Death in the Woods by Sherwood Anderson
She was an old woman and lived on a farm near the town in
which I lived. All country and small-town people have seen such
old women, but no one knows much about them. Such an old woman
comes into town driving an old worn-out horse or she comes afoot
carrying a basket. She may own a few hens and have eggs to sell.
She brings them in a basket and takes them to a grocer. There she
trades them in. She gets some salt pork and some beans. Then she
gets a pound or two of sugar and some flour.
Afterwards she goes to the butcher's and asks for some
dog-meat. She may spend ten or fifteen cents, but when she does
she asks for something. Formerly the butchers gave liver to any
one who wanted to carry it away. In our family we were always
having it. Once one of my brothers got a whole cow's liver at the
slaughter-house near the fairgrounds in our town. We had it until
we were sick of it. It never cost a cent. I have hated the
thought of it ever since.
The old farm woman got some liver and a soup-bone. She never
visited with any one, and as soon as she got what she wanted she
lit out for home. It made quite a load for such an old body. No
one gave her a lift. People drive right down a road and never
notice an old woman like that.
There was such an old woman who used to come into town past
our house one Summer and Fall when I was a young boy and was sick
with what was called inflammatory rheumatism. She went home later
carrying a heavy pack on her back. Two or three large
gaunt-looking dogs followed at her heels.
The old woman was nothing special. She was one of the nameless
ones that hardly any one knows, but she got into my thoughts. I
have just suddenly now, after all these years, remembered her and
what happened. It is a story. Her name was Grimes, and she lived
with her husband and son in a small unpainted house on the bank
of a small creek four miles from town.
The husband and son were a tough lot. Although the son was but
twenty-one, he had already served a term in jail. It was
whispered about that the woman's husband stole horses and ran
them off to some other county. Now and then, when a horse turned
up missing, the man had also disappeared. No one ever caught him.
Once, when I was loafing at Tom Whitehead's livery-barn, the man
came there and sat on the bench in front. Two or three other men
were there, but no one spoke to him. He sat for a few minutes and
then got up and went away. When he was leaving he turned around
and stared at the men. There was a look of defiance in his eyes.
"Well, I have tried to be friendly. You don't want to talk to me.
It has been so wherever I have gone in this town. If, some day,
one of your fine horses turns up missing, well, then what?" He
did not say anything actually. "I'd like to bust one of you on
the jaw," was about what his eyes said. I remember how the look
in his eyes made me shiver.
The old man belonged to a family that had had money once. His
name was Jake Grimes. It all comes back clearly now. His father,
John Grimes, had owned a sawmill when the country was new, and
had made money. Then he got to drinking and running after women.
When he died there wasn't much left.
Jake blew in the rest. Pretty soon there wasn't any more
lumber to cut and his land was nearly all gone.
He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work
one June day in the wheat harvest. She was a young thing then and
scared to death. You see, the farmer was up to something with the
girl--she was, I think, a bound girl and his wife had her
suspicions. She took it out on the girl when the man wasn't
around. Then, when the wife had to go off to town for supplies,
the farmer got after her. She told young Jake that nothing really
ever happened, but he didn't know whether to believe it or
He got her pretty easy himself, the first time he was out with
her. He wouldn't have married her if the German farmer hadn't
tried to tell him where to get off. He got her to go riding with
him in his buggy one night when he was threshing on the place,
and then he came for her the next Sunday night.
She managed to get out of the house without her employer's
seeing, but when she was getting into the buggy he showed up. It
was almost dark, and he just popped up suddenly at the horse's
head. He grabbed the horse by the bridle and Jake got out his
They had it out all right! The German was a tough one. Maybe
he didn't care whether his wife knew or not. Jake hit him over
the face and shoulders with the buggy-whip, but the horse got to
acting up and he had to get out.
Then the two men went for it. The girl didn't see it. The
horse started to run away and went nearly a mile down the road
before the girl got him stopped. Then she managed to tie him to a
tree beside the road. (I wonder how I know all this. It must have
stuck in my mind from small-town tales when I was a boy.) Jake
found her there after he got through with the German. She was
huddled up in the buggy seat, crying, scared to death. She told
Jake a lot of stuff, how the German had tried to get her, how he
chased her once into the barn, how another time, when they
happened to be alone in the house together, he tore her dress
open clear down the front. The German, she said, might have got
her that time if he hadn't heard his old woman drive in at the
gate. She had been off to town for supplies. Well, she would be
putting the horse in the barn. The German managed to sneak off to
the fields without his wife seeing. He told the girl he would
kill her if she told. What could she do? She told a lie about
ripping her dress in the barn when she was feeding the stock. I
remember now that she was a bound girl and did not know where her
father and mother were. Maybe she did not have any father. You
know what I mean.
