Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

is not needed by youth; that its love and prosy sageness, so important a few years ago, so gladly offered now, are rejected with laughter. She divined that when Aunt Bessie came in with a jar of wild-grape jelly she was waiting in hope of being asked for the recipe. After that she could be irritated but she could not be depressed by Aunt Bessie’s simoom of questioning.

She wasn’t depressed even when she heard Mrs. Bogart observe, “Now we’ve got prohibition it seems to me that the next problem of the country ain’t so much abolishing cigarettes as it is to make folks observe the Sabbath and arrest these lawbreakers that play baseball and go to the movies and all on the Lord’s Day.”

Only one thing bruised Carol’s vanity. Few people asked her about Washington. They who had most admiringly begged Percy Bresnahan for his opinions were least interested in her facts. She laughed at herself when she saw that she had expected to be at once a heretic and a returned hero; she was very reasonable and merry about it; and it hurt just as much as ever.

V

Her baby, born in August, was a girl. Carol could not decide whether she was to become a feminist leader or marry a scientist or both, but did settle on Vassar and a tricolette suit with a small black hat for her freshman year.

VI

Hugh was loquacious at breakfast. He desired to give his impressions of owls and F Street.

“Don’t make so much noise. You talk too much,” growled Kennicott.

Carol flared. “Don’t speak to him that way! Why don’t you listen to him? He has some very interesting things to tell.”

“What’s the idea? Mean to say you expect me to spend all my time listening to his chatter?”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, he’s got to learn a little discipline. Time for him to start getting educated.”

“I’ve learned much more discipline, I’ve had much more education, from him than he has from me.”

“What’s this? Some newfangled idea of raising kids you got in Washington?”

“Perhaps. Did you ever realize that children are people?”

“That’s all right. I’m not going to have him monopolizing the conversation.”

“No, of course. We have our rights, too. But I’m going to bring him up as a human being. He has just as many thoughts as we have, and I want him to develop them, not take Gopher Prairie’s version of them. That’s my biggest work now⁠—keeping myself, keeping you, from ‘educating’ him.”

“Well, let’s not scrap about it. But I’m not going to have him spoiled.”

Kennicott had forgotten it in ten minutes; and she forgot it⁠—this time.

VII

The Kennicotts and the Sam Clarks had driven north to a duck-pass between two lakes, on an autumn day of blue and copper.

Kennicott had given her a light twenty-gauge shotgun. She had a first lesson in shooting, in keeping her eyes open, not wincing, understanding that the bead at the end of the barrel really had something to do with pointing the gun. She was radiant; she almost believed Sam when he insisted that it was she who had shot the mallard at which they had fired together.

She sat on the bank of the reedy lake and found rest in Mrs. Clark’s drawling comments on nothing. The brown dusk was still. Behind them were dark marshes. The plowed acres smelled fresh. The lake was garnet and silver. The voices of the men, waiting for the last flight, were clear in the cool air.

“Mark left!” sang Kennicott, in a long-drawn call.

Three ducks were swooping down in a swift line. The guns banged, and a duck fluttered. The men pushed their light boat out on the burnished lake, disappeared beyond the reeds. Their cheerful voices and the slow splash and clank of oars came back to Carol from the dimness. In the sky a fiery plain sloped down to a serene harbor. It dissolved; the lake was white marble; and Kennicott was crying, “Well, old lady, how about hiking out for home? Supper taste pretty good, eh?”

“I’ll sit back with Ethel,” she said, at the car.

It was the first time she had called Mrs. Clark by her given name; the first time she had willingly sat back, a woman of Main Street.

“I’m hungry. It’s good to be hungry,” she reflected, as they drove away.

She looked across the silent fields to the west. She was conscious of an unbroken sweep of land to the Rockies, to Alaska, a dominion which will rise to unexampled greatness when other empires have grown senile. Before that time, she knew, a hundred generations of Carols will aspire and go down in tragedy devoid of palls and solemn chanting, the humdrum inevitable tragedy of struggle against inertia.

“Let’s all go to the movies tomorrow night. Awfully exciting film,” said Ethel Clark.

“Well, I was going to read a new book but⁠—All right, let’s go,” said Carol.

VIII

“They’re too much for me,” Carol sighed to Kennicott. “I’ve been thinking about getting up an annual Community Day, when the whole town would forget feuds and go out and have sports and a picnic and a dance. But Bert Tybee (why did you ever elect him mayor?)⁠—he’s kidnapped my idea. He wants the Community Day, but he wants to have some politician ‘give an address.’ That’s just the stilted sort of thing I’ve tried to avoid. He asked Vida, and of course she agreed with him.”

Kennicott considered the matter while he wound the clock and they tramped upstairs.

“Yes, it would jar you to have Bert butting in,” he said amiably. “Are you going to do much fussing over this Community stunt? Don’t you ever get tired of fretting and stewing and experimenting?”

“I haven’t even started. Look!” She led him to the nursery door, pointed at the fuzzy brown head of her daughter. “Do you see that object on the pillow? Do you know what it is? It’s a bomb to blow up smugness. If you Tories were wise,