A Woman Rice Planter

by Elizabeth W. Allston Pringle

So I escaped and went to church, and then had a lovely drive through the pine woods, and the joy of putting the frocks on the children and finding that they fitted nicely, only I saw they thought them too short, so I said I would take them home and make them longer.

The wandering mother had returned and I had not the heart to look harshly at her; the poor little ones looked so happy—not a change of garment or any other change, just the little gray faces, which had looked so lustreless and lifeless, were full of interest and animation. The poverty of the surroundings, the doorless hut with no attempt at furniture—it was all pitiful.

It is very rare to see such poverty in this part of the world. I have never seen such a case before; but the man is a semi-invalid and work in the field for the woman not easy to get, I suppose.

I did not remember what a long way we have to go when going home. I had not started early, for I went to church first, and then went to ask a friend to go with me. At any rate when we had gone about half of the nine miles home the swift, soft darkness fell. It was a perfect evening and we were enjoying the delicious cool of the night air when I looked ahead in the very narrow road, a deep ditch on each side, and saw a steady bright light coming. I knew it was the one danger I feared.

Just then my companion saw it. "Patience," she said, "that is an automobile; the doctor's, I know. There is an ill man out on this road; what shall we do? He cannot see us."

That was perfectly true; we were completely in the darkness, and his big light did not cast far enough to give him time to stop his car when he saw us, and the road was too narrow for two buggies to pass, without great skill in driving.

I drove steadily on, but I felt dismayed. There was, I thought, not far away a bridge of pine saplings across the ditch on the right. If we could reach that before we were too near we might escape.

Meantime my companion said, "Let us call aloud, they may hear." So she lifted up a splendid strong voice and called, and when she ceased, her voice exhausted, I took it up; but on, on came that star of fate; it had the most curious inevitable look.

Only by its growing larger and larger could we know it was moving. Finally when A. said: "You must stop, you cannot go on," I knew she was right and that I must stop without having reached the little bridge which meant safety.

I stopped. On, on came the glare. Ruth, like myself, seemed fascinated by it. We were so powerless, for now we could hear the roaring and knew our voices were impotent to reach the driver. There was not fifty yards between us, and on they came. No, there is a change in the sound. They have stopped! Thank God! Thank God! It would have been a grizzly, grinding death.