The New Englander
by Sherwood Anderson
HER name was Elsie Leander and her girlhood was spent on her father's farm in Vermont. For several
generations the Leanders had all lived on the same farm and had all married thin women, and so she was thin. The
farm lay in the shadow of a mountain and the soil was not very rich. From the beginning and for several generations
there had been a great many sons and few daughters in the family. The sons had gone west or to New York City and
the daughters had stayed at home and thought such thoughts as come to New England women who see the sons of
their father's neighbours slipping, away, one by one, into the West.
Her father's house was a small white frame affair, and when you went out at the back door, past a small barn and a
chicken house, you got into a path that ran up the side of a hill and into an orchard. The trees were all old and
gnarled. At the back of the orchard the hill dropped away and bare rocks showed.
Inside the fence a large grey rock stuck high up out of the ground. As Elsie sat with her back to the rock, with a
mangled hillside at her feet, she could see several large mountains, apparently but a short distance away, and
between herself and the mountains lay many tiny fields surrounded by neatly built stone walls. Everywhere rocks
appeared. Large ones, too heavy to be moved, stuck out of the ground in the centre of the fields. The fields were like
cups filled with a green liquid that turned grey in the fall and white in the winter. The mountains, far off but apparently
near at hand, were like giants ready at any moment to reach out their hands and take the cups one by one and drink
off the green liquid. The large rocks in the fields were like the thumbs of the giants.
Elsie had three brothers, born ahead of her, but they had all gone away. Two of them had gone to live with her
uncle in the West and her elder brother had gone to New York City where he had married and prospered. All through
his youth and manhood her father had worked hard and had lived a hard life, but his son in New York City had begun
to send money home, and after that things went better. He still worked every day about the barn or in the fields but he did not worry about the future.
Elsie's mother did house work in the mornings and in the afternoons sat in a rocking chair in her tiny living room and
thought of her sons while she crocheted table covers and tidies for the backs of chairs. She was a silent woman, very
thin and with very thin bony hands. She did not ease herself into a rocking chair but sat down and got up suddenly,
and when she crocheted her back was as straight as the back of a drill sergeant.
The mother rarely spoke to the daughter. Sometimes in the afternoons as the younger woman went up the hillside
to her place by the rock at the back of the orchard, her father came out of the barn and stopped her. He put a hand
on her shoulder and asked where she was going. "To the rock," she said and her father laughed. His laughter was
like the creaking of a rusty barn door hinge and the hand he had laid on her shoulder was thin like her own hands
and like her mother's hands. The father went into the barn shaking his head. "She's like her mother. She is herself
like a rock," he thought. At the head of the path that led from the house to the orchard there was a great cluster of
bayberry bushes. The New England farmer came out of his barn to watch his daughter go along the path, but she
had disappeared behind the bushes. He looked away past his house to the fields and to the mountains in the
distance. He also saw the green cup-like fields and the grim mountains. There was an almost imperceptible
tightening of the muscles of his half worn-out old body. For a long time he stood in silence and then, knowing from
long experience the danger of having thoughts, he went back into the barn and busied himself with the mending of
an agricultural tool that had been mended many times before.
The son of the Leanders who went to live in New York City was the father of one son, a thin sensitive boy who
looked like Elsie. The son died when he was twenty-three years old and some years later the father died and left his
money to the old people on the New England farm. The two Leanders who had gone west had lived there with their
father's brother, a farmer, until they grew into manhood. Then Will, the younger, got a job on a railroad. He was killed
one winter morning. It was a cold snowy day and when the freight train he was in charge of as conductor left the city of Des Moines, he started to run over the tops of the cars. His feet slipped and he shot
down into space. That was the end of him.
Of the new generation there was only Elsie and her brother Tom, whom she had never seen, left alive. Her father
and mother talked of going west to Tom for two years before they came to a decision. Then it took another year to
dispose of the farm and make preparations. During the whole time Elsie did not think much about the change about
to take place in her life.
