But take that kitchen, for instance! Maud Martha, taking it, saw herself there, up and down her seventeen years, eating apples after school; making sweet potato tarts; drawing, on the pathetic table, the horse that won her the sixth-grade prize; getting her hair curled for her first party, at that stove; washing dishes by summer twilight, with the

“Paul—do you think we’ll have a hard time finding a nice place—when the time comes?” “No. I don’t think so. But look here. I think we ought to plan on a stove-heated flat. We could get one of those cheap.” “Oh, I wouldn’t like that. I’ve always lived in steam.” “I’ve always lived in stove—till a year ago. It’s just as warm. And about fifteen dollar

“Power’ll still be up—prob’ly sprawling on that white rug of his, with Parrington in front of ’im,” laughed David. It was, Maud Martha observed, one of the conceits of David McKemster that he did not have to use impeccable English all the time. Sometimes it was permissible to make careful slips. These must be, however, when possible, sandwiched in

10 first beau He had a way of putting his hands on a Woman. Light, but perforating. Passing by, he would touch the Woman’s hair, he would give the Woman’s hair a careless, and yet deliberate, caress, working down from the top to the ends, then gliding to the chin, then lifting the chin till the poor female’s eyes were forced to meet his, then proce

Once she had taken him to a library. While occupied with the card cases she had glanced up, had observed that he, too, was busy among the cards. “Do you want a book?” “No-o. I’m just curious about something. I wondered if there could be a man in the world named Bastard. Sure enough, there is.”

This lady did the honors of the teacup and cookie crock each afternoon, with or without company. She would spread a large stool with a square of lace, deck it with a low bowl of artificial flowers, a teacup or teacups, the pot of tea, sugar, cream and lemon, and the odd-shaped crock of sweet crackers.

And birthdays, with their pink and white cakes and candles, strawberry ice cream, and presents wrapped up carefully and tied with wide ribbons: whereas here was this man, who never considered giving his own mother a birthday bouquet, and dropped in his wife’s lap a birthday box of drugstore candy (when he thought of it) wrapped in the drugstore gre

Annie Allen had won Brooks the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1950.

Was her attitude uncooperative? Should she be wanting to sacrifice more, for the sake of her man? A procession of pioneer women strode down her imagination; strong women, bold; praiseworthy, faithful, stout-minded; with a stout light beating in the eyes. Women who could stand low temperatures. Women who would toil eminently, to improve the lot of t