No More Learning

"Father ! » said she.
XXVII-1000


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MARY E. WILKINS
(
The old man pulled up. “What is it ? »
“I want to know what them men are diggin' over there in
that field for. ”
“They're diggin' a cellar, I s'pose, if you've got to know. ”
"A cellar for what ? »
"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 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 commodious for people as the
.
little boxes under the barn eaves were for doves.
A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was look-
ing out of one of the house windows. She was watching three
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? ” said she. “Did he tell
»
you?
new
« They're diggin' for -- a cellar for a new barn. ”
"O mother, he ain't goin' 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 in a
smooth hillock over his forehead. He did not seem to pay any
attention to the conversation.
«Sammy, did you know father was going to build a
barn? ” asked the girl.
The boy combed assiduously.
Sammy! ”
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 his mother.
««'Bout three months, I guess.
“Why didn't you tell of it ? »
« Didn't think 'twould do no good. ”
>


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MARY E. WILKINS
15987
(
“I don't see what father wants another 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 a gentle distress. Her forehead was as 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 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 pan-
try, 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,” 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. “You 'a'n't found out
yet we're women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You 'a'n'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 men-folks think we
do, so far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to reckon
men-folks in with Providence, an' not complain of what they do
any more than we do of the weather. »
"I don't care: I don't believe George is anything like that,
anyhow,” said Nanny. Her delicate face fushed pink, her lips
pouted softly, as if she were going to cry.
(


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MARY E. WILKINS
« You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better
than other men. You hadn'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 - 'a'n't never but once - that's one thing Father's kept it
shingled right up. ”
“I do wish we had a parlor. ”
"I guess it won't hurt George Eastman any to come to see
you
in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls don't
have as good a place as this. Nobody's ever heard me com-
plain. ”
(
>
“I 'a'n'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 have to that ain't no stronger
an' better able to than you be. ”
Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air.
She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. She
was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one living-
a
.
room never seemed to have in it any of the dust which the
friction of life with inanimate matter produces. She swept, and
there seemed to be no dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned,
and one could see no difference. She was like an artist so per-
fect that he has apparently no art. To-day she got out a mixing-
bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and there was no more
flour upon her than upon her daughter, who was doing finer
work. Nanny was to be married in the fall, and she was sewing
on some white cambric and embroidery. She sewed industriously
while her mother cooked; her soft, milk-white hands showed
whiter than her delicate work.
« We must have the stove moved out in the shed before
long," said Mrs. Penn. Talk about not havin' things! it's been
a real blessin' to be able to put a stove up in that shed in hot
weather. Father did one good thing when he fixed that stove-
pipe out there. ”
Sarah Penn's face as she rolled her pies had that expres-
sion of meek vigor which might have characterized one of the
New Testament saints. She was making mince-pies. Her hus-
band, Adoniram Penn, liked them better than any other kind.
She baked twice a week. Adoniram often liked a piece of pie
»


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MARY E. WILKINS
15989
between meals. She hurried this morning. It had been later
than usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie baked
for dinner. However deep a resentment she might be forced to
hold against her husband, she would never fail in sedulous atten-
tion to his wants.
Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when it is
not provided with 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 from her
work, the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul, -
the digging of the cellar of the new barn where Adoniram, forty
years ago, had promised her their new house should stand.
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 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.
Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of the
yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles before school,
and feared his father would give him some chores to do. Adoni.
ram hastened to the door and called after him, but he was out of
sight.
"I don't see what you let him go for, mother,” said he. I
wanted him to help me unload that wood. ”
Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from
the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while Nanny took
down her curl-papers and changed her dress. She was going
down to the store to buy some more embroidery and thread.
When Nanny was gone Mrs. Penn went to the door, Father! "
she called.
“Well, what is it? ”
"I want to see you jest a minute, father. ”
“I can't leave this wood nohow. I've got to git it unloaded
an' go for a load of gravel afore two o'clock. Sammy had ought
to helped me. You hadn't ought to let him go to school so
»
early. ”
"I want to see you jest a minute. ”
"I tell ye I can't, nohow, mother. ”
“Father, you come here. " Sarah Penn stood in the door like
a queen; she held her head as if it bore a crown; there was


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MARY E. WILKINS
»
(
that patience which makes authority royal in her voice. Adoniram
went.
Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a
chair. "Sit down, father,” said she: "I've got somethin' I want
to say to you. "
He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked
at her with restive eyes. “Well, what is it, mother? ”
"I want to know what you're buildin' that new barn for,
father? ”
"I 'a'n't got nothin' to say about it. ”
"It can't be you think you need another barn? ”
"I tell ye, I 'a'n'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.
"I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look
here,” — Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood before her hus-
band in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman, -"I'm goin'
to talk real plain to you; I never have sence I married you, but
I'm goin' to now. I 'a'n'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 at it well. You see there ain't no carpet
on the floor, an' you see the paper is all dirty, an' droppin' off
the walls. We 'a’n't had no new paper on it for ten year, an'
then I put it on myself, an' it didn't cost 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 'a'n't got half 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 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 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 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.