Such bound children were often enough cruelly treated. They
were children who had no parents, slaves really. There were very
few orphan homes then. They were legally bound into some home. It
was a matter of pure luck how it came out.
She married Jake and had a son and daughter, but the daughter
Then she settled down to feed stock. That was her job. At the
German's place she had cooked the food for the German and his
wife. The wife was a strong woman with big hips and worked most
of the time in the fields with her husband. She fed them and fed
the cows in the barn, fed the pigs, the horses and the chickens.
Every moment of every day, as a young girl, was spent feeding
Then she married Jake Grimes and he had to be fed. She was a
slight thing, and when she had been married for three or four
years, and after the two children were born, her slender
shoulders became stooped.
Jake always had a lot of big dogs around the house, that stood
near the unused sawmill near the creek. He was always trading
horses when he wasn't stealing something and had a lot of poor
bony ones about. Also he kept three or four pigs and a cow. They
were all pastured in the few acres left of the Grimes place and
Jake did little enough work.
He went into debt for a threshing outfit and ran it for
several years, but it did not pay. People did not trust him. They
were afraid he would steal the grain at night. He had to go a
long way off to get work and it cost too much to get there. In
the Winter he hunted and cut a little firewood, to be sold in
some nearby town. When the son grew up he was just like the
father. They got drunk together. If there wasn't anything to eat
in the house when they came home the old man gave his old woman a
cut over the head. She had a few chickens of her own and had to
kill one of them in a hurry. When they were all killed she
wouldn't have any eggs to sell when she went to town, and then
what would she do?
She had to scheme all her life about getting things fed,
getting the pigs fed so they would grow fat and could be
butchered in the Fall. When they were butchered her husband took
most of the meat off to town and sold it. If he did not do it
first the boy did. They fought sometimes and when they fought the
old woman stood aside trembling.
She had got the habit of silence anyway--that was fixed.
Sometimes, when she began to look old--she wasn't forty yet--and
when the husband and son were both off, trading horses or
drinking or hunting or stealing, she went around the house and
the barnyard muttering to herself.
How was she going to get everything fed?--that was her
problem. The dogs had to be fed. There wasn't enough hay in the
barn for the horses and the cow. If she didn't feed the chickens
how could they lay eggs? Without eggs to sell how could she get
things in town, things she had to have to keep the life of the
farm going? Thank heaven, she did not have to feed her
husband--in a certain way. That hadn't lasted long after their
marriage and after the babies came. Where he went on his long
trips she did not know. Sometimes he was gone from home for
weeks, and after the boy grew up they went off together.
They left everything at home for her to manage and she had no
money. She knew no one. No one ever talked to her in town. When
it was Winter she had to gather sticks of wood for her fire, had
to try to keep the stock fed with very little grain.
The stock in the barn cried to her hungrily, the dogs followed
her about. In the Winter the hens laid few enough eggs. They
huddled in the corners of the barn and she kept watching them. If
a hen lays an egg in the barn in the Winter and you do not find
it, it freezes and breaks.
One day in Winter the old woman went off to town with a few
eggs and the dogs followed her. She did not get started until
nearly three o'clock and the snow was heavy. She hadn't been
feeling very well for several days and so she went muttering
along, scantily clad, her shoulders stooped. She had an old grain
bag in which she carried her eggs, tucked away down in the
bottom. There weren't many of them, but in Winter the price of
eggs is up. She would get a little meat in exchange for the eggs,
some salt pork, a little sugar, and some coffee perhaps. It might
be the butcher would give her a piece of liver.
When she had got to town and was trading in her eggs the dogs
lay by the door outside. She did pretty well, got the things she
needed, more than she had hoped. Then she went to the butcher and
he gave her some liver and some dog-meat.
