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Updated: June 27, 2025
She had counted the child's age. She had thought enough for that. "How far is Pineyville?" "I doan' know. It took mos' all night to git here." There was no change in the listless monotone. "Are you going out now?" "Yes, soon's I kin git ready." "How are you going to get home?" "Walk, I reckon." There was no complaint in her tone, no sudden exhibition of any suffering. She was only stating facts.
Women with suckling babies had no rights that anybody was bound to respect not up in Pineyville; certainly not the gentlemen with brass shields under the lapels of their coats and Uncle Sam's commissions in their pockets. It was the law of the land why find fault with it? I leaned closer so that I could touch her hand if need be. "What's your name?" "Samanthy North." "What's your husband's name?"
The dear old woman followed us again until we found a clerk in a branch ticket-office, who picked out a long green slip from a library of tickets, punched it with the greatest care with a pair of steel nippers, and slipped it into an official envelope labelled: "K.C. Pineyville, Ky. 8 P.M."
She had obeyed my summons like a dog who remembered a former discipline. No curiosity, not the slightest interest; nothing but blind obedience. The tightened grasp of these four walls had taught her this. "Where do you come from?" I asked. I had to begin in some way. "From Pineyville." The voice was that of a child, with a hard, dry note in it. "How old is the baby?" "Three months and ten days."
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