Her voice broke and she sobbed, “Oh, little Ben–little Ben, how pappy made over his hair–he was born with hair–don’t you mind, Doc Jim?”
The Doctor laughed and looked into the past as he piped, “Curliest headed little tyke, and don’t you remember Laura 529gave him Lila’s baby things she’d saved for all those years?”
“Yes, Doc Jim–don’t I? God knows, Doc, she’s been a mother to the whole Valley–when I got up I found I was the twentieth woman up and down the Valley she’d given Lila’s little things to–just to save our pride when she thought we would not take ’em any other way. Don’t I know–all about it–and she’s still doing it–God bless her, and she’s been here every morning, noon and night since–since–she came with a little beef tea, or some of her own wine, or a plate of hot toast in her basket–that she made me eat. Why, if it wasn’t for her and Henry and Violet and Grant–what would God’s poor in this Valley do in trouble–I sure dunno.”
There came an unsteady minute, when the Doctor stroked her hand and piped, “Well, Lida–you folks in the Valley don’t get half the fun out of it that the others get. It’s pie for them.”
The woman folded her hands in her lap and sighed deeply. “Doc Jim,” she began, “eight times I’ve brought life into this world. The three that went, went because we were poor–because we couldn’t buy life for ’em. They went into the mills and the mines with Dick’s muscle. One is at home, waiting till the wheels get hungry for her. Four I’ve fed into the mills that grind up the meat we mothers make.” She stared at him wildly and cried “O God–God, Doc Jim–what justice is there in it? I’ve been a kind of brood-mare bearing burden carriers for Dan Sands, who has sold my blood like cheese in his market. My mother sent three boys to the war who never came back and I’ve heard her cry and thank God He’d let her. But my flesh and blood–the little ones that Dick and me have coddled and petted and babied–they’ve been fed into the wheels to make profits–profits for idlers to squander–profits to lure women to shame and men to death. That’s what I’ve been giving my body and soul for, Doc Jim. Little Ben up there has given his legs and his arms–oh, those soft little arms and the cunning little legs I used to kiss–for what? I’ll tell you–he’s given them so that by saving a day’s work repairing a car, some straw boss could make a showing to a superintendent, and the superintendent could make a record for economy 530to a president, and a president could increase dividends–dividends to be spent by idlers. And idleness makes drunkards who make harlots who make hell–and all my little boy’s arms and legs will go for is for sin and shame.”
The Doctor returned to the window and she cried bitterly: “Oh, you know that’s the truth–the God’s truth, Doc Jim. Where’s my Jean? She went into the glass factory–worked twelve hours a day on a job that would have crippled her for life in another year, and then went away with that Austrian blower–and when he threw her out, she was ashamed to write–and for a long time now I’ve read the city papers of them women who kill themselves–hoping to find she was dead. And Mugs–you know what South Harvey’s made of him–”
She rose and walked to the window. Standing beside him she cried:
“I tell you, Doc Jim–I hate it.” She pointed to the great black mills and mine shafts and the piles of brick and lumber and sheet iron that stretched before her for a mile. “I hate it, and I’m going to hit it once before I die. Don’t talk peace to me. I’ve got a right to hit it and hit it hard–and if my time ever comes–”
A visitor was shown into the room, and Mrs. Bowman ceased speaking. She was calm when the Doctor left her and at noon she stood beside the cot, and saw little Ben smile at her. Then she went away in tears. As she passed out of the door of the hospital into the street, she met Grant Adams coming in to inquire about little Ben.
“He knows me now,” she said. “I suppose he’ll get well–without legs–and with only one arm–I’ve seen them on the street selling pencils–oh, little Ben!” she cried. Then she turned on Grant in anger. “Grant Adams–go on with your revolution. I’m for it–and the quicker the better–but don’t come around talking peace to me. Us mothers want to fight.”