It was the first time any one had spoken to her in a friendly
way for a long time. The butcher was alone in his shop when she
came in and was annoyed by the thought of such a sick-looking old
woman out on such a day. It was bitter cold and the snow, that
had let up during the afternoon, was falling again. The butcher
said something about her husband and her son, swore at them, and
the old woman stared at him, a look of mild surprise in her eyes
as he talked. He said that if either the husband or the son were
going to get any of the liver or the heavy bones with scraps of
meat hanging to them that he had put into the grain bag, he'd see
him starve first.
Starve, eh? Well, things had to be fed. Men had to be fed, and
the horses that weren't any good but maybe could be traded off,
and the poor thin cow that hadn't given any milk for three
Horses, cows, pigs, dogs, men.
The old woman had to get back before darkness came if she
could. The dogs followed at her heels, sniffing at the heavy
grain bag she had fastened on her back. When she got to the edge
of town she stopped by a fence and tied the bag on her back with
a piece of rope she had carried in her dress-pocket for just that
purpose. That was an easier way to carry it. Her arms ached. It
was hard when she had to crawl over fences and once she fell over
and landed in the snow. The dogs went frisking about. She had to
struggle to get to her feet again, but she made it. The point of
climbing over the fences was that there was a short cut over a
hill and through a woods. She might have gone around by the road,
but it was a mile farther that way. She was afraid she couldn't
make it. And then, besides, the stock had to be fed. There was a
little hay left and a little corn. Perhaps her husband and son
would bring some home when they came. They had driven off in the
only buggy the Grimes family had, a rickety thing, a rickety
horse hitched to the buggy, two other rickety horses led by
halters. They were going to trade horses, get a little money if
they could. They might come home drunk. It would be well to have
something in the house when they came back.
The son had an affair on with a woman at the county seat,
fifteen miles away. She was a rough enough woman, a tough one.
Once, in the Summer, the son had brought her to the house. Both
she and the son had been drinking. Jake Grimes was away and the
son and his woman ordered the old woman about like a servant. She
didn't mind much; she was used to it. Whatever happened she never
said anything. That was her way of getting along. She had managed
that way when she was a young girl at the German's and ever since
she had married Jake. That time her son brought his woman to the
house they stayed all night, sleeping together just as though
they were married. It hadn't shocked the old woman, not much. She
had got past being shocked early in life.
With the pack on her back she went painfully along across an
open field, wading in the deep snow, and got into the woods.
There was a path, but it was hard to follow. Just beyond the
top of the hill, where the woods was thickest, there was a small
clearing. Had some one once thought of building a house there?
The clearing was as large as a building lot in town, large enough
for a house and a garden. The path ran along the side of the
clearing, and when she got there the old woman sat down to rest
at the foot of a tree.
It was a foolish thing to do. When she got herself placed, the
pack against the tree's trunk, it was nice, but what about
getting up again? She worried about that for a moment and then
quietly closed her eyes.
She must have slept for a time. When you are about so cold you
can't get any colder. The afternoon grew a little warmer and the
snow came thicker than ever. Then after a time the weather
cleared. The moon even came out.
There were four Grimes dogs that had followed Mrs. Grimes into
town, all tall gaunt fellows. Such men as Jake Grimes and his son
always keep just such dogs. They kick and abuse them, but they
stay. The Grimes dogs, in order to keep from starving, had to do
a lot of foraging for themselves, and they had been at it while
the old woman slept with her back to the tree at the side of the
clearing. They had been chasing rabbits in the woods and in
adjoining fields and in their ranging had picked up three other
After a time all the dogs came back to the clearing. They were
excited about something. Such nights, cold and clear and with a
moon, do things to dogs. It may be that some old instinct, come
down from the time when they were wolves and ranged the woods in
packs on Winter nights, comes back into them.
The dogs in the clearing, before the old woman, had caught two
or three rabbits and their immediate hunger had been satisfied.
They began to play, running in circles in the clearing. Round and
round they ran, each dog's nose at the tail of the next dog. In
the clearing, under the snow-laden trees and under the wintry
moon they made a strange picture, running thus silently, in a
circle their running had beaten in the soft snow. The dogs made
no sound. They ran around and around in the circle.
It may have been that the old woman saw them doing that before
she died. She may have awakened once or twice and looked at the
strange sight with dim old eyes.
