--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Carroll, Elsie C. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 30 number: 12 published: 1927-10 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Elsie C. Carroll, ““Evie’s” Folks,” *Improvement Era* 30, no. 12 (October 1927): 1111–1118." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera30012unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera30012unse start_page: 1111 end_page: 1118 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1927-10) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera30012unse publication_year: 1927 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1927, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # “Evie’s” Folks "EVIE'S" FOLKS By Elsie C. Carroll "We'll miss lookin' for yer visits home, Evie, an' it'll sure seem queer to think of you belongin' to somebudy else more'n you do to us. But o' course we're glad yer gettin' such a fine feller as you say this George is and we'll try to be contented, knowin' you're happy." Evelyn Jensen looked at the stooped figure beside her in the spring wagon. She noted the stubby, brown, knotted hands which held the reins; the grimey overalls, the faded and frayed blue denim jumper; the thin neck with its dark coarsened skin down which the untrimmed hair grew in scraggly fringe to the jumper collar; the bronzed, wrinkled cheeks; the rather weak chin covered with a half weed's stubble of greying beard; the faded blue eyes looking out trustingly and uncomplainingly from beneath shaggy brows. She hated herself for recoiling from the coarseness of her father's body and clothing. She had hated herself all day, and all the day before for the shame she felt for her folks — the shame she felt for her mother's unkempt hair, her unbecoming percale wrapper; her coarse, shabby shoes — her grammatical errors; the shame she felt for the loudness and crudeness of Ben and Jim; for their continual scuffling and silly bantering; for their apparent contentment with the monotony and ugliness and hardness of the life they lived; the shame she felt for little Mabel's freckles and chapped hands and ridiculous pig-tails,' and faded checked apron; for granny's garrulousness, her queer Scandinavian accent, her little grey shoulder-shawl, her old hickory cane. She hated herself all the more because she knew she was indebted to them for her four wonderful years at college, and she realized that much of the shabbiness and ugfiiness of which she was ashamed was a result of their hard work and sacrifice for her. Why had she to be born and reared on this God-forsaken little country farm? Or why couldn't her father and mother have been blessed with the faculty of getting ahead like other people? She was grateful, of course, for the chance they had given her — the chance to go away and learn, and meet people and take on the polish of a different environment; the chance to find George and the new life his love had brought her. She did appreciate what they had done for her, and she had always thought her appreciation was of the deep, genuine type. She had planned to teach and help give the other children their chance. But when she had written that George wanted her to marry him as soon as school was out and go with him to take the position he had been offered in the European branch of his uncle's publishing house, the folks had told her not to worry about what she had planned for them: They would get along all right, 1112 IMPROVEMENT ERA as they always had gotten along, and would manage somehow to give the other children the advantages she had had. The letter had even contained one hundred and fifty dollars for her trousseau — money long-saved for a new mowing machine and a new rug for the living room. But they had assured her that father could mend the mower for another year, and that mother had painted the living room floor and that it looked really nice with the small rugs she had made from the better parts of the old carpet. Oh, their devotion had been beautiful, and she loathed herself that she had taken so much — and then to be ashamed of them — thank- ful that George had been called to his uncle's southern home, making it impossible for him to come home with her. She had not realized how things were before — the difference between her folks and George. Of course, she had told him that they were very, very poor, but she had made him feel that they were wonderful. And of course they were, she kept arguing with herself, but she knew she could never, never make him understand, if he should see them. "It's sure too bad he couldn't come home with you." Evelyn's painful introspection was broken again by her father's voice. " 'Course we know he's all right or you never would a took up with him; but it's like Ma was asayin' after we went to bed the night you come; we'd feel better seein' you go off with him — fer life — if we could a seen him." Evelyn moved uneasily. "Yes, George realized that, too. He wanted to come home with me — he wanted to be married here. But you remember I told you about his uncle's being injured in that automobile accident there in Dallas; and as he couldn't come east, George had to go to see him before we sailed. But you and mother don't need to worry. George is — well he seems absolutely perfect to me. He's so good, and refined, and intellectual, and handsome — I just can't see how he ever came to choose