VIII
DRESS, CHIVALRY AND THE TROJAN WAR
Sunday Evening.
When we were ready to start for church this morning, I was surprised to see Nucky halt before me, and eye me frowningly from head to foot. "What makes you allus wear ole ugly clothes?" he inquired. "Haint you got no pretty ones, like t'other women?"
I looked down at my black crêpe de chine,—of course I have worn deep mourning since I lost Mother, and for six years before I had not had on a color. "You don't like it?" I asked.
"I'd as soon look at a coal-bank, or a buzzard," he replied.
It suddenly struck me that the dear ones I have loved and lost would be of much the same opinion. "Wait a minute, boys," I said. I flew back and pulled from my trunk a white dress and some black ribbons laid away a year ago. When I emerged, there was a chorus of pleased "gee-ohs" and a decided accession of friendliness, the boys trying who could be first in helping me over the frightful mudholes between the school and the village. I see my duty clear now,—white dresses instead of black.
Thursday.
Considering the antecedents of Nucky and Killis, I was not surprised when they informed me this morning they would make beds no longer, but would leave unless given men's work all the time. My reply, "But making beds is men's work," was met by incredulous whistles.
"Now, boys," I said, "how about soldiers,—do you call them men?"