The Hired Girl by Laura Amy Schlitz Read Free Book Online

asking him to take a whole new idea into his head. It’s traditional, the woman pocketing the egg money.
    If I had a little money, the first thing I’d do would be improve the stock. Of course I’d rather have books, right off the bat, and a new dress, but I’d start with the stock. We have Leghorns now, and they’re spindly, ill-bred things, and there’s no meat on their bones. They’re not bad layers, but they’re scarcely worth the trouble of cleaning and plucking. When Ma was alive, we had Buff Orpingtons and Spotted Sussex. The Buff Orpingtons were big, handsome birds, friendly and good to eat. And the spotties were like pets: they used to make me laugh with their antics. Leghorns are the most boring chickens on earth. So if I had a little money, I’d buy bigger, better-looking chickens, and I’d work up to a flock I could be proud of.
    I saw myself with that flock of chickens — Buff Orpingtons and Spotted Sussex and maybe a Rhode Island Red or two — and I imagined the egg money bringing in new books and a new dress, rose colored with white stripes. I even started to think about going back to school, but there my imagination balked, because Father’s set his mind against that so hard he’ll never relent. Even if I were to strike, he wouldn’t agree to that, because he’d lose too many hours of work from me. It would be a bad bargain.
    But if I did strike — if I dared — I might be able to get him to give me the egg money. And maybe I could get permission to be friends with Miss Chandler. I wouldn’t ask her to the house, because Father frightened her. But perhaps I could visit her. If I had her to guide me, and I could borrow books, I could better myself.
    I’d save money, just as Ma did. I’d add to that stash of bills inside Belinda’s apron. The time might come when I could take that money and use it to change my life. If I had books, if I could scrape together an education, I’d have a future, whether any man ever asked me to marry him or not.
    But I’d have to strike first.
    I think about going on strike, and how to go about it, and what Father will say. And there is hope, but I am cold with fear.
    Sunday, June the twenty-fifth, 1911
    Last night, the heat broke. I felt the change before dawn. I woke because my skin felt cool, and I wanted the sheet to cover me. It was a blessing. This morning, the sky was a clear, strong blue, and the air was fresh. Even Father allowed as he was glad of the change in the weather, though of course he went on to grumble about how we need rain. I believe Father thinks that if he ever approved of the weather, God would take a mean advantage of him and make it worse.
    But the men went out to work in good spirits, and I took heart, because of the breeze coming in the window, and the billow and sway of the curtains. It occurred to me that the idea of the strike might be too brazen — at least, to start with. I thought it might be better to reason with Father and ask him politely for the egg money. I don’t
think
this was cowardice but only good sense. It seemed, on so fair a morning, that it wouldn’t hurt to ask nicely. I told myself that if he said no, I could go on strike later.
    It struck me, too, that there would be no harm in trying to put Father in a good humor. So I decided to make a chicken pie for Sunday dinner. I don’t know that Father’s ever gone so far as to come out and say he likes chicken pie, but he scrapes the plate whenever I make one. And two of the old hens haven’t been laying. I hate wringing their necks, and the business of plucking their feathers is irksome. But I killed them and dressed them and into the pot they went. I steamed them and strained the broth and burned my fingers taking the meat off the bones. Then I stirred up a milk sauce, and rolled out the pastry, and added a little salt pork for flavor, because heaven knows those chickens need all the help they can get.
    I fairly flew around the kitchen. I shelled peas and