Their Yesterdays

by Harold Bell Wright

  OCCUPATION

  In a small, bare, room in a cheap city boarding house, the man coweredlike a wild thing, wounded, neglected, afraid; while over him, gauntand menacing, cruel, pitiless, insistent, stood a dreadful need--theneed of Occupation--the need of something to do.

  In all the world there is no danger so menacing as the danger ofidleness: there is no privation so cruel, no suffering so pitiful, asthe need of Occupation: there is no demand so imperative, no necessityso dreadful, as the want of something to do.

  Occupation is the very life of Life. As nature abhors a vacuum so lifeabhors idleness. To _be_ is to be occupied. Even though one spendhis days in seeking selfish pleasures still must he occupy himself tolive, for the need of something to do is most imperative upon thosewho strive hardest to do nothing. As life and the deeds of men areborn in dreams so life itself is Occupation. A man _is_ the thinghe does. What the body is to the spirit; what the word is to thethought; what the sunshine is to the sun; Occupation is to Dreams. Oneof the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Occupation.

  From the cherry tree in the upper corner of the garden near the hedge,the cherries had long ago been gathered. The pair of brown birds hadreared their children and were beginning to talk with their neighborsand kinfolk about their winter home in the south. In the orchard onthe hill back of the house, the late fruit was hanging, full ripe,upon the bending boughs. From the brow of the hill, where the man hadsat that afternoon when, for the first time, he faced Life and knewthat he was a man, the fields from which the ripened grain had beencut lay in the distance, great bars and blocks and patches of goldenyellow, among the still green pastures and meadows and the soft brownstrips of the fall plowing. In the woods, the squirrels were beginningto take stock of the year's nut crop and to make their estimates forthe winter's need, preparing, the while, their storehouses to receivethe precious hoard. And over that new mound in the cemetery, the grassfairies had woven a coverlid thick and firm and fine as though, insweet pity of its yellow nakedness, they would shield it from thewinds that already had in them a hint that summer's reign was past.

  But all this was far, very far, from where, in his small bare room,the man crouched frightened and dismayed. The rush and roar of thecrowded trains on the elevated road outside his window shook thecasement with impatient fury. The rumbling thunder of the heavilyloaded subway trains jarred the walls of the building. The rattle andwhirr of the overflowing surface cars rose sharply above the hum anddin of the city streets. To the man who asked only a chance, only aplace, only room to stand and something--anything--to do, it wasmaddening. A blind, impotent, fury took possession of him. He clenchedhis fists and cursed aloud.

  But the great, crowded, world heeded his curses as little as itnoticed him and he fell again into the silence of his hopelessness.

  Out from the sheltered place of his dreams the man had come into thebusy world of deeds--into the world where those who, like himself, haddreamed, were putting their dreams into action. Out from the years ofhis boyhood he had come into the years of his manhood--out from thescenes of his Yesterdays into the scenes of his to-days.

  For weeks, with his young strength stirring mightily within him andhis rich, red, blood hot in his veins, he had been crying out to theworld: "Make way for me. Give me a place that I may work out mydreams. Give me something to do." For weeks, he had been trying toconvince the world that it needed him. But the busy, happy, world--theidle, dreaming, world--the discontented, sullen, world--was not soeasily convinced. His young strength and his red blood did not seem tocount for as much as they should. His confidence and his courage didnot seem to impress. His high rank in the boyhood world did notentitle him to a like position among men. His graduating address hadmade no stir in the world of thought. His athletic record had causedno comment in the world of industry. His coming did not disturb theworld of commerce.

  A few he found who wrought with all the vigor and enthusiasm of theirdreaming. These said: "What have you done that we should make room foryou? Prove yourself first then come to us." Many he saw who hadwearied of the game and were dreaming new dreams. These said: "Weourselves are without Occupation. There are not places enough for all.Stand aside and give us room." Many others there were who, with dreamsforgotten, labored as dull cattle, goaded by brute necessity, with novision, no purpose, no hope, to make of their toil a blessing. Andthese laughed at him with vicious laughter, saying: "Why should anyonewant anything to do?"