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MARY E. WILKINS
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»
“Now,
“There, father,” said she,- there's all the room I've had 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. "
She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the
small, ill-lighted pantry. “Here," said she, “is all the buttery
I've got, - every place I've got for my dishes, 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, an' keep more cows, an' give me more to
do in it. "
She threw open another door. A narrow crooked Aight of
stairs wound upward from it. “There, father,” said she, “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 and tight. ”
Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband.
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 wouldn'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. Father, I want to know if you think it's 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 'a'n't got nothin' to say. ”
“You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father.
An' there's another thing - I 'a'n'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,


## p. 15992 (#338) ##########################################

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MARY E. WILKINS
»
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' an ironin' an' bakin' with them
soft white hands an' arms, an' sweepin'! I can't have it so, no-
ways, father. »
Mrs. Penn's face was burning, her mild eyes gleamed. She
had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she had ranged
from severity to pathos: but her opponent employed that obsti-
nate silence which makes eloquence futile with mocking echoes.
Adoniram arose clumsily.
“Father, 'a'n't you got nothin' to say ? ” said Mrs. Penn.
« I've got to go off after that load of gravel. I can't stan'
here talkin' all day. ”
“Father, won't you think it over, an’ have a house built there
instead of a barn ? »
“I 'a'n'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-
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 them this afternoon; she
could hear their 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 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 flamed all over her face and
neck. "Mother,” said she.
« What say ? ”
“I've been thinking — I don't see how we're goin' to have
any - wedding in 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 before then; I can put
it on.
I guess you 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 look
so ? »
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MARY E. WILKINS
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Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious
expression. She turned again to her work and spread out a pat-
tern carefully on the cloth. “Nothin',” said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-
wheeled dump-cart, standing 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 ham-
mers. 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 from inspecting it,
he bore himself with injured dignity.
“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 had planned to move his stock in on Wednes-
day; 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 ? ”
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,” said Adoniram. “I
hate to go off jest 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. ”
(
>


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MARY E. WILKINS
C
“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 little bedroom. She got his shaving-water and
razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and fastened his
black cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra
occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When
he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of
pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the threshold of
the door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly
apologetic. "If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em
into the new barn,” said he; "an' when they bring the hay up,
they can pitch it in there. "
“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he
had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked back with a kind
of nervous solemnity. “I shall be back by Saturday if nothin'
happens,” said he.
"Do be careful, father,” returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched
him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression
in them; her peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and
about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day
was drawing nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with
her steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.
«Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'? ” she
asked.
"A little. ”
Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed fore-
head smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She
formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlet-
tered thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities are the guide-posts
of the Lord to the new roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and
she made up her mind to her course of action.
S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once, when
she was in the pantry,-s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him
if he knew of any horse? But I didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't
none of my doin'. It looks like a providence. " Her voice rang
out quite loud at the last.
“What you talkin' about, mother ? ” called Nanny.
(


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MARY E. WILKINS
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»
Nothin'. »
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o'clock it was all
done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly down
the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran
out. “Stop! ” she screamed — stop! ”
The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top
of the load, and stared at his mother.
ag
“Stop! ” she cried out again. “Don't you put the hay in that
barn: put it in the old one. ”
«Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of the hay-
makers wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor's son,
whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm.
"Don't you put the hay in the new barn: there's room enough
in the old one, ain't there? ” said Mrs. Penn.
“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic
tones. “Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far as room's con-
cerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his mind. ” He took hold of
the horses' bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen win
dows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into
the room.
Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them
to put the hay into the new barn ? ” she said wonderingly.
It's all right," replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see
if dinner was ready.
"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as
father's gone,” said his mother. “I've let the fire go out.
You
can have some bread-an'-milk an' pie I thought we could get
along. ” She set out some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie
on the kitchen table. “You'd better eat your dinner now,” said
she. “You might jest as well get through with it. I want you
to help me afterward. ”
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was some-
thing strange in their mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat
anything herself. She went into the pantry, and they heard
her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she came out with
a pile of plates. She got the clothes-basket out of the shed, and
packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought
out cups and saucers, and put them in with the plates.


## p. 15996 (#342) ##########################################

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MARY E. WILKINS
.
(
« If
»
»
“What you goin' to do, mother? ” inquired Nanny in a timid
voice. A sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it
were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie.
“You'll see what I'm goin' to do,” replied Mrs. Penn.
you're through, Nanny, I want you to go up-stairs an' pack up
your things; an' I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the
bed in the bedroom. ”
“O mother, what for? ” gasped Nanny.
« You'll see. ”
During the next few hours a feat was performed by this
simple, pious New England mother, which was equal in its way
to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of Abraham. It took no
more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his
wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under the sleeping
eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her child-
ren, to move all their little household goods into the new barn
while her husband was away.
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions with-
out a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain
uncanny and superhuman quality about all such purely original
undertakings as their mother's was to them. Nanny went back
and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober
energy.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the
Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new
barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is
in a
a prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's
barn, while he designed it for the comfort of four-footed animals,
had planned better than he knew for the comfort of humans.
Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possibilities. Those great box
stalls, with quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms
than the one she had occupied for forty years; and there was a
tight carriage-room. The harness-room, with its chimney and
shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle
space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Up-stairs
there was as much room as down. With partitions and windows,
what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of stan-
chions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected that she
would have her front entry there.
measure


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MARY E. WILKINS
15997
At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the ket-
tle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked almost as
home-like as the abandoned house across the yard had ever done.
The young hired man milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to
bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping lit-
tle blots of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before
the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's
wife moving into the new barn, all over the little village. Men
assembled in the store and talked it over; women with shawls
over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their
work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life
in this quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Every-
body paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side
track. There was a difference of opinion with regard to her.
Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious
spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon,
and she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She
looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then she went
on with her work.