The trip west on the railroad train jolted Elsie out of herself. In spite of her detached attitude toward life she
became excited. Her mother sat up very straight and stiff in the seat in the sleeping car and her father walked up and
down in the aisle. After a night when the younger of the two women did not sleep but lay awake with red burning
cheeks and with her thin fingers incessantly picking at the bed-clothes in her berth while the train went through towns
and cities, crawled up the sides of hills and fell down into forest-clad valleys, she got up and dressed to sit all day
looking at a new kind of land. The train ran for a day and through another sleepless night in a flat land where every
field was as large as a farm in her own country. Towns appeared and disappeared in a continual procession. The
whole land was so unlike anything she had ever known that she began to feel unlike herself. In the valley where she
had been born and where she had lived all her days everything had an air of finality. Nothing could be changed. The
tiny fields were chained to the earth. They were fixed in their places and surrounded by aged stone walls. The fields
like the mountains that looked down at them were as unchangeable as the passing days. She had a feeling they had
always been so, would always be so.
Elsie sat like her mother upright in the car seat and with a back like the back of a drill sergeant. The train ran swiftly
along through Ohio and Indiana. Her thin hands like her mother's hands were crossed and locked. One passing
casually through the car might have thought both women prisoners handcuffed and bound to their seats. Night came
on and she again got into her berth Again she lay awake and her thin checks became flushed, but she thought new
thoughts. Her hands were no longer gripped together and she did not pick at the bed clothes. Twice during the night she stretched herself and yawned, a thing she had never in her life done before. The train stopped at a
town on the prairies, and as there was something the matter with one of the wheels of the car in which she lay the
trainsmen came with flaming torches to tinker it. There was a great pounding and shouting. When the train went on
its way she wanted to get out of her berth and run up and down in the aisle of the car. The fancy had come to her
that the men tinkering with the car wheel were new men out of the new land who had broken with strong hammers
the doors of her prison away. They had destroyed for ever the programme she had made for her life.
Elsie was filled with joy at the thought that the train was still going on into the West. She wanted to go on for ever in
a straight line into the unknown. She fancied herself no longer on a train and imagined she had become a winged
thing flying through space. Her long years of sitting alone by the rock on the New England farm had got her into the
habit of expressing her thoughts aloud. Her thin voice broke the silence that lay over the sleeping car and her father
and mother, both also lying awake, sat up in their berth to listen.
Tom Leander, the only living male representative of the new generation of Leanders, was a loosely built man of
forty inclined to corpulency. At twenty he had married the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, and when his wife
inherited some money she and Tom moved into the town of Apple Junction in Iowa where Tom opened a grocery.
The venture prospered as did Tom's matrimonial venture. When his brother died in New York City and his father,
mother, and sister decided to come west Tom was already the father of a daughter and four sons.
On the prairies north of town and in the midst of a vast level stretch of corn fields, there was a partly completed
brick house that had belonged to a rich farmer named Russell, who had begun to build the house intending to make
it the most magnificent place in the county, but when it was almost completed he had found himself without money
and heavily in debt. The farm, consisting of several hundred acres of corn land, had been split into three farms and
sold. No one had wanted the huge unfinished brick house. For years it had stood vacant, its windows staring out over the fields that had been planted almost up to the door.
In buying the Russell house Tom was moved by two motives. He had a notion that in New England the Leanders
had been rather magnificent people. His memory of his father's place in the Vermont valley was shadowy, but in
speaking of it to his wife he became very definite. "We had good blood in us, we Leanders," he said, straightening his
shoulders. "We lived in a big house. We were important people."
Wanting his father and mother to feel at home in the new place, Tom had also another motive. He was not a very
energetic man and, although he had done well enough as keeper of a grocery, his success was largely due to the
boundless energy of his wife. She did not pay much attention to her household and her children, like little animals,
had to take care of themselves, but in any matter concerning the store her word was law.
To have his father the owner of the Russell Place Tom felt would establish him as a man of consequence in the
eyes of his neighbours. "I can tell you what, they're used to a big house," he said to his wife. "I tell you what, my
people are used to living in style."