me. Why, he could have had any girl at the U. The Grover sisters were both wild about him and they dress — ." "We tried to send you enough so you wouldn't hev to be ashamed of yer clothes, Evie, but I guess — ." "O, I didn't mean that, Daddy. It just makes me faint when I think how you have all worked and scrimped for me — and that now I'm going away without doing a thing to pay you back — . But the Grovers are millionaires. Then there was Maida Dalby — her uncle is the president of the university. She was always calling George up; and a lot of others — girls from the fashionable sororities in school were always inviting him to formal dances and house parties — and still he chose me — ." "Well — now, Evie — I can't see why you think that's so strange; if you ever look in the glass. I'll warrant none of them other girls EVIE'S FOLKS 1113 ain't got purtier eyes, nor curlier hair, nor whiter teeth than you got." Evelyn warmed a little under the adoring look her father's faded eyes turned upon her, but at the same instant she wished he wouldn't call her "Evie," and she wondered why he couldn't realize how loathsome it is to carry such a rim of black filth under one's nails. She hated herself for comparing the rough hand that had stolen a bit shyly over one of hers, with George's well-groomed hands. The horses turned from the main road to the narrower one, bordered on each side by sage-brush, which led to the farm at the foothills three miles away. On the insistence of her mother, Evelyn had gone to the village with Father the day before to visit with Aunt Molly while Father had the cultivator mended and delivered some berries. Evelyn guessed that Mother wanted to go through her clothes and wash and iron and mend everything that needed it. That was like Mother. Why couldn't just the beauty and goodness of all those un- selfish acts of her dear ones be seen, without the sordidness and crudeness protruding? "It's too bad you're goin' so far away;" Father's voice broke another silence. He was trying so hard to keep up a semblance of conversation, and somehow she couldn't help him. The struggle that was torturing her was too great. "Course we've got used to you bein' at school, but Ma could send you things. You don't know how she's enjoyed fixin' up them boxes she'd send." Evelyn flushed at the memory of her surreptitious opening of those boxes; her fear that Madge or Beth would come in and discover her lifting out a queerly knitted tippet from Granny, or a kimona in which she recognized the curtain which had made a clothes closet of one corner of the boys' room. The hand-made ruffles on that absurd kimona had made her choke at the thought of the love and pains Mother had put into them; and of course she had realized that the crops had failed that year, and that birthday presents of any sort were almost out of the question; but she could not wear such things around the other girls. The thought that George really did not know the truth about her folks, and that she could never let him know, was becoming more and more torturing. She tried to imagine introducing him to Dad and Mother who said "ain't" and "workin' " and "this here." She tried to vizualize George's mental reaction to a half hour's listening to Granny's reminiscences, or to an onslaught from Ben or Jimmy. She sickened! One thing was becoming a certainty; if she married George, he must never, never see her folks! She knew that thought had been formulating very gradually in her mind ever since the mental shock she had received when the folks had met her at the station two days before. She had tried so hard to push it aside; to assure herself that nothing mattered but their 1114 IMPROVEMENT ERA love and devotion; their bigness and goodness of soul — their work and sacrifices for her. But — George could never understand! That thought had taken more definite shape during the ride home from the station, with all their hilarious, eager vieing with one another to entertain her, and make her know how happy they were to have her home; during the noisy evening meal, eaten from the kitchen table with its red cloth and pewter spoons and heavy, chipped bowls. She had struggled with it during all the long hours of that first night when she had lain in her own low-ceilinged room with its one dormer window and its odds and ends of dilapidated furniture — the dresser with its cracked mirror; the washstand improvised from a goodsbox upon which. stood the old granite basin and water pitcher, the one chair with its homemade rocker and faded cretonne cushion; the many- times mended curtains; the frayed bed-spread with the huge patch where Rover had torn it years ago as it hung from the clothes line. It had not escaped her that the room was spotlessly clean; that the little lacquer tray that had belonged to Great-grandmother William- son (the most treasured possession of the family), graced the dresser beside a fruit-jar filled with sweet-smelling wild rosebuds; that two bright new calendar pictures tried bravely to hide two of the grimiest places on the dingy walls. All these pitiful testimonies of loving thoughtfulness smote her, but only helped to clarify her decision that if she married George he must never come to her home; he must never see her folks. Evelyn was not given to deception. With this decision came the accompanying question: Should she marry George? Could she marry him — with this hidden skeleton