She wouldn't be very cold now, just drowsy. Life hangs on a
long time. Perhaps the old woman was out of her head. She may
have dreamed of her girlhood, at the German's, and before that,
when she was a child and before her mother lit out and left
Her dreams couldn't have been very pleasant. Not many pleasant
things had happened to her. Now and then one of the Grimes dogs
left the running circle and came to stand before her. The dog
thrust his face close to her face. His red tongue was hanging
The running of the dogs may have been a kind of death
ceremony. It may have been that the primitive instinct of the
wolf, having been aroused in the dogs by the night and the
running, made them somehow afraid.
"Now we are no longer wolves. We are dogs, the servants of
men. Keep alive, man! When man dies we becomes wolves again."
When one of the dogs came to where the old woman sat with her
back against the tree and thrust his nose close to her face he
seemed satisfied and went back to run with the pack. All the
Grimes dogs did it at some time during the evening, before she
died. I knew all about it afterward, when I grew to be a man,
because once in a woods in Illinois, on another Winter night, I
saw a pack of dogs act just like that. The dogs were waiting for
me to die as they had waited for the old woman that night when I
was a child, but when it happened to me I was a young man and had
no intention whatever of dying.
The old woman died softly and quietly. When she was dead and
when one of the Grimes dogs had come to her and had found her
dead all the dogs stopped running.
They gathered about her.
Well, she was dead now. She had fed the Grimes dogs when she
was alive, what about now?
There was the pack on her back, the grain bag containing the
piece of salt pork, the liver the butcher had given her, the
dog-meat, the soup bones. The butcher in town, having been
suddenly overcome with a feeling of pity, had loaded her grain
bag heavily. It had been a big haul for the old woman.
It was a big haul for the dogs now.
One of the Grimes dogs sprang suddenly out from among the
others and began worrying the pack on the old woman's back. Had
the dogs really been wolves that one would have been the leader
of the pack. What he did, all the others did.
All of them sank their teeth into the grain bag the old woman
had fastened with ropes to her back.
They dragged the old woman's body out into the open clearing.
The worn-out dress was quickly torn from her shoulders. When she
was found, a day or two later, the dress had been torn from her
body clear to the hips, but the dogs had not touched her body.
They had got the meat out of the grain bag, that was all. Her
body was frozen stiff when it was found, and the shoulders were
so narrow and the body so slight that in death it looked like the
body of some charming young girl.
Such things happened in towns of the Middle West, on farms
near town, when I was a boy. A hunter out after rabbits found the
old woman's body and did not touch it. Something, the beaten
round path in the little snow-covered clearing, the silence of
the place, the place where the dogs had worried the body trying
to pull the grain bag away or tear it open--something startled
the man and he hurried off to town.
I was in Main street with one of my brothers who was town
newsboy and who was taking the afternoon papers to the stores. It
was almost night.
The hunter came into a grocery and told his story. Then he
went to a hardware-shop and into a drugstore. Men began to gather
on the sidewalks. Then they started out along the road to the
place in the woods.
My brother should have gone on about his business of
distributing papers but he didn't. Every one was going to the
woods. The undertaker went and the town marshal. Several men got
on a dray and rode out to where the path left the road and went
into the woods, but the horses weren't very sharply shod and slid
about on the slippery roads. They made no better time than those
of us who walked.
The town marshal was a large man whose leg had been injured in
the Civil War. He carried a heavy cane and limped rapidly along
the road. My brother and I followed at his heels, and as we went
other men and boys joined the crowd.
It had grown dark by the time we got to where the old woman
had left the road but the moon had come out. The marshal was
thinking there might have been a murder. He kept asking the
hunter questions. The hunter went along with his gun across his
shoulders, a dog following at his heels. It isn't often a rabbit
hunter has a chance to be so conspicuous. He was taking full
advantage of it, leading the procession with the town marshal. "I
didn't see any wounds. She was a beautiful young girl. Her face
was buried in the snow. No, I didn't know her." As a matter of
fact, the hunter had not looked closely at the body. He had been
frightened. She might have been murdered and some one might
spring out from behind a tree and murder him. In a woods, in the
late afternoon, when the trees are all bare and there is white
snow on the ground, when all is silent, something creepy steals
over the mind and body. If something strange or uncanny has
happened in the neighborhood all you think about is getting away
from there as fast as you can.