The exaltation that had come over Elsie on the train wore away in the presence of grey empty Iowa fields, but
something of the effect of it remained with her for months. In the big brick house life went on much as it had in the
tiny New England house where she had always lived. The Leanders installed themselves in three or four rooms on
the ground floor. After a few weeks the furniture that had been shipped by freight arrived and was hauled out from
town in one of Tom's grocery wagons. There were three or four acres of ground covered with great piles of boards
the unsuccessful farmer had intended to use in the building of stables. Tom sent men to haul the boards away and
Elsie's father prepared to plant a garden. They had come west in April and as soon as they were installed in the
house ploughing and planting began in the fields near by. The habit of a lifetime returned to the daughter of the
house. In the new place there was no gnarled orchard surrounded by a half-ruined stone fence. All of the fences in
all of the fields that stretched away out of sight to the north, south, east, and west were made of wire and looked like spider webs against the blackness of the ground when it had been freshly ploughed.
There was however the house itself. It was like an island rising out of the sea. In an odd way the house, although it
was less than ten years old, was very old. Its unnecessary bigness represented an old impulse in men. Elsie felt that.
At the east side there was a door leading to a stairway that ran into the upper part of the house that was kept locked.
Two or three stone steps led up to it. Elsie could sit on the top step with her back against the door and gaze into the
distance without being disturbed. Almost at her feet began the fields that seemed to go on and on for ever. The fields
were like the waters of a sea. Men came to plough and plant. Giant horses moved in a procession across the
prairies. A young man who drove six horses came directly toward her. She was fascinated. The breasts of the horses
as they came forward with bowed heads seemed like the breasts of giants. The soft spring air that lay over the fields
was also like a sea. The horses were giants walking on the floor of a sea. With their breasts they pushed the waters
of the sea before them. They were pushing the waters out of the basin of the sea. The young man who drove them
was also a giant.
Elsie pressed her body against the closed door at the top of the steps. In the garden back of the house she could
hear her father at work. He was raking dry masses of weeds off the ground preparatory to spading the ground for a
family garden. He had always worked in a tiny confined place and would do the same thing here. In this vast open
place he would work with small tools, doing little things with infinite care, raising little vegetables. In the house her
mother would crochet little tidies. She herself would be small. She would press her body against the door of the
house, try to get herself out of sight. Only the feeling that sometimes took possession of her, and that did not form
itself into a thought, would be large.
The six horses turned at the fence and the outside horse got entangled in the traces. The driver swore vigorously.
Then he turned and stared at the pale New Englander and with another oath pulled the heads of the horses about
and drove away into the distance. The field in which he was ploughing contained two hundred acres. Elsie did not
wait for him to return but went into the house and sat with folded arms in a room. The house she thought was a ship floating in a sea on the floor of
which giants went up and down.
May came and then June. In the great fields work was always going on and Elsie became somewhat used to the
sight of the young man in the field that came down to the steps. Sometimes when he drove his horses down to the
wire fence he smiled and nodded.
In the month of August, when it is very hot, the corn in Iowa fields grows until the corn stalks resemble young trees.
The corn fields become forests. The time for the cultivating of the corn has passed and weeds grow thick between
the corn rows. The men with their giant horses have gone away. Over the immense fields silence broods.
When the time of the laying-by of the crop came that first summer after Elsie's arrival in the West her mind, partially
awakened by the strangeness of the railroad trip, awakened again. She did not feel like a staid thin woman with a
back like the back of a drill sergeant, but like something new and as strange as the new land into which she had
come to live. For a time she did not know what was the matter. In the field the corn had grown so high that she could
not see into the distance. The corn was like a wall and the little bare spot of land on which her father's house stood
was like a house built behind the walls of a prison. For a time she was depressed, thinking that she had come west
into a wide open country, only to find herself locked up more closely than ever.