of what her folks really were, always lurking in her closet? All that first night the battle had raged; and the next day, and last night at Aunt Molly's, the day now drawing to a close. And she cculd not decide. First she would think that she must give George up and go on with her original plan to teach and help the other children through school. Then her heart would come forward with an agonized protest that she could not give George up — that the future would be intolerable without him. If only the folks hadn't done so much for her; if only they didn't love her with such unselfishness and assurance of her perfection. Or if only George were not so wonderful, so different from all other men. The sight of the long, weather-beaten barn came into view. With a poignancy of memory she recalled the hundreds of times she had hunted eggs in the old loft and had played with Ned in the sweet-smelling hay. Ned! Her eyes blurred. Strange she had not thought of Ned since her return until that instant. Quickly her dimmed eyes went to the lower end of the pasture; t® the big oak under which the white fence surrounding his grave could be seen. Father would not have EVIE'S FOLKS 1115 had it so hard if Ned had lived. How they had all worshiped him! She would go to his grave as soon as she got home. With the thought of her dead brother who had been her idol until she found George, a new pain came. She had always believed that the dead knew the thoughts of the living. How it must be hurting Ned to know she was ashamed of her home — of the folks! That thought was too much. She groaned aloud and a shiver shook her body. George would have to be her sacrifice! Her father turned to her with concern. "Don't you feel well, Evie? You've looked pale all day and ain't seemed like yourself?" He reached over and patted her with his rough hand. "I — oh — I'm all right. I — was just thinking about — Ned." At first she thought she would tell him her decision to give up George. But it was going to be as hard to explain to the folks as to George. She'd have to take a little time. She couldn't think it out now. She wanted to go to Ned's grave and have a good cry. "The sun's been too hot fer ye. Ma told me I better put the cover on; that you wasn't used to traveling like this. But I plumb fergot it. We're nearly home now, and you kin hev a good rest." He was still patting her gently, but now she did not recoil from him. Instead, she lifted his rough hand to h;r cheek. She would make amends. Ned would forgive her for the shame she had felt. "You don't know how good it seems to have you home, Evie, even if it's only for a day or two. You know we think a lot of you, Evie, and are prouder of you than I kin tell you." She was sobbing convulsively on his shoulder now. "Oh, Daddy, I'm not worth half of your love." "Now, now, Evie, don't you go say in' things like that. Why I been a thinkin' it's us that ain't worthy o' you. Why only las' night — I mean the night you come, Ma and me was asayin' after we had gone to bed, that some girls a gettin' a highup feller like this George of yourn, 'ud be ashamed o' their folks, if they was jist common hard workin' folks like us, without none of the polish some thinks is everything. But we said that ain't like our Evie. That's why we are proud of you, an' was glad to work an' skimp to give you a chanst." Each word was like a knife cut on Evelyn's heart. "Don't, Daddy. I'm not worth it. I can't bear to hear you talk like that." She was almost hysterical in her sobbing. "There, there, now Evie, don't you go cryin' like that. You'll make yourself sick, all hot and tired like you are." He kept up the mechanical patting with one hand while he guided the horses with the other. Presently the grey old house in its cluster of trees came into view. "Why, what's that in the driveway?" The stooped form 1116 IMPROVEMENT ERA straightened. "Looks like some kind of outfit there by the house, don't it? I hope Lem Porter ain't brung them pigs yet. No, it ain't Lem's outfit. Why — I believe — it looks like a automobile." Evelyn wiped her eyes and looked where her father was pointing. Suddenly her heart stopped. She went cold. The "outfit" in the driveway was — George's long, grey roadster. "It's George," she said in a scarcely audible whisper. The father shook up the reins and urged the horses, little understanding the struggle going on within Evelyn's soul. "So he's come fer ye. That's more like it ort to be. Now Ma'll be satisfied. She jist couldn't hardly stand lettin' you go off fer life with a man she'd never seen." As they drew nearer the little grey farmhouse, it seemed to Evelyn that some great catastrophe was awaiting. She felt cold and hot and trembly and rigid all at once. Try as she would, she was unable to bring one clear thought before the focus of her mind. Almost before she knew it, her father was turning in at the big gate. Mabel, her absurd pig-tails bobbing on her shoulders, was running to meet them. "Your beau's come, Evie," she called out shrilly as she darted around to hang on to the back of the wagon. "He give me some candy last night, and a dollar today." Last night! Then he had come yesterday. He had been there all night and all day. He had probably slept in her own shabby little room, and eaten bread and milk with a pewter spoon from the red-covered kitchen table. Evelyn felt that she was suffocating. How was she going to face George Sanders