells began to call the men from the farther fields, Dan again called across the headland: "You'd better go to the barn an' get some more seed. Save the prize Carmens here fer the last rows an' mind to shut the gate after you or the sow'll be in."

Billy hitched old Nell to the stone-boat, shut the gate after him and went for the seed. When he came back the gate was still closed, but Tibby and her family were demolishing the last of the prize Carmens. When she found she had to leave, she made straight for the vulnerable spot in the stump fence that had given her entrance. Billy drove the pigs ahead of him and went after some rails. On the way he heard his mother ring the dinner-bell, saw, from many a furtive glance back, his father stop at the littered remains of the prize Carmens, look all around and start on to the barn. The most Billy could hope for was that his wrath might have cooled a little before he would have to meet him. By the time he had blocked the hole in the fence and brought Nell up to the stable his father had gone to the house, so he climbed up and put down the hay, dampened old Nell's oats as usual, so she wouldn't choke on them, and with his little heart palpitating till he could hardly swallow, approached the house.

The savory steam of stewed chicken came out from the kitchen. When the meat supply ran low in the spring his mother killed off the old hens. She always made hot biscuits to break into the gravy and had the grandest pot pies ever to tide a fellow over a time like this. If they had it for dinner when he was at school she saved a drumstick and the gizzard for him. He was almost forgetting his soul's anxiety in the urgent pressure of his animal wants.

Mary knew something of what had happened. In fact Dan had informed her without softening the details. Still, in spite of the morning's "aggrevations," he was eating his dinner with satisfactory relish when Billy came in. She met Billy at the door to ask cheerfully:

"How'd you get along?"

"Fine," Billy answered with a disconcerting unsteadiness under the attempt.

"Well, just get washed now, and have your dinner while it's hot. I have some nice pot pie here."

But this was a little too much for Dan. To be ignored so brazenly in the face of the storm he had been brewing with inward satisfaction, to be treated as though he were no more than a figurehead in his own house! He had often declared that there was a secret understanding, a conspiracy against him in his own family, and it was time to show where he stood now.

"You hain't got no pot-pie fer him," he interrupted. "He'll git his belly full o' something else 'sides pie when I'm through here."

All at once Billy's fortitude gave way. Perhaps because he was tired and hungry, his flesh quailed before the coming ordeal. "I didn't leave the gate open," he cried, wild terror in his eyes. "The pigs got in through the fence. I found the place."

"You consarned little liar! You fool away the whole morning, spoil the whole patch with yer lazy tricks, thinkin' I wouldn't see 'em, then let the stock in to eat up the seed I've paid fer. I'll just waken you up so's I'll warrant you'll think twice before you try the like again."

The rawhide was coming down from its hook; it had been kept in the house ever since Billy could remember.

"Now, Dan," Mary pleaded with her hand on his arm-a gentleness of touch that always irritated him into a frenzy, "you aren't fit to punish him now ... and he did his best."

"You dictatin' too, hey!" he stormed, pushing her off. "No wonder the young un's no good with your eternal coddlin' an' interferin'. Stand out the way there."

But the mother-tigress instinct was roused in its helpless way. Still she clung to his arm. Only Billy seemed to have come to any self-control.

"Don't, mummy," he ordered calmly; "I c'n stand it."

The nerve, the audacity of the proud little figure angered Dan more because it shamed him. If the boy had been a foot taller his father would have been cowed by the quiet reproach in the steady brown eyes, but Billy was only such a little handful of bones-something like a bird when you cover it with your hand and find it all feathers and skeleton and crushable, so he suffered the full punishment-the sickening, lithe, cutting, kind of blows that we have shivered to hear dealt to colts out in the far recesses of the green country, away from the danger of official interference. He emerged ridged, welted, white and tearless, with an ugly red streak across one cheek that somehow Dan wished wasn't there. It made the rest of his face look so white and pinched and old for its years.