An impulse came to her. She arose and going down three or four steps seated herself almost on a level with the
Immediately she got a sense of release. She could not see over the corn but she could see under it. The corn had
long wide leaves that met over the rows. The rows became long tunnels running away into infinity. Out of the black
ground grew weeds that made a soft carpet of green. From above light sifted down. The corn rows were
mysteriously beautiful. They were warm passageways running out into life. She got up from the steps, and walking
timidly to the wire fence that separated her from the field, put her hand between the wires and took hold of one of the
corn stalks. For some reason after she had touched the strong young stalk and had held it for a moment firmly in her hand she
grew afraid. Running quickly back to the step she sat down and covered her face with her hands. Her body trembled.
She tried to imagine herself crawling through the fence and wandering along one of the passageways. The thought
of trying the experiment fascinated but at the same time terrified. She got quickly up and went into the house.
One Saturday night in August Elsie found herself unable to sleep. Thoughts, more definite than any she had ever
known before, came into her mind. It was a quiet hot night and her bed stood near a window. Her room was the only
one the Leanders occupied on the second floor of the house. At midnight a little breeze came up from the south and
when she sat up in bed the floor of corn tassels lying below her line of sight looked in the moonlight like the face of a
sea just stirred by a gentle breeze.
A murmuring began in the corn and murmuring thoughts and memories awoke in her mind. The long wide
succulent leaves had begun to dry in the intense heat of the August days and as the wind stirred the corn they
rubbed against each other. A call, far away, as of a thousand voices arose. She imagined the voices were like the
voices of children. They were not like her brother Tom's children, noisy boisterous little animals, but something quite
different, tiny little things with large eyes and thin sensitive hands. One after another they crept into her arms. She
became so excited over the fancy that she sat up in bed and taking a pillow into her arms held it against her breast.
The figure of her cousin, the pale sensitive young Leander who had lived with his father in New York City and who
had died at the age of twenty-three, came sharply into her mind. It was as though the young man had come
suddenly into the room. She dropped the pillow and sat waiting, intense, expectant.
Young Harry Leander had come to visit his cousin on the New England farm during the late summer of the year
before he died. He had stayed there for a month and almost every afternoon had gone with Elsie to sit by the rock at
the back of the orchard. One afternoon when they had both been for a long time silent he began to talk. "I want to go live in the West," he said. "I want to go live in the West. I want to grow strong and be a man," he
repeated. Tears came into his eyes.
They got up to return to the house, Elsie walking in silence beside the young man. The moment marked a high
spot in her life. A strange trembling eagerness for something she had not realized in her experience of life had taken
possession of her. They went in silence through the orchard but when they came to the bayberry bush her cousin
stopped in the path and turned to face her. "I want you to kiss me," he said eagerly, stepping toward her.
A fluttering uncertainty had taken possession of Elsie and had been transmitted to her cousin. After he had made
the sudden and unexpected demand and had stepped so close to her that his breath could be felt on her cheek, his
own cheeks became scarlet and his hand that had taken her hand trembled. "Well, I wish I were strong. I only wish I
were strong," he said hesitatingly and turning walked away along the path toward the house.
And in the strange new house, set like an island in its sea of corn, Harry Leander's voice seemed to arise again
above the fancied voices of the children that had been coming out of the fields. Elsie got out of bed and walked up
and down in the dim light coming through the window. Her body trembled violently. "I want you to kiss me," the voice
said again and to quiet it and to quiet also the answering voice in herself she went to kneel by the bed and taking the
pillow again into her arms pressed it against her face.
Tom Leander came with his wife and family to visit his father and mother on Sundays. The family appeared at
about ten o'clock in the morning. When the wagon turned out of the road that ran past the Russell Place Tom
shouted. There was a field between the house and the road and the wagon could not be seen as it came along the
narrow way through the corn. After Tom had shouted, his daughter Elizabeth, a tall girl of sixteen, jumped out of the
wagon. All five children came tearing toward the house through the corn. A series of wild shouts arose on the still
The groceryman had brought food from the store. When the horse had been unhitched and put into a shed he and his wife began to carry packages into the house. The four
Leander boys, accompanied by their sister, disappeared into the near-by fields. Three dogs that had trotted out from
town under the wagon accompanied the children. Two or three children and occasionally a young man from a
neighbouring farm had come to join in the fun. Elsie's sister-in-law dismissed them all with a wave of her hand. With a
wave of her hand she also brushed Elsie aside. Fires were lighted and the house reeked with the smell of cooking.
