Short Stories

by Ernest Hemingway

  “That makes nine of them,” Joe said, “just between here and the edge of town.”

  “Them Indians,” said Mrs. Garner.

  Nick was on the back seat with the two Garner boys. He was looking out from the back seat to see the Indian where Joe had dragged him alongside of the road.

  “Was it Billy Tabeshaw?” Carl asked.

  “No.”

  “His pants looked mighty like Billy.”

  “All Indians wear the same kind of pants.”

  “I didn’t see him at all,” Frank said. “Pa was down into the road and back up again before I seen a thing. I thought he was killing a snake.”

  “Plenty of Indians’ll kill snakes tonight, I guess,” Joe Garner said.

  “Them Indians,” said Mrs. Garner.

  They drove along. The road turned off from the main highway and went up into the hills. It was hard pulling for the horses and the boys got down and walked. The road was sandy. Nick looked back from the top of the hill by the schoolhouse. He saw the lights of Petoskey and, off across Little Traverse Bay, the lights of Harbour Springs. They climbed back in the wagon again.

  “They ought to put some gravel on that stretch,” Joe Garner said. The wagon went along the road through the woods. Joe and Mrs. Garner sat close together on the front seat. Nick sat between the two boys. The road came out into a clearing.

  “Right here was where Pa ran over the skunk.”

  “It was further on.”

  “It don’t make no difference where it was,” Joe said without turning his head. “One place is just as good as another to run over a skunk.”

  “I saw two skunks last night,” Nick said.

  “Where?”

  “Down by the lake. They were looking for dead fish along the beach.”

  “They were coons probably,” Carl said.

  “They were skunks. I guess I know skunks.”

  “You ought to,” Carl said. “You got an Indian girl.”

  “Stop talking that way, Carl,” said Mrs. Garner.

  “Well, they smell about the same.”

  Joe Garner laughed.

  “You stop laughing, Joe,” Mrs. Garner said. “I won’t have Carl talk that way.”

  “Have you got an Indian girl, Nickie?” Joe asked.

  “No.”

  “He has too, Pa,” Frank said. “Prudence Mitchell’s his girl.”

  “She’s not.”

  “He goes to see her every day.”

  “I don’t.” Nick, sitting between the two boys in the dark, felt hollow and happy inside himself to be teased about Prudence Mitchell. “She ain’t my girl,” he said.

  “Listen to him,” said Carl. “I see them together every day.”

  “Carl can’t get a girl,” his mother said, “not even a squaw.”

  Carl was quiet.

  “Carl ain’t no good with girls,” Frank said.

  “You shut up.”

  “You’re all right, Carl,” Joe Garner said. “Girls never got a man anywhere. Look at your pa.”

  “Yes, that’s what you would say.” Mrs. Garner moved close to Joe as the wagon jolted. “Well, you had plenty of girls in your time.”

  “I’ll bet pa wouldn’t ever have had a squaw for a girl.”

  “Don’t you think it,” Joe said. “You better watch out to keep Prudie, Nick.”

  His wife whispered to him and Joe laughed.

  “What you laughing at?” asked Frank.

  “Don’t you say it, Garner,” his wife warned. Joe laughed again.

  “Nickie can have Prudence,” Joe Garner said. “I got a good girl.”

  “That’s the way to talk,” Mrs. Garner said.

  The horses were pulling heavily in the sand. Joe reached out in the dark with the whip.

  “Come on, pull into it. You’ll have to pull harder than this tomorrow.”

  They trotted down the long hill, the wagon jolting. At the farmhouse everybody got down. Mrs. Garner unlocked the door, went inside, and came out with a lamp in her hand. Carl and Nick unloaded the things from the back of the wagon. Frank sat on the front seat to drive to the barn and put up the horses. Nick went up the steps and opened the kitchen door. Mrs. Garner was building a fire in the stove. She turned from pouring kerosene on the wood.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Garner,” Nick said. “Thanks for taking me.”

  “Oh shucks, Nickie.”

  “I had a wonderful time.”

  “We like to have you. Won’t you stay and eat some supper?”

  “I better go. I think Dad probably waited for me.”

  “Well, get along then. Send Carl up to the house, will you?”

  “All right.”

  “Good night, Nickie.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Garner.”

  Nick went out the farmyard and down to the barn. Joe and Frank were milking.

  “Good night,” Nick said. “I had a swell time.”

  “Good night, Nick,” Joe Garner called. “Aren’t you going to stay and eat?”