Potato planting had been suspended for the day. Without excuse or errand Dan had driven off to town. Straggling buggies began driving down the road-people, neighbors most of them, all dressed up like they went to church on Sundays, the sun shining pleasantly on the horses' sleek backs and glittering over the bright parts of the harness. Billy climbed up to the vantage point of the gate post, and looked up the road eagerly, as many another boy has watched for a circus parade. Yes, it was coming just over the hill-he could see the bright black top of it-the hearse. He remembered that this was the day of Mrs. Brown's funeral, and he had heard his mother say she ought to go; maybe he could go with her.

He had been at old Mr. Hopkin's funeral when he was quite small and had enjoyed it immensely. It had seemed just like a story to watch the people all moving around so still as if they expected something; to see the black box with its silver handles and the flowers all piled on top-he had wanted his mother to lift him up to see in, but she didn't. Mr. Hopkins' family were all there, fine, rich-looking men and women with their hair beginning to turn grey and children of their own almost grown up. And the people had sung "The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want." It was just fine. You could almost see old Mr. Hopkins going down the green pastures with his long staff, just like he came out to salt the sheep, only not so bent over, and maybe with a long gown on like the charts showed at Sunday school. He would likely have found Mrs. Hopkins, who had died two years before, and they would sit under the trees and both be happier than they had been in all their lives. One of the daughters had said, "He never was the same since Ma died," and Billy's faith never questioned the goodness of the angels in taking him to her. Altogether there was nothing sad about it, except that everyone would miss old Mr. Hopkins for a while.

But this funeral to-day would be different. There were children at Brown's-some of them just babies. Mrs. Brown couldn't be much older than his mother. People said she had consumption, and when Billy had called to ask hands to the threshing last fall he had seen her at the pump, and she looked so white and thin she had almost frightened him. When he asked if he could carry the water for her she couldn't answer-just leaned on the pump and coughed and coughed. He had seen her helping her husband plant potatoes once too. She hadn't looked so bad then, but that was a year ago. Well, she would be through now. He had heard his grandmother say once that there were "a thousand things worse than death." Maybe it was true. He climbed stiffly down from the gate post and walked reflectively to the house.

Long before the hour, the Brown house was filled with people; others gathered in little knots about the yard. Men exchanged views of the crop prospects, and occasionally when the drone of the bees in the lilacs and the creak of the buggies in the lane ceased for a moment, a remark like "That sod field ought to go fifty bushel to the acre," sounded irrelevantly across the yard. The women talked only of the deceased-when she had taken the turn, how she had said good-bye to the children the last night and sent them off to bed with a smile, then gone completely out of her mind in the bitterness of it-and how hard it was going to be for Jim. He was just getting ready to build a barn too; a pile of gravel a few yards from the back door was evidence of its progress-it seemed hard, just when they were getting along so well. And he had done all for her that a man could do. He had even had her to the sanitarium; but it was no use-once you got consumption there was just one thing to wait for. They reviewed the lives and deaths of her ancestors to see where she had inherited it, but could find no trace of the trouble for three generations back. She had always been so smart and strong, too. Why, when she was first married she could do as much as any other two women in the neighborhood.

The old doctor, friend and terror of the community, stopped to shake hands with a strong, honest-looking young fellow leaning against the fence.

"Pretty hard, eh?" he remarked nodding towards the house.

"Sure is. It's a bad thing to let get hold of you. I know from experience. I worked in the city for a couple of years in a wholesale house once. Got a notion I didn't like farming, you know, like lots of other young fellows do-and I believe if I'd stayed there a year longer, cooped up in a cage breathing the dust and smoke of the place, I'd never got back at all. But I got out of it in time. I'm out in the field now ten hours a day. I eat like a horse and I'll bet you couldn't find a spot on my lungs with the point of a needle. I'm always glad I was able to bring Hazel out to the farm. She gets tired of it sometimes, after always being in a store, but I tell her it's the healthiest place this side of Switzerland-all the fresh air there is clean off the fields, and the best place in the world to bring up children."