Elsie went to sit on the step at the side of the house. The corn fields that had been so quiet rang with shouts and with
the barking of dogs.
Tom Leander's oldest child, Elizabeth, was like her mother, full of energy. She was thin and tall like the women of
her father's house but very strong and alive. In secret she wanted to be a lady but when she tried her brothers, led
by her father and mother, made fun of her. "Don't put on airs," they said. When she got into the country with no one
but her brothers and two or three neighbouring farm boys she herself became a boy. With the boys she went tearing
through the fields, following the dogs in pursuit of rabbits. Sometimes a young man came with the children from a
near-by farm. Then she did not know what to do with herself. She wanted to walk demurely along the rows through
the corn but was afraid her brothers would laugh and in desperation outdid the boys in roughness and noisiness. She
screamed and shouted and running wildly tore her dress on the wire fences as she scrambled over in pursuit of the
dogs. When a rabbit was caught and killed she rushed in and tore it out of the grasp of the dogs. The blood of the
little dying animal dripped on her clothes. She swung it over her head and shouted.
The farm hand who had worked all summer in the field within sight of Elsie became enamoured of the young
woman from town. When the groceryman's family appeared on Sunday mornings he also appeared but did not come
to the house. When the boys and dogs came tearing through the fields he joined them. He was also self-conscious
and did not want the boys to know the purpose of his coming and when he and Elizabeth found themselves alone
together he became embarrassed. For a moment they walked together in silence. In a wide circle about them, in the
forest of the corn, ran the boys and dogs. The young man had something he wanted to say, but when he tried to find words his
tongue became thick and his lips felt hot and dry. "Well," he began, "let's you and me "
Words failed him and Elizabeth turned and ran after her brothers and for the rest of the day he could not manage
to get her out of their sight. When he went to join them she became the noisiest member of the party. A frenzy of
activity took possession of her. With hair hanging down her back, with clothes torn, and with cheeks and hands
scratched and bleeding she led her brothers in the endless wild pursuit of the rabbits.
The Sunday in August that followed Elsie Leander's sleepless night was hot and cloudy. In the morning she was
half ill and as soon as the visitors from town arrived she crept away to sit on the step at the side of the house. The
children ran away into the fields. An almost overpowering desire to run with them, shouting and playing along the
corn rows took possession of her. She arose and went to the back of the house. Her father was at work in the
garden, pulling weeds from between rows of vegetables. Inside the house she could hear her sister-in-law moving
about. On the front porch her brother Tom was asleep with his mother beside him. Elsie went back on the step and
then arose and went to where the corn came down to the fence. She climbed awkwardly over and went a little way
along one of the rows. Putting out her hand she touched the firm hard stalks and then, becoming afraid, dropped to
her knees on the carpet of weeds that covered the ground. For a long time she stayed thus listening to the voices of
the children in the distance.
An hour slipped away. Presently it was time for dinner and her sister-in-law came to the back door and shouted.
There was an answering whoop from the distance and the children came running through the fields. They climbed
over the fence and ran shouting across her father's garden. Elsie also arose. She was about to attempt to climb back
over the fence unobserved when she heard a rustling in the corn. Young Elizabeth Leander appeared. Beside her
walked the ploughman who but a few months earlier had planted the corn in the field where Elsie now stood. She could see the two people coming slowly along the rows. An understanding had been established between them.
The man reached through between the corn stalks and touched the hand of the girl who laughed awkwardly and
running to the fence climbed quickly over. In her hand she held the limp body of a rabbit the dogs had killed.
The farm hand went away and when Elizabeth had gone into the house Elsie climbed over the fence. Her niece
stood just within the kitchen door holding the dead rabbit by one leg. The other leg had been torn away by the dogs.
At sight of the New England woman, who seemed to look at her with hard unsympathetic eyes, she was ashamed
and went quickly into the house. She threw the rabbit upon a table in the parlour and then ran out of the room. Its
blood ran out on the delicate flowers of a white crocheted table cover that had been made by Elsie's mother.