  “No, I can’t. Will you tell Carl his mother wants him?”

  “All right. Good night, Nickie.”

  Nick walked barefooted along the path through the meadow below the barn. The path was smooth and the dew was cool on his bare feet. He climbed a fence at the end of the meadow, went down through a ravine, his feet wet in the swamp mud, and then climbed up through the dry beech woods until he saw the lights of the cottage. He climbed over the fence and walked around to the front porch. Through the window he saw his father sitting by the table, reading in the light from the big lamp. Nick opened the door and went in.

  “Well, Nickie,” his father said, “was it a good day?”

  “I had a swell time, Dad. It was a swell Fourth of July.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “You bet.”

  “What did you do with your shoes?”

  “I left them in the wagon at Garner’s.”

  “Come on out to the kitchen.”

  Nick’s father went ahead with the lamp. He stopped and lifted the lid of the icebox. Nick went on into the kitchen. His father brought in a piece of cold chicken on a plate and a pitcher of milk and put them on the table before Nick. He put down the lamp.

  “There’s some pie too,” he said. “Will that hold you?”

  “It’s grand.”

  His father sat down in a chair beside the oilcloth-covered table. He made a big shadow on the kitchen wall.

  “Who won the ball game?”

  “Petoskey. Five to three.”

  His father sat watching him eat and filled his glass from the milk pitcher. Nick drank and wiped his mouth on his napkin. His father reached over to the shelf for the pie. He cut Nick a big piece. It was huckleberry pie.

  “What did you do, Dad?”

  “I went out fishing in the morning.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Only perch.”

  His father sat watching Nick eat the pie.

  “What did you do this afternoon?” Nick asked.

  “I went for a walk up by the Indian camp.”

  “Did you see anybody?”

  “The Indians were all in town getting drunk.”

  “Didn’t you see anybody at all?”

  “I saw your friend, Prudie.”

  “Where was she?”

  “She was in the woods with Frank Washburn. I ran onto them. They were having quite a time.”

  His father was not looking at him.

  “What were they doing?”

  “I didn’t stay to find out.”

  “Tell me what they were doing.”

  “I don’t know,” his father s
aid. “I just heard them threshing around.”

  “How did you know it was them?”

  “I saw them.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t see them.”

  “Oh, yes, I saw them.”

  “Who was it with her?” Nick asked.

  “Frank Washburn.”

  “Were they—were they—”

  “Were they what?”

  “Were they happy?”

  “I guess so.”

  His father got up from the table and went out of the kitchen screen door. When he came back Nick was looking at his plate. He had been crying.

  “Have some more?” His father picked up the knife to cut the pie.

  “No,” said Nick.

  “You better have another piece.”

  “No, I don’t want any.”

  His father cleared off the table.

  “Where were they in the woods?” Nick asked.

  “Up back of the camp.” Nick looked at his plate. His father said, “You better go to bed, Nick.”

  “All right.”

  Nick went into his room, undressed, and got into bed. He heard his father moving around in the living room. Nick lay in the bed with his face in the pillow.

  “My heart’s broken,” he thought. “If I feel this way my heart must be broken.”

  After a while he heard his father blowout the lamp and go into his own room. He heard a wind come up in the trees outside and felt it come in cool through the screen. He lay for a long time with his face in the pillow, and after a while he forgot to think about Prudence and finally he went to sleep. When he awoke in the night he heard the wind in the hemlock trees outside the cottage and the waves of the lake corning in on the shore, and he went back to sleep. In the morning there was a big wind blowing and the waves were running high up on the beach and he was awake a long time before he remembered that his heart was broken.

  A Canary For One

  The train passed very quickly a long, red stone house with a garden and four thick palm trees with tables under them in the shade. On the other side was the sea. Then there was a cutting through a red stone and clay, and the sea was only occasionally and far below against rocks.

  “I bought him in Palermo,” the American lady said. “We only had an hour ashore and it was Sunday morning. The man wanted to be paid in dollars and I gave him a dollar and a half He really sings very beautifully.”

  It was very hot in the train and it was very hot in the lit salon compartment. There was no breeze came through the open window. The American lady pulled the window blind down and there was no more sea, even occasionally. On the other side there was glass, then the corridor, then an open window, and outside the window were dusty trees and an oiled road and flat fields of grapes, with grey-stone hills behind them.

