“Sairy Spencer’s Revolt” Carrie Blake Morgan Abraham Spencer came up the lane from the fields, carrying his discolored old straw hat in one hand and mopping his face with a red cotton handkerchief. He walked stiffly and slightly bent forward from the hips, as do most hard-working men who have passed the half century mark, but he set his heavily-shod feet down with a firmness that bespoke considerable physical vigor as well as mental decision. He scanned the house sharply as he approached, and his shaggy brows were drawn almost together in a frown. It was the middle of a sultry August afternoon, yet the doors and windows were all closed and the green holland blinds were drawn down. He tried the back door and found it fast, and though he pounded on it with his horny knuckles, there was no response save a startled “cuk, cuk, cuk” from an old hen with a brood of downy chicks wallowing in the dust beside the steps. “Now this is mighty strange,” he muttered, perplexedly. “I wouldn’t’ve thought Sairy’d go away from home this way all of a sudden. She didn’t say a word about it at noontime. She’s never done such a thing before, as I know of.” He stood still for a little while, meditatively rubbing his thumbs and forefingers together while he pondered the unprecedented situation. “Couldn’t be asleep, I reckon,” he conjectured. “Never knowed her to sleep in daytime.” Nevertheless, he came down the steps and went around the house to a chamber window, where he parted a tangle of hop vines and rapped sharply on the sash. “Sairy!” he called. “Sairy! are you to home?” There was a slight sound from within, as of a creaking board beneath a careful footstep, then a shade was lifted at one side, and a thin, startled, elderly face looked out. “What on earth’s the matter, Sairy? What’s the house all shut up like a jail for?” demanded Abraham Spencer, in a high-pitched, irascible tone. “Don’t you know the Rhynearsons’ve have been here and gone away again?” he went on. “I saw ’em from the north medder, and I’ve come clear home to see what’s the matter. Was you asleep? Didn’t you hear ’em knock?” [End Page 151] Mrs. Spencer rolled up the shade, and lifted the sash with hands that trembled. “Come, now, speak up quick,” added her husband, impatiently, “for I’m goin’ after ’em and bring ’em back, and I want to know what to tell ’em.” “No, no, Abra’m, don’t go after ’em.” Mrs. Spencer dropped on her knees and leaned her arms wearily on the window sill. She spoke pleadingly, and there were tears in her voice as well as in her eyes. “Oh, Abra’m, I kep’ ’em out a-purpose.” “You—what?” Abraham Spencer’s tone implied that he was forced to doubt the evidence of the ears that had served him well for nearly threescore years. “ I kep’ ’em out a-purpose. I knowed you’d be mad, but I couldn’t help it. I’m just too mortal tired and miser’ble to care what becomes of me. I ain’t able to get supper for you and the hands, let alone all that Rhynearson gang. I’ve worked so hard to-day, and I didn’t sleep much last night for my rheumatiz. I’m gettin’ old fast, and breakin’ down, Abra’m. I can’t hold out much longer if I don’t slack up a little on hard work.” “Well, why in thunder don’t you slack up, then? What’s to hinder you from goin’ to bed after breakfast and stayin’ there till dinner time? ” “Now, Abra’m, that’s what you always say, and it’s so unreasonable. Who’d do the work if I went to bed? Who’d feed the chickens and pigs, and milk the cows, and churn the butter, and clean the vegetables, and bake the bread and pies, and keep the whole house in order? You’d come out slim if I...
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Jun 9, 2024
Jennifer L Lavers + 1
Open Access