The Sunday dinner with all the living Leanders gathered about the table was gone through in a heavy lumbering
silence. When the dinner was over and Tom and his wife had washed the dishes they went to sit with the older
people on the front porch. Presently they were both asleep. Elsie returned to the step at the side of the house but
when the desire to go again into the cornfields came sweeping over her she got up and went indoors.
The woman of thirty-five tip-toed about the big house like a frightened child. The dead rabbit that lay on the table in
the parlour had become cold and stiff. Its blood had dried on the white table cover. She went upstairs but did not go
to her own room. A spirit of adventure had hold of her. In the upper part of the house there were many rooms and in
some of them no glass had been put into the windows. The windows had been boarded up and narrow streaks of
light crept in through the cracks between the boards.
Elsie tip-toed up the flight of stairs past the room in which she slept and opening doors went into other rooms. Dust
lay thick on the floors. In the silence she could hear her brother snoring as he slept in the chair on the front porch.
From what seemed a far away place there came the shrill cries of the children. The cries became soft. They were
like the cries of unborn children that had called to her out of the fields on the night before.
Into her mind came the intense silent figure of her mother sitting on the porch beside her son and waiting for the day to wear itself out into night. The thought brought a lump into her
throat. She wanted something and did not know what it was. Her own mood frightened her. In a windowless room at
the back of the house one of the boards over a window had been broken and a bird had flown in and become
The presence of the woman frightened the bird. It flew wildly about. Its beating wings stirred up dust that danced in
the air. Elsie stood perfectly still, also frightened, not by the presence of the bird but by the presence of life. Like the
bird she was a prisoner. The thought gripped her. She wanted to go outdoors where her niece Elizabeth walked with
the young ploughman through the corn, but was like the bird in the room a prisoner. She moved restlessly about.
The bird flew back and forth across the room. It alighted on the window sill near the place where the board was
broken away. She stared into the frightened eyes of the bird that in turn stared into her eyes. Then the bird flew
away, out through the window, and Elsie turned and ran nervously downstairs and out into the yard. She climbed
over the wire fence and ran with stooped shoulders along one of the tunnels.
Elsie ran into the vastness of the cornfields filled with but one desire. She wanted to get out of her life and into
some new and sweeter life she felt must be hidden away somewhere in the fields. After she had run a long way she
came to a wire fence and crawled over. Her hair became unloosed and fell down over her shoulders. Her cheeks
became flushed and for the moment she looked like a young girl. When she climbed over the fence she tore a great
hole in the front of her dress. For a moment her tiny breasts were exposed and then her hand clutched and held
nervously the sides of the tear. In the distance she could hear the voices of the boys and the barking of the dogs. A
summer storm had been threatening for days and now black clouds had begun to spread themselves over the sky.
As she ran nervously forward, stopping to listen and then running on again, the dry corn blades brushed against her
shoulders and a fine shower of yellow dust from the corn tassels fell on her hair. A continued crackling noise
accompanied her progress. The dust made a golden crown about her head. From the sky overhead a low rumbling sound, like the
growling of giant dogs, came to her ears.
The thought that having at last ventured into the corn she would never escape became fixed in the mind of the
running woman. Sharp pains shot through her body. Presently she was compelled to stop and sit on the ground. For
a long time she sat with her closed eyes. Her dress became soiled. Little insects that live in the ground under the
corn came out of their holes and crawled over her legs.
Following some obscure impulse the tired woman threw herself on her back and lay still with closed eyes. Her fright
passed. It was warm and close in the room-like tunnels. The pain in her side went away. She opened her eyes and
between the wide green corn blades could see patches of a black threatening sky. She did not want to be alarmed
and so closed her eyes again. Her thin hand no longer gripped the tear in her dress and her tiny breasts were
exposed. They expanded and contracted in little spasmodic jerks. She threw her hands back over her head and lay
It seemed to Elsie that hours passed as she lay thus, quiet and passive under the corn. Deep within her there was
a feeling that something was about to happen, something that would lift her out of herself, that would tear her away
from her past and the past of her people. Her thoughts were not definite. She lay still and waited as she had waited
for days and months by the rock at the back of the orchard on the Vermont farm when she was a girl. A deep
grumbling noise went on in the sky overhead but the sky and everything she had ever known seemed very far away,
no part of herself.
