I've lived in town ever since I
was fifteen. I lost three babies in Milwaukee--hot weather, bad air,
bad milk, bad everything, unless you have plenty of money. Many a time
I've sat and cried, just from thinkin' how bad I wanted a little place
of our own, where there was grass and trees and a piece of ground for a
garden. And I knew we'd never be able to buy it. We couldn't get
ahead enough."
"Und so," her husband took up the tale, "I hear off diss country, vere
lant can be for noddings got. Und so we scrape und pinch und safe
nickels und dimes for fife year. Und here ve are. All der vay from
Visconsin in der vaigon, yes. Mit two mules. In Ashcroft I buy der
cow, so dot ve haf der fresh milk. Und dot iss lucky. For von mule
iss die on der road. So I am plow oop der lant und haul my vaigon mit
von mule und Gretchen, der cow."
Hazel had a momentary vision of unrelated hardships by the way, and she
wondered how the man could laugh and his wife smile over it. She knew
the stifling heat of narrow streets in mid-summer, and the hungry
longing for cool, green shade. She had seen something of a city's
poverty. But she knew also the privations of the trail.
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