  So the man in those days saw his dreams going from him--saw his brightvisions growing dim. So he came to feel that his young strength was ofno value; that his red blood was worthless; that his courage was vain.So his confidence was shaken; his faith was weakened; his hope grewfaint. He came to feel that the things that he had dreamed werealready all wrought out--that there were no more great works to bedone--that all that could be done was being accomplished--that in allthe world there was nothing more for a man to do. Disappointed,discouraged, disheartened, weary and alone, he told himself that hehad come too late--that in all the world there was nothing more for aman to do.

  He did not look out upon the world, now, as a conquering emperor,confident in his armed strength, might look over the field of a comingbattle. He did not dream, now, of victories, of honors, and renown. Hedid not, now, see himself a savior of the world. The world hadstretched this man also upon the cross that it has always ready forsuch as he.

  It was not the man's pressing need that hurt him so--gladly he wouldhave suffered for his dreams. It was not for privation and hardshipsthat he cared--proudly he would have endured those for his dreams. Norwas it loneliness and neglect that made him afraid--he was willing towork out his dreams alone. That which sent him cowering like awounded, wild thing to his room was this: he felt that his strength,his courage, his willingness, his purpose, were as nothing in theworld. That which frightened him with dreadful fear was this: he feltthat his dreams were going from him. That for which he cared was this:he felt that he was too late. This was the cross upon which the worldstretched him--the cross of enforced idleness--the cross of _nothingto do_.

  It is not strange that in his lonely suffering the man sought toescape by the only way open to him--the way that led to hisYesterdays. There was a welcome for him there. There was a place forhim. He was wanted there. There his life was held of value. It is notat all strange that he went back. As one flees from a desolate,burning, desert waste, to a land of shady groves and fruitful gardens,of cool waters and companionable friends, so this man fled from hisdays that were into his days that were gone--so he went back into hisYesterdays.

  It may have been the soft dusk of the twilight hour that did it: or itmay have been the loneliness of his heart: or, perhaps, it was thepicture he found in his trunk as he searched among his few thingstrying to decide what next he should take to the pawn shop. Whateverit was that brought it about, the man was a boy again in the boyhoodworld of his Yesterdays.

  And it happened that the day in his Yesterdays to which the man wentback was one of those days when the boy could find nothing to do.Every game that he had ever played was played out. Every source ofamusement he had exhausted. There was in all his boyhood worldnothing, nothing, for him to do.

  The orchard was not a trackless forest inhabited by fierce, wildbeasts; nor an enchanted wood with lords and ladies imprisoned in thetrees; it was only an orchard--a commonplace old orchard--nothingmore. Indians and robbers were stupid creatures of no importancewhatever. There were no fairies, no giants, no soldiers left in theboyhood world. The rail fence war horse refused to charge. The appletree ship was a wreck on the rocks of discontent. The hay had all beencut and stored away in the barn. The excitement and fun of the grainharvesting was over and the big stacks were waiting the threshers. Itwas not time for fall apple picking and the cider mill, nor to gatherthe corn, nor to go nutting. There was nothing, nothing, to do.

  The boy's father was busy with some sort of work in the shop and toldhis little son not to bother. The hired man was doing some
thing to thebarnyard fence and told the boy to get out of the way. A carpenter wasrepairing the roof of the house and the long ladder looked invitingenough, but, the instant the boy's head appeared above the eaves, theman shouted for him to get down and to run and play. Even the new redcalf refused to notice him but continued its selfish, absorbing,occupation with wobbly legs braced wide and tail wagging supremeindifference. His very dog had deserted him and had gone awaysomewhere on business of his own, apparently forgetting the needs ofhis master. And mother--mother too was busy, as busy as could be withsweeping and dusting and baking and mending and no end of things thatmust be done.

  But somehow mother's work could always wait. At least it could waitlong enough for her to look lovingly down into the troubled,discontented, little face while she listened to the plaintive whine:"There's nothin' at all to do. Mamma, tell me--tell me something todo."

  Poor little boy in the Yesterdays! Quickly mother's arm went aroundhim. Lovingly she drew him close. And mother's work waited still asshe considered the serious problem. There was no feeling of not beingwanted in the boy's heart then. As he looked up at her he felt alreadyrenewed hope and quickening interest.

  Then mother's face brightened, in a way that mother faces do, and theboy's eyes began to shine in eager anticipation. What should he do?Why mother knew the very thing of course. It was the best--the verybest--the most interesting thing in all the world for a boy to do. Heshould build a house for the little girl who lived next door.