now! Her father was calling "Whoa" to the horses. Mother, wiping her hands on a clean apron which partly covered h:r ugly wrapper, was coming down the walk. Granny was leaning on her cane ... doorway. Somehow Evelyn got to the ground. Mother was hovering over her. "George is here," she was saying in a vibrant voice. "I'm mak- ing some biscuits for supper and Granny has one of her Yorkshire puddings ready to pop into, the oven as the boys come from the field with a load of hay. He's wonderful Evie, jist like you said he wuz; I'm so glad he come." "Where is he?" Evelyn heard herself asking the question, though she readily felt as if she were someone else, looking on at a strange tragedy. "He's been out in the field with the boys all day. It's lucky he come, fer that hay had to be put up, an Bry Harris didn't come to help like he said he would. I don't know what they'd a done without George." EVIE'S FOLKS 1117 Evelyn turned weakly toward the house. She felt as if she were going to faint. It was all a queer muddle. George hauling hay in the scorching sun; washing in the old granite basin; eating Granny's Yorkshire pudding." "Here they come," shrilled Mabel. Then Ben's high-pitched voice singing off-key, and the squeak of the heavy hay wagon came to Evelyn's ears. An 'instant later the load of hay came in sight around the cowshed. Jimmy stopped the team. "Come on, Evie, le's go tromp fer 'em." Mabel was pulling at Evelyn's arm. She let herself be drawn toward the waiting wagon, not daring to look up. "Hello, there! How do you like your farmer boy?" She looked now. The glad warmth in George's voice melted the icy fear and dread in her heart. He was clambering down from the mound of hay. At another time she would have laughed at the grotesque figure he made in father's overalls that were too long, Ben's checked jumper that was too small and Jimmy's battered straw hat held rakishly on one side of his head with a greasy leather string. He took a long stride toward her, wiping the grimey perspiration from his flushed face with a red bandana handkerchief. "Mercy, Evelyn, why haven't you let me come down here before?" he cried as he gathered her in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me I could haul hay and have Yorkshire pudding for supper down here?" She was clinging to him, unable to come out of her bewilder- ment. After her agony of spirit, this seemed too wonderful a climax. "Uncle John caught me with a telegram at St. Louis saying that he wouldn't need to sail for another week and that he was com- ing east. So — we can be married here — as you'd naturally want to be — and — gosh, Evie," (how dear the desired name sounded on his lips) "I wouldn't have missed knowing your folks for a lot. They're — it's like going back to my childhood days out on Grandad Stayley's farm." "Evie, ain't you goin' to let me shake hands with George?" They turned, and George's hand, sunburned, dark-fingernailed, and with blisters forming on the palm, grasped the stubby, horny hand of toil, in the warm clasp of one man much beholden to another. "I'm mighty glad to have this chance to know you, Mr. Jensen. I won't feel quite so guilty running away with Evelyn now." "And we'll feel better about her goin'," the old man answered as his faded eyes, searching the younger face, found complete satis- faction. "Of course, we knowed you wuz all right," he hastened reassuringly, from what Evie told us in her letters, but it ain't goin' to be so hard lettin' her go now." "Thank you." There was a tremor in George's voice and a look in his eyes as they rested upon the stooped figure of her father that made Evelyn's throat catch in a new realization of love for him. 1118 IMPROVEMENT ERA At that instant the core of an apple whizzed past Evelyn's fore- head and hit George squarely on the tip of the ear. Hey, you big goof," called Jimmy in a tone that would have paralyzed his sister fifteen minutes before, "ain't you ever goin' to git done lallygaggin' there an' come an' help us unload this hay? I'm starved." "Sure I'm coming," laughed George delightedly, throwing the core he had caught back at the ducking Jim. "Come on, Evie; le's go tromp," appealed Mabel again. "Do," urged George. "It's heaps of fun! — And say — we're going to have Yorkshire pudding for supper when we are through. Your darling old grandmother promised me." Evelyn's joyous laugh echoed his as she threw her hat to her mother and raced with him toward the barn. Provo, Utah. A Modern Knight (LINDBERGH) When Knights sat at the Table Round. In the days of old, when did abound Tales of the Grail and tourney sport, In that wise realm, King Arthur's Court, Was there no vision then to see This age of man that was to be To breed a Knight to form our "We?" As Percival and Galahad He knows, this modern Knightly lad, That life's high goals are not for him Whose soul is marred by taint of sin; Who travels safely 'mong the stars Must bear within no guilty scars. That Lindy's life is free from guile Is thrice attested by his smile. This daring youth of high emprise Is called "Lone Eagle of the Skies" And "Flying Fool," because he braved The dangers of the deep and clave The clouds and depths of ether blue. To make his childhood's dream come true. Why call him lone, this youth we laud? Methinks that he must ride with God: And none, with such good company, Can e'er know fear, or lonely be. Provo, Utah. GRACE INGLES FROST.