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

in a swift melodrama of the air. On a hill was silhouetted a man following a drag. His horse bent its neck and plodded, content.

A path took her to the Corinth road, leading back to town. Dandelions glowed in patches amidst the wild grass by the way. A stream golloped through a concrete culvert beneath the road. She trudged in healthy weariness.

A man in a bumping Ford rattled up beside her, hailed, “Give you a lift, Mrs. Kennicott?”

“Thank you. It’s awfully good of you, but I’m enjoying the walk.”

“Great day, by golly. I seen some wheat that must of been five inches high. Well, so long.”

She hadn’t the dimmest notion who he was, but his greeting warmed her. This countryman gave her a companionship which she had never (whether by her fault or theirs or neither) been able to find in the matrons and commercial lords of the town.

Half a mile from town, in a hollow between hazelnut bushes and a brook, she discovered a gipsy encampment: a covered wagon, a tent, a bunch of pegged-out horses. A broad-shouldered man was squatted on his heels, holding a frying-pan over a campfire. He looked toward her. He was Miles Bjornstam.

“Well, well, what you doing out here?” he roared. “Come have a hunk o’ bacon. Pete! Hey, Pete!”

A tousled person came from behind the covered wagon.

“Pete, here’s the one honest-to-God lady in my bum town. Come on, crawl in and set a couple minutes, Mrs. Kennicott. I’m hiking off for all summer.”

The Red Swede staggered up, rubbed his cramped knees, lumbered to the wire fence, held the strands apart for her. She unconsciously smiled at him as she went through. Her skirt caught on a barb; he carefully freed it.

Beside this man in blue flannel shirt, baggy khaki trousers, uneven suspenders, and vile felt hat, she was small and exquisite.

The surly Pete set out an upturned bucket for her. She lounged on it, her elbows on her knees. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Just starting off for the summer, horse-trading.” Bjornstam chuckled. His red mustache caught the sun. “Regular hoboes and public benefactors we are. Take a hike like this every once in a while. Sharks on horses. Buy ’em from farmers and sell ’em to others. We’re honest⁠—frequently. Great time. Camp along the road. I was wishing I had a chance to say goodbye to you before I ducked out but⁠—Say, you better come along with us.”

“I’d like to.”

“While you’re playing mumblety-peg with Mrs. Lym Cass, Pete and me will be rambling across Dakota, through the Bad Lands, into the butte country, and when fall comes, we’ll be crossing over a pass of the Big Horn Mountains, maybe, and camp in a snowstorm, quarter of a mile right straight up above a lake. Then in the morning we’ll lie snug in our blankets and look up through the pines at an eagle. How’d it strike you? Heh? Eagle soaring and soaring all day⁠—big wide sky⁠—”

“Don’t! Or I will go with you, and I’m afraid there might be some slight scandal. Perhaps some day I’ll do it. Goodbye.”

Her hand disappeared in his blackened leather glove. From the turn in the road she waved at him. She walked on more soberly now, and she was lonely.

But the wheat and grass were sleek velvet under the sunset; the prairie clouds were tawny gold; and she swung happily into Main Street.

II

Through the first days of June she drove with Kennicott on his calls. She identified him with the virile land; she admired him as she saw with what respect the farmers obeyed him. She was out in the early chill, after a hasty cup of coffee, reaching open country as the fresh sun came up in that unspoiled world. Meadow larks called from the tops of thin split fence-posts. The wild roses smelled clean.

As they returned in late afternoon the low sun was a solemnity of radial bands, like a heavenly fan of beaten gold; the limitless circle of the grain was a green sea rimmed with fog, and the willow windbreaks were palmy isles.

Before July the close heat blanketed them. The tortured earth cracked. Farmers panted through cornfields behind cultivators and the sweating flanks of horses. While she waited for Kennicott in the car, before a farmhouse, the seat burned her fingers and her head ached with the glare on fenders and hood.

A black thundershower was followed by a dust storm which turned the sky yellow with the hint of a coming tornado. Impalpable black dust far-borne from Dakota covered the inner sills of the closed windows.

The July heat was ever more stifling. They crawled along Main Street by day; they found it hard to sleep at night. They brought mattresses down to the living-room, and thrashed and turned by the open window. Ten times a night they talked of going out to soak themselves with the hose and wade through the dew, but they were too listless to take the trouble. On cool evenings, when they tried to go walking, the gnats appeared in swarms which peppered their faces and caught in their throats.

She wanted the Northern pines, the Eastern sea, but Kennicott declared that it would be “kind of hard to get away, just now.” The Health and Improvement Committee of the Thanatopsis asked her to take part in the anti-fly campaign, and she toiled about town persuading householders to use the flytraps furnished by the club, or giving out money prizes to fly-swatting children. She was loyal enough but not ardent, and without ever quite intending to, she began to neglect the task as heat sucked at her strength.

Kennicott and she motored North and spent a week with his mother⁠—that is, Carol spent it with his mother, while he fished for bass.

The great event was their purchase of a summer cottage, down on Lake Minniemashie.

Perhaps the most amiable feature of life in Gopher Prairie was the summer cottages. They were merely two-room shanties, with a seepage of broken-down chairs, peeling