The crowd of men and boys had got to where the old woman had
crossed the field and went, following the marshal and the hunter,
up the slight incline and into the woods.
My brother and I were silent. He had his bundle of papers in a
bag slung across his shoulder. When he got back to town he would
have to go on distributing his papers before he went home to
supper. If I went along, as he had no doubt already determined I
should, we would both be late. Either mother or our older sister
would have to warm our supper.
Well, we would have something to tell. A boy did not get such
a chance very often. It was lucky we just happened to go into the
grocery when the hunter came in. The hunter was a country fellow.
Neither of us had ever seen him before.
Now the crowd of men and boys had got to the clearing.
Darkness comes quickly on such Winter nights, but the full moon
made everything clear. My brother and I stood near the tree,
beneath which the old woman had died.
She did not look old, lying there in that light, frozen and
still. One of the men turned her over in the snow and I saw
everything. My body trembled with some strange mystical feeling
and so did my brother's. It might have been the cold.
Neither of us had ever seen a woman's body before. It may have
been the snow, clinging to the frozen flesh, that made it look so
white and lovely, so like marble. No woman had come with the
party from town; but one of the men, he was the town blacksmith,
took off his overcoat and spread it over her. Then he gathered
her into his arms and started off to town, all the others
following silently. At that time no one knew who she was.
I had seen everything, had seen the oval in the snow, like a
miniature race-track, where the dogs had run, had seen how the
men were mystified, had seen the white bare young-looking
shoulders, had heard the whispered comments of the men.
The men were simply mystified. They took the body to the
undertaker's, and when the blacksmith, the hunter, the marshal
and several others had got inside they closed the door. If father
had been there perhaps he could have got in, but we boys
I went with my brother to distribute the rest of his papers
and when we got home it was my brother who told the story.
I kept silent and went to bed early. It may have been I was
not satisfied with the way he told it.
Later, in the town, I must have heard other fragments of the
old woman's story. She was recognized the next day and there was
The husband and son were found somewhere and brought to town
and there was an attempt to connect them with the woman's death,
but it did not work. They had perfect enough alibis.
However, the town was against them. They had to get out. Where
they went I never heard.
I remember only the picture there in the forest, the men
standing about, the naked girlish-looking figure, face down in
the snow, the tracks made by the running dogs and the clear cold
Winter sky above. White fragments of clouds were drifting across
the sky. They went racing across the little open space among the
The scene in the forest had become for me, without my knowing
it, the foundation for the real story I am now trying to tell.
The fragments, you see, had to be picked up slowly, long
Things happened. When I was a young man I worked on the farm
of a German. The hired-girl was afraid of her employer. The
farmer's wife hated her.
I saw things at that place. Once later, I had a half-uncanny,
mystical adventure with dogs in an Illinois forest on a clear,
moon-lit Winter night. When I was a schoolboy, and on a Summer
day, I went with a boy friend out along a creek some miles from
town and came to the house where the old woman had lived. No one
had lived in the house since her death. The doors were broken
from the hinges; the window lights were all broken. As the boy
and I stood in the road outside, two dogs, just roving farm dogs
no doubt, came running around the corner of the house. The dogs
were tall, gaunt fellows and came down to the fence and glared
through at us, standing in the road.
The whole thing, the story of the old woman's death, was to me
as I grew older like music heard from far off. The notes had to
be picked up slowly one at a time. Something had to be
The woman who died was one destined to feed animal life.
Anyway, that is all she ever did. She was feeding animal life
before she was born, as a child, as a young woman working on the
farm of the German, after she married, when she grew old and when
she died. She fed animal life in cows, in chickens, in pigs, in
horses, in dogs, in men. Her daughter had died in childhood and
with her one son she had no articulate relations. On the night
when she died she was hurrying homeward, bearing on her body food
for animal life.
She died in the clearing in the woods and even after her death
continued feeding animal life.
You see it is likely that, when my brother told the story,
that night when we got home and my mother and sister sat
listening, I did not think he got the point. He was too young and
so was I. A thing so complete has its own beauty.
I shall not try to emphasize the point. I am only explaining
why I was dissatisfied then and have been ever since. I speak of
that only that you may understand why I have been impelled to try
to tell the simple story over again.