Town Life in Arkansas
Every traveler going south from St. Louis can recall the average Arkansas village in winter. Little strings of houses spread raggedly on both sides of the rails. A few wee shops, that are likely to have a mock rectangle of facade stuck against a triangle of roof, in the manner of children's card houses, parade a draggled stock of haberdashery and groceries. To right or left a mill buzzes, its newness attested by the raw tints of the weather boarding. There is no horizon; there seldom is a horizon in Arkansas, - it is cut off by the forest. Pools of water reflect the straight black lines of tree trunks and the crooked lines of bare boughs, while a muddy road winds through the vista. Generally there are a few lean cattle to stare in a dejected fashion at the train, and some fat black swine to root among the sodden grasses. Bales of cotton are piled on the railway platform, and serve as seats for half a dozen listless men in high boots and soft hats. Occasionally, a woman, who has not had the time to brush her hair, calls shrilly to some child who is trying to have pneumonia by sitting on the ground. No one seems to have anything to do, yet every one looks tired, and the passenger in the Pullman wonders how people live in 'such a hole.'
Two months later the 'hole' will have changed into a garden. The great oaks will wave a glossy foliage of richest green. Men will be ploughing in the fields, and the negroes' songs will float through the open car window. The house yards will be abloom with Japan quince and lilacs. The very shop windows will have a dash of fresh color in summer bonnets and piles of new prints. Then the stranger will awake to the charm of the South; and were one to leave the train and to stay in one of these unimpressive towns for a few weeks, he would come to appreciate that charm.
- by Octave Thanet, published in The Atlantic Monthly, September, 1891
Every traveler going south from St. Louis can recall the average Arkansas village in winter. Little strings of houses spread raggedly on both sides of the rails. A few wee shops, that are likely to have a mock rectangle of facade stuck against a triangle of roof, in the manner of children's card houses, parade a draggled stock of haberdashery and groceries. To right or left a mill buzzes, its newness attested by the raw tints of the weather boarding. There is no horizon; there seldom is a horizon in Arkansas, - it is cut off by the forest. Pools of water reflect the straight black lines of tree trunks and the crooked lines of bare boughs, while a muddy road winds through the vista. Generally there are a few lean cattle to stare in a dejected fashion at the train, and some fat black swine to root among the sodden grasses. Bales of cotton are piled on the railway platform, and serve as seats for half a dozen listless men in high boots and soft hats. Occasionally, a woman, who has not had the time to brush her hair, calls shrilly to some child who is trying to have pneumonia by sitting on the ground. No one seems to have anything to do, yet every one looks tired, and the passenger in the Pullman wonders how people live in 'such a hole.'
Two months later the 'hole' will have changed into a garden. The great oaks will wave a glossy foliage of richest green. Men will be ploughing in the fields, and the negroes' songs will float through the open car window. The house yards will be abloom with Japan quince and lilacs. The very shop windows will have a dash of fresh color in summer bonnets and piles of new prints. Then the stranger will awake to the charm of the South; and were one to leave the train and to stay in one of these unimpressive towns for a few weeks, he would come to appreciate that charm.
- by Octave Thanet, published in The Atlantic Monthly, September, 1891
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