  Out under the lilac bushes he should build it, in a pretty corner ofthe yard, where mother, from her window, every now and then, couldlook out to see how well he was doing and help, perhaps, with carefulsuggestions. Mother herself would ask the carpenter man for someclean, new boards, some shingles and some nails. And it would all be asecret, between just mother and the boy, until the house was finishedand ready and then he should go and bring the little girl and theywould see how surprised and glad she would be.

  It was wondrous magic those mothers worked in the Yesterdays. In atwinkle, for the boy who could find nothing to do, the world waschanged. In a twinkle, there was nothing in all the world worth doingsave this one thing--to build a house for the little girl next door.

  With might and main he planned and toiled and toiled and planned;building and rebuilding and rebuilding yet again. He cut his fingersand pounded his thumb and stuck his hands full of slivers and mindedit not at all so absorbed was he in this best of all Occupations.

  But keep it secret! First there was father's smiling face close besidemother's at the window. Then the hired man chanced to pass and pauseda moment to make admiring comment. And, later, the carpenter man camearound the corner of the house and, when he saw, offered a bit ofprofessional advice and voluntarily contributed another board. Eventhe boy's dog, as though he had heard the news that the very birdswere discussing so freely in the tree tops, came hurrying home tomanifest his interest. Keep it secret! How _could_ the boy keepit secret! But the little girl did not know. Until he was almost readyto tell her, the little girl did not know. Almost he was ready to tellher, when--But that belongs to the other part of my story.

  About the man in his bare, lonely, room in the great city, the worldin its madness raged--struggling, pushing, crowding, jostling,scrambling--a swirling, writhing, mass of life--but the man did notheed. On every side, this life went rushing, roaring, rumbling,thundering, whirring, shrieking, clattering by. But the man noticedthe world now no more than it noticed him. In his Yesterdays he hadfound something to do. He had found the only thing that a man, whoknows himself to be a man, can do in truth to his manhood. Again, inhis Yesterdays, he was building a house for the little girl who livednext door--the little girl who did not know.

  Someday this childish old world will grow weary of its games of warand wealth. Someday it will lose interest in its playthings--banks,and stocks, and markets. Someday it will lose faith in its fairies offame, its giants of position and power. Then will the disconsolate,forlorn, old world turn to Mother Nature to learn from her that theonly Occupation that is of real and lasting worth is the oneOccupation in which all of Mother Nature's children havefellowship--the Occupation of home building.

  In meadow and forest and field; in garden and grove and hedge andbush; in mountain and plain and desert and sea; in hollow logs; amidswaying branches; in rocky dens and earthy burrows; high amongtowering cliffs and mighty crags; low in the marsh grass and amongreeds and rushes; in stone walls; in fence corners; in tufts of grassand tiny shrubs; among the flowers and swinging vines;everywhere--everywhere--in all this great, round, world, Mother'schildren all are occupied in home building--occupied in this andnothing more. This is the one thing that Mother's children, in all theages since the beginning, have found worth doing. One wayward childalone is occupied just now, seemingly, with everything _but_ homebuilding. Man seems to be doing everything these days but the onething that must be the foundation work of all. But nevermind--homebuilding will be the world's work at the last. When all theplaythings of childhood and all the childish games of men have failed,homebuilding will endure. Occupation must in the end mean homebuilding or it is meaningless.

  And the din, the confusion, the struggle, the turmoil of life--when itall means to men the building of homes and nothing more; when theefforts of men, the ambitions of men, the labor and toil of men areall to make homes for the little girls next door; then, will MotherNature smile upon her boys and God, I am sure, will smile upon them,too.

  The man came back from his Yesterdays with a new heart, with newcourage and determination, and the next day he found something to do.

  I do not know what it was that the man found to do--_that_ is notmy story.

  * * * * *

  It was nearly the time of falling leaves when the woman, who knewherself to be a woman, knocked at one of those doors, at which she didnot wish to knock, and was admitted.

  It does not matter which of the doors it was. I cannot tell you whatwork it was that the woman found to do. What mattered to her--and tothe world if only the world would understand--was this: that she wasforced by the customs of the age and by necessity to enter a life thather woman heart did not desire. While her dreams were of the life thatlies beyond the old, old, door that has stood open since thebeginning; while she waited on the threshold and longed to go in; shewas forced to turn aside, to seek admittance at one of those otherdoors. This it is that matters--matters greatly. Perhaps only God whomade the woman heart and who Himself set that door open wide--perhapsonly God knows how greatly it matters.

