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

agreeing with Oscar Martinsen that it would be Good Fun to go trapping “mushrats.”

She touched the thought, “It would be sweet to have a baby of my own. I do want one. Tiny⁠—No! Not yet! There’s so much to do. And I’m still tired from the job. It’s in my bones.”

She rested at home. She listened to the village noises common to all the world, jungle or prairie; sounds simple and charged with magic⁠—dogs barking, chickens making a gurgling sound of content, children at play, a man beating a rug, wind in the cottonwood trees, a locust fiddling, a footstep on the walk, jaunty voices of Bea and a grocer’s boy in the kitchen, a clinking anvil, a piano⁠—not too near.

Twice a week, at least, she drove into the country with Kennicott, to hunt ducks in lakes enameled with sunset, or to call on patients who looked up to her as the squire’s lady and thanked her for toys and magazines. Evenings she went with her husband to the motion pictures and was boisterously greeted by every other couple; or, till it became too cold, they sat on the porch, bawling to passersby in motors, or to neighbors who were raking the leaves. The dust became golden in the low sun; the street was filled with the fragrance of burning leaves.

V

But she hazily wanted someone to whom she could say what she thought.

On a slow afternoon when she fidgeted over sewing and wished that the telephone would ring, Bea announced Miss Vida Sherwin.

Despite Vida Sherwin’s lively blue eyes, if you had looked at her in detail you would have found her face slightly lined, and not so much sallow as with the bloom rubbed off; you would have found her chest flat, and her fingers rough from needle and chalk and penholder; her blouses and plain cloth skirts undistinguished; and her hat worn too far back, betraying a dry forehead. But you never did look at Vida Sherwin in detail. You couldn’t. Her electric activity veiled her. She was as energetic as a chipmunk. Her fingers fluttered; her sympathy came out in spurts; she sat on the edge of a chair in eagerness to be near her auditor, to send her enthusiasms and optimism across.

She rushed into the room pouring out: “I’m afraid you’ll think the teachers have been shabby in not coming near you, but we wanted to give you a chance to get settled. I am Vida Sherwin, and I try to teach French and English and a few other things in the high school.”

“I’ve been hoping to know the teachers. You see, I was a librarian⁠—”

“Oh, you needn’t tell me. I know all about you! Awful how much I know⁠—this gossipy village. We need you so much here. It’s a dear loyal town (and isn’t loyalty the finest thing in the world!) but it’s a rough diamond, and we need you for the polishing, and we’re ever so humble⁠—” She stopped for breath and finished her compliment with a smile.

“If I could help you in any way⁠—Would I be committing the unpardonable sin if I whispered that I think Gopher Prairie is a tiny bit ugly?”

“Of course it’s ugly. Dreadfully! Though I’m probably the only person in town to whom you could safely say that. (Except perhaps Guy Pollock the lawyer⁠—have you met him?⁠—oh, you must!⁠—he’s simply a darling⁠—intelligence and culture and so gentle.) But I don’t care so much about the ugliness. That will change. It’s the spirit that gives me hope. It’s sound. Wholesome. But afraid. It needs live creatures like you to awaken it. I shall slave-drive you!”

“Splendid. What shall I do? I’ve been wondering if it would be possible to have a good architect come here to lecture.”

“Ye-es, but don’t you think it would be better to work with existing agencies? Perhaps it will sound slow to you, but I was thinking⁠—It would be lovely if we could get you to teach Sunday School.”

Carol had the empty expression of one who finds that she has been affectionately bowing to a complete stranger. “Oh yes. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much good at that. My religion is so foggy.”

“I know. So is mine. I don’t care a bit for dogma. Though I do stick firmly to the belief in the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man and the leadership of Jesus. As you do, of course.”

Carol looked respectable and thought about having tea.

“And that’s all you need teach in Sunday School. It’s the personal influence. Then there’s the library-board. You’d be so useful on that. And of course there’s our women’s study club⁠—the Thanatopsis Club.”

“Are they doing anything? Or do they read papers made out of the Encyclopedia?”

Miss Sherwin shrugged. “Perhaps. But still, they are so earnest. They will respond to your fresher interest. And the Thanatopsis does do a good social work⁠—they’ve made the city plant ever so many trees, and they run the restroom for farmers’ wives. And they do take such an interest in refinement and culture. So⁠—in fact, so very unique.”

Carol was disappointed⁠—by nothing very tangible. She said politely, “I’ll think them all over. I must have a while to look around first.”

Miss Sherwin darted to her, smoothed her hair, peered at her. “Oh, my dear, don’t you suppose I know? These first tender days of marriage⁠—they’re sacred to me. Home, and children that need you, and depend on you to keep them alive, and turn to you with their wrinkly little smiles. And the hearth and⁠—” She hid her face from Carol as she made an activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she went on with her former briskness:

“I mean, you must help us when you’re ready.⁠ ⁠… I’m afraid you’ll think I’m conservative. I am! So much to conserve. All this treasure of American ideals. Sturdiness and democracy and opportunity. Maybe not at Palm Beach. But, thank heaven, we’re free from such social distinctions in Gopher Prairie. I have