"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen the sight o' work here in nigh two year."
"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.
"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin' t' do."
Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the distance beyond the fields.
"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."
"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."
They became silent.
Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder than the plight of many of their class. The horrors of a protracted war had visited with equal severity the dwelling places of the rich and the poor. It was not a question of the provision of the sinews of war; tax had been enacted of all classes alike. But it did seem as if the angel of poverty had tarried the longer at the doorposts of the less opulent and had, in proportion to their indigence, inflicted the greater suffering and privation. Figuratively speaking, this was the state of affairs with Jim's house.
Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the propensities of a middle-aged couple, the blessings of health, the daily round of occupation, the joys of life and the hopes of at length obtaining possession of a little home, all these and the contentment of living, had at once been swept away from Jim Cadwalader and his wife by the calamities of war. They had lived as many had lived who have no different excuse to plead for their penury. The wages of their day's labor had been their sole means of support, and when this source of income had vanished, nothing was left. In the low and dingy rooms which they called their home there were no articles of adornment and many necessary for use were wanting. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as a carpet. There was no glass upon their table; no china on the cupboard; no prints on the wall. Matches were a treasure and coal was never seen. Over a fire of broken boxes and barrels, lighted with sparks from the flint, was cooked a rude meal to be served in pewter dishes. Fresh meat was rarely tasted—at most but once a week, and then paid for at a higher price than their scanty means could justly allow.
"The way things 're goin' a pair o' boots 'll soon cost a man 'most six hundr' dollars. I heard a man say who 's good at figurin' out these things, that it now takes forty dollar bills t' make a dollar o' coin. We can't stand that much longer."