After a long silence, when it seemed to her that she was lost from herself as in a dream, Elsie heard a man's voice
calling. "Aho, aho, aho," shouted the voice and after another period of silence there arose answering voices and then
the sound of bodies crashing through the corn and the excited chatter of children. A dog came running along the row
where she lay and stood beside her. His cold nose touched her face and she sat up. The dog ran away. The
Leander boys passed. She could see their bare legs flashing in and out across one of the tunnels. Her brother had
become alarmed by the rapid approach of the thunder storm and wanted to get his family to town. His voice kept calling from the house and the voices of the children answered
from the fields.
Elsie sat on the ground with her hands pressed together. An odd feeling of disappointment had possession of her.
She arose and walked slowly along in the general direction taken by the children. She came to a fence and crawled
over, tearing her dress in a new place. One of her stockings had become unloosed and had slipped down over her
shoe top. The long sharp weeds had scratched her leg so that it was criss-crossed with red lines, but she was not
conscious of any pain.
The distraught woman followed the children until she came within sight of her father's house and then stopped and
again sat on the ground. There was another loud crash of thunder and Tom Leander's voice called again, this time
half angrily. The name of the girl Elizabeth was shouted in loud masculine tones that rolled and echoed like the
thunder along the aisles under the corn.
And then Elizabeth came into sight accompanied by the young ploughman. They stopped near Elsie and the man
took the girl into his arms. At the sound of their approach Elsie had thrown herself face downward on the ground and
had twisted herself into a position where she could see without being seen. When their lips met her tense hands
grasped one of the corn stalks. Her lips pressed themselves into the dust. When they had gone on their way she
raised her head. A dusty powder covered her lips.
What seemed another long period of silence fell over the fields. A strong wind began to blow and the corn rocked
back and forth. The murmuring voices of unborn children, her imagination had created in the whispering fields,
became a vast shout. The wind blew harder and harder. The corn stalks were twisted and bent. Elizabeth went
thoughfully [sic] out of the field and climbing the fence confronted her father. "Where you been? What you been a
doing?" he asked. "Don't you know we got to get out of here?"
When Elizabeth went toward the house Elsie followed, creeping on her hands and knees like a little animal, and
when she had come within sight of the fence surrounding the house she sat on the ground and put her hands over
her face. Something within herself was being twisted and whirled about as the tops of the corn stalks were now being twisted and whirled by the wind. She sat so that she did not look toward the house and
when she opened her eyes she could again see along the long mysterious aisles.
Her brother, with his wife and children, went away. By turning her head Elsie could see them driving at a trot out of
the yard back of her father's house. With the going of the younger woman the farm house in the midst of the
cornfield rocked by the winds seemed the most desolate place in the world.
Her mother came out at the back door of the house. She ran to the steps where she knew her daughter was in the
habit of sitting and then in alarm began to call. It did not occur to Elsie to answer. The voice of the older woman did
not seem to have anything to do with herself. It was a thin voice and was quickly lost in the wind and in the crashing
sound that arose out of the fields. With her head turned toward the house Elsie stared at her mother who ran wildly
around the house and then went indoors. The back door of the house went shut with a bang.
The storm that had been threatening broke with a roar. Broad sheets of water swept over the cornfields. Sheets of
water swept over the woman's body. The storm that had for years been gathering in her also broke. Sobs arose out
of her throat. She abandoned herself to a storm of grief that was only partially grief. Tears ran out of her eyes and
made little furrows through the dust on her face. In the lulls that occasionally came in the storm she raised her head
and heard, through the tangled mass of wet hair that covered her ears and above the sound of millions of rain-drops
that alighted on the earthen floor inside the house of the corn, the thin voices of her mother and father calling to her
out of the Leander house.