  Of course, if the woman had not known herself to be a woman, it wouldhave made little difference either to her or to the world.

  And the woman when she had joined that great company of women, who, inthese modern days labor behind the doors through which they must goalone, found them to be good women--good and brave and true. And mostof them, she found, were in that great company of workers just as shewas there--just as every woman who knows her womanhood isthere--through circumstances, the custom of the age, necessity. Theonly saving thing about it all is this: their woman hearts aresomewhere else.

  And the woman found also that, while the door opened readily enough toher knock, she was received without a welcome. Through that otherdoor, the door that God himself has opened, she would have enteredinto a joyous welcome--she would have been received with gladness,with rejoicing, with holiest love, and highest honor. To her, in theworld that lies beyond the old, old, door, would have been renderedhomage and reverence second only to that given to God Himself._There,_ she would have been received as a _woman_ for her_womanhood;_ she would have been given first place among allcreated things. But the world into which she entered alone did not soreceive her. It received her coldly. Its manner said quite plainly:"Why are you here? What do you want?" It said: "There is no sentimenthere, no love, no reverence, no homage; there is only business here,only law, only figures and facts."

  This world was not unkind to her, but it did not receive her
as awoman. It could not. It did not value her _womanhood_. Womanhoodhas no value there. It valued her clear brain, her physical strength,her skillful hands, her willing feet, her ready wit: but her womanhoodit ignored. The most priceless gift of the Creator to hiscreatures--the one thing without which all human effort would be invain, no Christian prayer would be possible; the one thing withoutwhich mankind would perish from the earth--this world, into which thewoman went, rejected. But the things that belonged to herwomanhood--the charm of her manner; the beauty of her face and form;the appeal of her sex; the quick intuitions of her soul--all thesethis world received and upon them put a price. They became not forcesto be used by her in wifehood and motherhood but commercial assets,valued in dollars, worth a certain price upon the woman labor marketin the business world.

  And the woman's heart, because she knew herself to be a woman,rebelled at this buying and selling the things of her womanhood. Thesethings she rightly felt to be above price--far, far, above price. Theywere the things of her wifehood and motherhood. They were given her tobe used by her in love, in mating, in bearing and rearing children, inthe giving of life to the world.

  The things of a woman's womanhood are as far above price as lifeitself to which they belong. Even as color and perfume belong to theflowers; even as the music of the birds belongs to the featherysongsters; even as the blue belongs to the sky, and the light to thestars; so these graces of a woman belong to her and to the mission ofher womanhood are sacred. They are hers to be used in her holy officeof womanhood; by her alone, without price, for the glory and honor oflife and the future of the race. So the woman's heart rebelled, butsecretly, instinctively, almost unconsciously. Open rebellion wouldhave made it impossible for her to remain in the world into which sheentered because of her necessity and the custom of the age.

  She found, too, that this world into which she had entered was verycourteous, that it was even considerate and kind--as considerate andkind as it was possible to be--for it seemed to understand herposition quite as well as she herself understood it. And this worldpaid her very well for the services she was asked to render. But itasked of her no favors. It accorded her no honors. It sought her withno offering. And, because of this, the woman, in the heart of herwomanhood, felt ashamed and humiliated.

  It is the right of womanhood to bestow favors. It is a woman's rightto be honored above all creatures of earth. Since the beginning oflife itself her sex has been so honored--has received the offeringsfrom life. Mankind, alone, has at times attempted to change this lawbut has never quite succeeded. Mankind never can fully succeed in thisbecause woman holds life itself in her keeping. So the woman felt thather womanhood was humiliated and shamed. But she hid this feelingalso, hid it carefully, buried it deeply, because she knew that if shedid not it would betray her and she would not be permitted to remainin the world into which necessity forced her. To the woman, it seemedthat the world into which she had gone, itself, felt her shame andhumiliation. That, in secret, it desired to ask of her; to accord toher honors; to seek her with offerings. But this world could not dothese things because it dared not recognize her womanhood. When awoman goes into that world into which she must go alone, she leavesher womanhood behind. Her womanhood is not received there.