"Isn't turning out very well for these kids here."

"Losing their mother?-No."

"There's always that chance."

"There is anywhere. What do you mean?"

"Just that nine women out of ten in these parts don't have time to bring up their children; that if they were given half the care you give the milk critters the young ones would have a better chance to start with. The air may be good enough in the fields, but it's no elixir after it's been shut up all day in a house so badly heated that you have to keep the windows down tight to keep things from freezing. Did you ever see where they slept in there? A little room off the kitchen just big enough for a bed and the window frozen down from summer to summer. I told Brown the danger, but he reckoned he got enough fresh air out doors all day, and if his wife had a cough it was no place for her in a draught. Besides, he said, she was prowling around so late at night sewing for the kids that the little time she was in bed didn't matter much. Now he's afraid he's caught it from her, but he hasn't. He's in too healthy a shape to catch anything. It's different with a woman, spent with the children coming and the long hours and the work that you couldn't hire a girl to do. I'm not so sure of the children being safe; they're none too strong to start with."

The young man resented this.

"Ain't you pretty hard on Brown?" he demanded. "You won't find a harder workin' or a kinder man to his family anywhere; nor a woman more contented or that took more pride in her home than she did. I don't like to hear him talked about as if he was to blame for this. Nor she wouldn't."

The doctor's eyes wandered up to the window with its patched, starched curtains, and row of tomato cans holding weary-looking geraniums. There were new coverings of wall-paper around the tins-a pitiful reminder of a woman's struggle to keep her house to the last.

"No, she wouldn't," he agreed quietly. "She thought the sun rose and set on Jim and the kids.... And I'm not blaming him. He thought this driving and saving now was going to make things easier later on, and he just got the habit and couldn't stop. What you all need around here is a little more physiological common sense. How's Hazel?"

The question seemed ill-timed.

"First rate," the husband answered. "She's over there."

The doctor looked over to the girl who a year ago had left the smoke of the town for the haven of the green country. The plume in her chiffon hat sagged a little; her wedding dress hung a bit limp, her face seemed noticeably pale through the tan. Altogether, to his professional eye, she didn't look as well as when she left the town.

In the house the service was beginning. Through the open door in the strained quiet of the drowsy afternoon, the voice of the minister came steadily in the melancholy cadence of the old text:

"Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not."

In his dumb, helpless way the father tried to comfort the oldest little girl, the only one of the children who could know anything of the meaning of their loss. He was no callous materialist. He was suffering the full agony of his first great sorrow and he couldn't see why it had been sent to him.

At the gate the doctor gripped the minister's hand warmly. "That was a fine sermon," he said. "Never heard better for a time like this. Ye didn't talk as though you were glad of the chance to warn us of the agony of hell. 'Man is of few days and full of trouble.' ... It's a great text. Now some day," the doctor was neither amused or irreverent, "some Sunday, can't you preach from it again, and tell 'em how to stretch the time out and make it happier? I could give you some facts. Bless your heart, man, it would be the most opportune sermon you ever preached in your life. If you were in a city church you'd be fighting sweat shops and child labor. You've got them here, just a little more hidden from the public."

When it was all over, Billy trudged off up the road after his mother, trudged because he was stiff and sore from the day's experiences, also because his feet hurt. His Sunday shoes had been too big for him once, but they pinched his feet terribly since he started to go barefoot. They were hard, sturdy, unyielding little cases. Billy hated to go to Sunday school on account of them-but he always took them off on his way home. He asked his mother if he could now, but she paid no attention. She was walking very fast, looking straight ahead of her. At last he caught her skirt and she stopped quickly, bent down and put her arms tight around him, drawing in her breath in sharp little gasps. He was afraid she was going to cry. He had never seen her cry, and it frightened him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, drawing away.

"Nothing. Just take them off, sonny, and how'd you like to go across the fields now and bring the cows? I'm a little anxious about Dolly."