Donald Henderson Clarke - Lady Ann

“And that goes for uncles by adoption,” Clarence said.

He rocked the buggy again, gazing into Dr. Benham’s tired, kindly eyes.

“I’m not one of them degenerates, I hope,” Clarence continued, “but seeing that little girl standing there in the washtub with the soap suds on her made me think that if she ain’t a woman already she’ll be one quicker’n Jack Robinson.”

The doctor raised his broad-brimmed yellow soft straw hat and rubbed the bald spot on the top of his head, puffed his cigar and said: “You’re a good man, Clarence. I’ve practised medicine for more than fifty years, and human nature and the sex question is a heap more of a puzzle to me now than it was when I was a young man. I’ve had women come to see me that have been married for years and still were virgins. I’ve treated little girls that were too young to be married that weren’t virgins. The only thing about the sex question that makes me rejoice is that I don’t have to worry about it any more personally.”

“This perticalar sex question has got me stumped, Doc. Ann is only fourteen, but she’s big for her age, and something has got to be done about her. She ought to be told some things, and I was thinking you was the one to do it.”

Dr. Benham nodded his head thoughtfully, grinned, and said:

“It’s too bad Rebecca wouldn’t do it.”

Clarence spat again, and said:

“You know Rebecca, Doc. She’s one of them old-fashioned Puritans. I never seen her undressed in my life. An arm or a leg is a limb to her. And sex is something that’s done but isn’t discussed. She thought kissing made babies up till the time we was married.”

The doctor scowled and spat, and said:

“I know her.”

“She’s a good woman,” Clarence hastened to say. “She’s the salt of the earth. There ain’t anything she wouldn’t do for a body. But she’s sot in her ways. Why, Doc, once on a cold night I broke wind in bed, and she would hardly speak to me for a week. I’m supposed to get up and go out to the backhouse same as if I was answering a call of nature.”

“Some women are like that,” the doctor agreed. “And some ain’t so fussy.”

Clarence grinned and said:

“So I’ve heerd tell.”

The doctor knocked off ashes from his cigar against the iron tire of the rear wheel and put the cigar back in his mouth. He always champed the end, and the cigar was pretty wet and well chewed. He gathered up the reins and said:

“I’ll be glad to have a talk with Ann, Clarence. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew a lot already. She always struck me as pretty smart.”

“Oh, she’s smart all right, and she knows where babies come from—seen calves and kittens born—but I always figured a nice talk to a young one like that, sensible like you could do it, with no scary stuff but just hoss sense, might be good for a young one that seems to be so full of sap. I’d say she might be just the opposite of Rebecca in some respects, Doc.”

The doctor nodded again, chirruping to Sam.

“She has all the ear-marks,” he admitted as Sam began to move. “Get up there,” he said to Sam. “Good day, Clarence.”

The doctor crammed his broad-brimmed hat down further over his head. Sam broke into a trot, his hoofs and the spinning, shining wheels leaving a trail of golden dust which settled across the weeds and grass and goldenrod and asters which lined the road under the rustling maples.

Ann Steele never could have disguised herself as a boy. She had wavy brown hair which looked red in the sun, and big hazel eyes which shone with the fire of youth and health. Her forehead was sweetly moulded, her eyebrows were dark and clearly defined, and her eyelashes long. A faint powdering of freckles ran over the bridge of her nose, which was neither too small for character nor too large for beauty. Her lips were red and full, her teeth white, rather larger than the average, and her chin was well developed. Ann had a beautiful neck, round and columnar, breasts that promised plenty of food for babies and comfort for weary little heads, and a pelvis which assured babies of a comfortable entrance into life. Even at fourteen, she carried with her an intense feminine aura.

Men and boys couldn’t any more help turning and looking after her than the earth can help revolving around the sun. Old Si Brockaway, whose case of locomotor ataxia generally was credited to a wild youth, said:

“The first time I seed that filly I cried because I wasn’t young any more.”

Si was walking uncertainly, with the aid of a cane, down his front walk when Ann walked down the road barefooted. Her brown hair was blowing in the breeze and her hazel eyes were glowing in the late afternoon August sun which made highlights on her crimson lips and white teeth.

Dr. Benham, driving his old Sam in the opposite direction, waved at Si, smiled and raised his floppy yellow straw hat to Ann, and vanished up the winding road.

Si hurried faster with awkward, spraddling steps. His disease was such that he couldn’t tell where his feet were going to hit ground once he’d lifted them from it. He piped:

“Hi, Annie! Wait a minute.”

Ann stopped, smiling, and said:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brockaway.”

Si’s gaunt face was smooth shaven. His iron-gray hair was so long that it clustered down on his neck. He wore a shirt with a stiff bosom, but no collar or coat, and his blue serge trousers, supported by white suspenders, were creased. He said:

“If I was a boy you wouldn’t be walkin’ alone, Annie.”

Ann blushed, but held her hazel eyes on his blue ones.

“I might be,” she said, mildly.

Si tossed back his head and cackled delightedly.

“By cracky,” he cried, “that’s one for you, Annie.”

Ann’s blue-and-white checked gingham dress fluttered in the breeze, which caught the fresh young scent of her and bore it to Si Brockaway’s nostrils. He crossed thin, blue-veined hands over the curved handle of his cane, polished from long use.

“A cow’s breath is sweet,” the old man said, “but the smell of a pretty young girl is sweeter.”

Ann instinctively bent her head and sniffed at herself.

“I do not smell,” she protested.

Si snorted scornfully.

“Huh!” he ejaculated. “You don’t even understand what it is to be young. There was a poet once who wrote that ‘Truth is beauty.’ He was wrong, Ann. Youth is beauty. But you don’t know it. You have to get old to know it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ann asserted.

“You’d say that whether you did or not because you are a female of the species, and therefore contrary,” Si Brockaway announced. “But I stick to what I said. You’ve got all your hair, and prettier than most. You’ve got all your eyesight, and all your teeth, and your digestion, and you’re sound in wind and limb, without a blemish, and there’s a sparkle in your eye that shows the sap is running strong.”

Ann looked at him doubtfully.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“The most beautiful sight in the world, which is a pretty young girl,” Si replied.

However, before she could make any comment on that remark, he added:

“What I really wanted to ask was if you would mind driving our cows back along with yours?”

Ann turned her head slightly to one side and looked at Si out of the corner of her eyes.

“Of course, I will, Mr. Brockaway,” she said, heartiness in her husky contralto. “I’d love to.”

“Thank you, Ann,” Si Brockaway said. “If I were younger I’d drive the cows for you.”

Ann laughed as she began to walk again.

“I believe what I see,” she said over her shoulder.