  But most of all, the thing that troubled the woman was this: the riskshe ran in entering into that life behind the door at which she hadsought admittance. She saw that there was danger there--gravedanger--to her womanhood. In the busy, ceaseless, activity of thatlife there would be little time for her waiting beside the old, old,door. The exacting demands of her work, or profession, or calling, orbusiness, would leave little leisure for the meditation and reflectionthat is so large a part of the preparation necessary for entrance intothat other world of which she had dreamed. Constant contact with theunemotional facts and figures of that life which sets a market valueupon the sacred things of womanhood would make it ever more difficultfor her to dream of love. There was grave danger that interest andenthusiasm in other things would supplant her longing for wifehood andmotherhood. She feared that in her Occupation she might not know, whenhe came, that one who was to cross the threshold with her into thelife of her dreams--that, indeed, he might come and go again while shewas busy with other things. She feared that she would come to acceptthe commercial valuation of the things that belonged to her womanhoodand thus forget their higher, holier, use and that the continuedrejection of her womanhood would, in time, lead her to think of itlightly, as incidental rather than supreme. There was real danger thatshe would lose her desire to be sought, to give, to receive offerings;that she would cease to rebel secretly; that she would no longer feelhumiliated at her position. She feared in short this danger--thegravest danger to her womanhood and thus to all that womankind holdsin her keeping--that she would come to feel contented, satisfied, andhappy, in being a part of the world into which she was forced to go bythe custom of the age and by necessity. Because this woman knewherself to be a woman she feared this. If she had not come to know herwomanhood she would not have feared it. Neither would it havemattered.

  The woman was thinking of these things that Saturday afternoon as shewalked homeward from her work. She often walked to her home onSaturday afternoons, when there was time, for she was strong andvigorous, with an abundance of good red woman blood in her veins, andloved the free movement in the open air.

  Perhaps, though, it is not exact to say that she was _thinking_of these things. The better word would be _feeling_. She was notthinking of them as I have set them down: but she was feeling themall. She was conscious of them, just as she was conscious of the deadbrown leaves that drifted across her path, though she was not thinkingof the leaves. She felt them as she felt the breath of fall in thepuff of air that drifted the leaves: but she did not put what she feltinto words. So seldom do the things that women feel get themselves putinto words.

  The young woman had chosen a street that led in the direction of herhome through one of the city's smaller parks, and, as she went, thepeople she met turned often to look after her for she was good to lookat. She walked strongly but with a step as light as it was firm andfree; and, breathing deeply with the healthful exercise, her cheekswere flushed with rosy color, her eyes shone, her countenance--herevery glance and movement--betrayed a strong and perfect womanhood--awomanhood that, rightly understood, is wealth that the race and agecan ill afford to squander.

  Coming to the park, she walked more slowly and, after a little, seatedherself on a bench to watch the squirrels that were playing nearby.The foliage had already lost its summer freshness though here andthere a tree or bush made brave attempt to retain its garb of green.Not a few brown leaves whirled helplessly about--the first ofunnumbered myriads that soon would be offered by the dying summer intribute to winter's conquering power. The sun was still warm but theair had in it a subtle flavor that seemed a blending of the comingseason with the season that was almost gone.

  Near the farther entrance to the little park, a carpenter wasrepairing the roof of a house and, from where she sat, the woman couldsee the long ladder resting against the eaves. A boy with his shepherddog came romping along the walk under the trees as irresponsible asthe drifting leaves. The squirrels scampered away; the boy and dogwhirled on; and the woman, from the world into which she had enteredbecause she must, went far away into the world of childhood. From herday of toil in a world that denied her womanhood she went back intoher Yesterdays where womanhood--motherhood--was supreme. Perhaps itwas that subtle flavor in the air that did it; or it may have been theboy and his dog as they whirled past--care free as the drifting brownleaves; or perhaps it was the sight of the man repairing the roof ofthe house with his long ladder resting against the eaves: the womanherself could not have told what it was, but, whatever it was, sheslipped away to one of the brightest, happiest, days in all herYesterdays.

  But, for a little while, that day was not at all bright and happy. Itstarted out all right then, little by little, everything went wrong;and then it changed agai
n and became one of the best of all herYesterdays. The day went wrong for a little while at first becauseeverything in the house was being taken up, or taken down, beaten,shaken, scrubbed or dusted; everything was being arranged ordisarranged and rearranged again. Surely there was never suchconfusion, so it seemed to the little girl, in any home in all theworld. Every time that she would get herself nicely settled with herdolls she would be forced to move again; until there was in the whole,busy, bustling place no corner at all where she was not in somebody'sway. When she would have entered into the confusion and helped tostraighten things out, the woman told her, rather sharply, to go away,and declared that her efforts to help only made things worse.

