Now in November by Josephine W. Johnson Page B

sugar that might taste like one that had;—and then Kerrin’s light went out and I heard her move in bed, and theold haunting fear came back—a kind of dark stain over all other thoughts. We seemed to lie here locked and coffined inside ourselves, and only Merle still free of the love or hate or fear that was shut inside. And it seemed to me, lying there in the dark, that the more I thought or read or saw, the more oppressive and tangled with choice life came to be. Not tangled in daily living, perhaps, but in the whole plan and pattern of it. The living itself was easy enough to do when the days were too full for thought, and clothes wearing down fast to bone, soaking up dirt like sponges. There was no question of what to do when it took two hours to get food ready for fifteen minutes of eating, and no particular choice to make except between radishes and beans. But it wasthe meaning of all these evident things that still stayed hidden. Every new thought seemed to open a door, but when the mind rushed forward to enter, the door was slammed shut, leaving it dazed outside. I seemed often on the threshold of some important and clarifying light, some answer to more than the obvious things; and then it wasshut away.There must be some reason, I thought, why we should go on year after year, with this lump of debt, scrailing earth down to stone, givingso much and with no return. There must be some reason why I was made quiet and homely and slow, and then given this stone of love to mumble. Love was a stone!
    And suddenly I wished to God that Grant had never come here at all.

3
    JUNE dragged on with a heavy heat. By seven the birds were still as at noon, and the sun was a weight of fire on the leaves. No rain came at all. Aphis killed most of the radishes, covered them over so thick that the leaves were hidden, and black ones stuck like lice on the lettuce-heads. So much died that I wondered where all the work came from still left to do.
    There was talk of strikes, rumors of meetings in Carton and down near the river. And then the unrest crept nearer, spreading out like a slow tide over the farms around us, until even Father began to notice. Grant went to meetings at night up in the school, and came back excited but not certain. He tried to get Father to come and listen, but Dad always said he had no time. “You go,” he’d say. “You can tell me about it. I ain’t the time.”
    Then Grant told him one night he’d have to hold back the milk tomorrow, and Father was angry and confused. “Who says so?” he shouted. “Who’s going to make me lose the little I got? What’re we going to live on now?”
    â€œOn hope, I guess,” Grant said. “A sacrifice for the future, they call it.”
    â€œA damn big sacrifice for the future,” Father said. “I can’t afford to gamble on just a chance.”
    â€œI know it,” Grant answered. He spoke quietly and with patience. “But you’ll have to anyway. If you don’t, they’ll dump it for you. You should have come and said what you had to say last night. It’s too late now.”
    â€œWhat if it does shove the prices up?” Mother put in. “We get more and somebody else pays more. Where’s the sense in that?”
    â€œThere isn’t any,” Merle said. “But we have to think of ourselves now. Somebody has to pay.”
    â€œWhat’ll I do with a hundred gallons?” Father wanted to know. “Can we eat milk? read milk? wear milk? Not even the hogs can take that much!”
    There was no way out of it, though, and we had to hold it all back. Even if we had tried not to jointhe rest, it would have been of no use. They lined up the roads and ditched over a hundred gallons. “One shout isn’t enough,” Grant said. “We’ve all got to roar together. The whole thing’s no good if anyone backs out now.”
    â€œGive it away