  There was smoke from many tall chimneys coming into Marseilles, and the train slowed down and followed one track through many others into the station. The train stayed twenty-five minutes in the station at Marseilles and the American lady bought a copy of the Daily Mail and a half-bottle of Evian water. She walked a little way along the station platform, but she stayed near the steps of the car because at Cannes, where it stopped for twelve minutes, the train had left with no signal of departure and she had only gotten on just in time. The American lady was a little deaf and she was afraid that perhaps signals of departure were given and that she did not hear them.

  The train left the station in Marseilles and there was not only the switchyards and the factory smoke but, looking back, the town of Marseilles and the harbour with stone hills behind it and the last of the sun on the water. As it was getting dark the train passed a farmhouse burning in a field. Motor cars were stopped along the road and bedding and things from inside the farmhouse were spread in the field. Many people were watching the house burn. After it was dark the train was in Avignon. People got on and off. At the newsstand Frenchmen, returning to Paris, bought that day’s French papers. On the station platforms were Negro soldiers. They wore brown uniforms and were tall and their faces shone, close under the electric light. Their faces were very black and they were too tall to stare. The train left Avignon station with the Negroes standing there. A short white sergeant was with them.

  Inside the lit salon compartment the porter had pulled down the three beds from inside the wall and prepared them for sleeping. In the night the American lady lay without sleeping because the train was a rapide and went very fast and she was afraid of the speed in the night. The American lady’s bed was the one next to the window. The canary from Palermo, a cloth spread over his cage, was out of the draught in the corridor that went into the compartment washroom. There was a blue light outside the compartment, and all night the train went very fast and the American lady lay awake and waited for a wreck.

  In the morning the train was near Paris, and after the American lady had come out from the washroom, looking very wholesome and middle-aged and American in spite of not having slept, and had taken the cloth off the bird cage and hung the cage in the sun, she went back to the restaurant car for breakfast. When she came back to the lit salon compartment again, the beds had been pushed back into the wall and made into seats, the canary was shaking his feathers in the sunlight that came through the open window, and the train was much nearer Paris.

  “He loves the sun,” the American lady said. “He’ll sing now in a little while.”

  The canary shook his feathers and pecked in them. “I’ve always loved birds,” the American lady said. “I’m taking him home to my little girl. There—he’s singing now.”

  The canary chirped and the feathers on his throat stood out, then he dropped his bill and pecked into his feathers again. The train crossed a river and passed through a very carefully tended forest. The train passed through many outside of Paris towns. There were tram cars in the towns and big advertisements for the Belle Jardinière and Dubonnet and Pernod on the walls toward the train. All that the train passed through looked as though it were before breakfast. For several minutes I had not listened to the American lady, who was talking to my wife.

  “Is your husband American too?” asked the lady.

  “Yes,” said my wife. “We’re both Americans.”

  “I thought you were English.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Perhaps that was because I wore braces,” I said. I had started to say suspenders and changed it to braces in the mouth, to keep my English character. The American lady did not hear. She was really quite deaf; she read lips, and I had not looked toward her. I had looked out of the window. She went on talking to my wife.

  “I’m so glad you’re Americans. American men make the best husbands,” the American lady was saying. “That was why we left the Continent, you know. My daughter fell in love with a man in Vevey.” She stopped. “They were simply madly in love.” She stopped again. “I took her away, of course.”

  “Did she get over it?” asked my wife.

  “I don’t think so,” said the American lady. “She wouldn’t eat anything and she wouldn’t sleep at all. I’ve tried so very hard, but she doesn’t seem to take an interest in anything. She doesn’t care about things. I couldn’t have her marrying a foreigner.” She paused. “Someone, a very good friend, told me once, ‘No foreigner can make an American girl a good husband.’”

  “No,” said my wife, “I suppose not.”

  The American lady admired my wife’s travelling coat, and it turned out that the American lady had bought her own clothes for twenty years now from the same maison de couture in the Rue Saint Honoré. They had her measurements, and a vendeuse who knew her and her tastes picked the dresses out for her and they were sent to America. They came to the post office near where she lived uptown in New York, and the duty was never exorbitant because they opened the dresses there in the post office to appraise them and they we
re always very simple-looking and with no gold lace nor ornaments that would make the dresses look expensive. Before the present vendeuse, named Thérèse, there had been another vendeuse, named Amélie. Altogether there had only been these two in the twenty years. It had always been the same couturier. Prices, however, had gone up. The exchange, though, equalized that. They had her daughter’s measurements now too. She was grown up and there was not much chance of their changing now.