  Out in the garden, at the opening in the hedge, she called and calledand waited and waited for the boy. But the boy did not answer. He wastoo busy, she thought, to care about her. She felt quite sure that hedid not even want her to help in whatever it was that he was doing.Perhaps, she thought wistfully, peering through the little greentunnel, perhaps if she could go and find him he might--when he saw howmiserable and lonely she was--he might be kind. But to go through thehedge was forbidden, except when mother said she might.

  Sorrowfully she turned away to seek the kitchen where the cook wasbusy with the week's baking. But the cook, when the little girloffered to roll the pie crust or stir the frosting for the cake, washurried and cross and declared that the little girl could not help butonly hinder and that it would be better for her not to get in the way.

  Once more, in a favorite corner of the big front porch, she was justbeginning to find some comfort with her doll when the woman with thebroom forced her to move again.

  Poor little girl! What could she do under such tryingcircumstances--what indeed but go to mother. All the way up the longstairs she went to where mother was as busy as ever a mother could bedoing something with a lot of things that were piled all over theroom. But mother, when she saw the tear stained little face,understood in a flash and put aside whatever it was that she wasdoing, quickly, and held the little girl, dolly and all, close in hermother arms until the feeling of being in the way and of not beingwanted was all gone. And, when the tears were quite dry, mother said,so gently that it did not hurt, "No dearie, I'm afraid you can't helpmother now because mother's girl is too little to understand what itis that mother is doing. But I'll tell you something that you_can_ do. Mother will give you some things from the pantry andyou may go over to see the little boy. And I am as sure, as sure canbe, that, when he sees all the nice things you have, he will playkeeping house with you."

  So the little girl in the Yesterdays, with her treasures from mother'spantry, went out across the garden and through the hedge to find theboy. Very carefully she went through the opening in the hedge so thatshe would lose none of her treasures. And oh, the joy of it! Thesplendid wonder of it! She found that the boy had built a house--allby himself he had built it--with real boards, and had furnished itwith tiny chairs and tables made from boxes. Complete it was, even toa beautiful strip of carpet on the floor and a shelf on which to putthe dishes. Then, indeed, when the boy told her how he had made thehouse for her--just for her--and how it was to have been a surprise;and that she had come just in time because if she tad come sooner itwould have spoiled the fun--the heart of the little girl overflowedwith gladness. And to think that all the time she was feeling so notwanted and in the way the boy was doing _this_ and all for her!Did her mother know? She rather guessed that she did; mothers havesuch a marvelous way of knowing everything, particularly the nicestthings.

  So the little girl gave the boy all the treasures that she had broughtso carefully and they had great fun eating them together; and all therest of that day they played "keephouse." And this is why that day wasamong the best of all the woman's Yesterdays.

  Several men going home from work passed the spot where the young womansat. Then a group of shop girls followed; then another group and, inturn, two women from an office that did not close early on Saturdays.After them a young girl who looked very tired came walking alone, andthen there were more men and women in a seemingly endless procession.And so many girls and women there were in the procession that thewoman, as she came back from her Yesterdays, wondered who was left tomake homes for the world.

  The sun was falling now in long bars and shafts of light between thebuildings and the trees, and the windows of the house where the manhad been fixing the roof were blazing as if in flames. The man hadtaken down his ladder and gone away. It was time the young woman wasgoing home. And as she went, joining the procession of laborers, herheart was filled with longing--with longing and with hope. The boy ofher Yesterdays lived only in those days that were gone. He had noplace in the dreams of her womanhood. He was only the playmate of thelittle girl. Even as those years were gone the boy had gone out of herlife. But somewhere, perhaps, that one who was to go with her throughthe old, old, open door was even then building for her a home--theirhome. Perhaps, some day, an all wise Mother Nature would tell her toleave the world that gave her no welcome--that could not recognize herwomanhood--that made her heart rebel in humiliation and shame--and goto do her woman's work.

  Very carefully would she go when the time came, taking all thetreasures of her womanhood. She would go very carefully that none ofher treasures be lost.