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privy would be filthy, and the garden would go to seed, and the birds would get the cherries and the blueberries and — well, I’d
have
to feed the chickens and give them fresh water, but I wouldn’t gather the eggs. Everything would be as nasty and untidy and inconvenient as it could be.
    I thought about going on strike until Father promised me a better life. That’s when the lightning flashed against the Stygian darkness. Father needs my work here; he said so to Miss Chandler.
    But then I thought what Father would do if I refused to work.
    And I knew I would never dare. It came to me with heavy shame that I’m a coward where Father is concerned. Even the thought of defying him scares me. I think of his face, dark as thunder, and the rough contempt in his voice, and my stomach feels small and shriveled, like a grape turning into a raisin. I don’t know what Father might
not
do. He might do something worse than anything he’s ever done.
    I turned over the pages of the newspaper. My heart was palpitating and I’d forgotten about the peas. I hoped there might be some pictures of dresses on the other pages, because I needed something to calm me down. But the other pages were advertisements. There was Situations Wanted and then there was Help Wanted Female. I read those, and they didn’t calm me at all, because some of the jobs in the newspaper, I didn’t even know what they were. I read “Experienced TIPPERS wanted,” and I didn’t know what that was. And —“YOUNG LADY of Ability for STENOGRAPHIC POSITION.” I’m not sure what
stenographic
is, but the ability of the young lady must be perfectly staggering, because that job pays fifteen dollars a week. Then there was “GIRL for GENERAL OFFICE WORK to use REMINGTON MACHINE”— I think that must be one of those typewriting machines Miss Chandler told me about — and “GIRL to run FOLDING BOX GLUING MACHINE.” I suppose there must be a machine somewhere that folds cardboard boxes and glues them at the same time. I can’t imagine who was clever enough to invent such a thing.
    But then there were advertisements that I understood quite well — advertisements for hired girls. “White girl to cook and help with housework, no washing or ironing, $6 a week.” Six dollars a week! I thought maybe that was a mistake, but there was another one: “First-class white girl for COOKING AND HOUSEWORK, wages $6.” I laid the paper down and went back to shelling peas, but though my hands were busy, my mind was in a daze. Six dollars a week! With no washing or ironing, either!
    I wish I was a hired girl. Of course, I’d rather be a schoolteacher. But I bet those hired girls — foreigners, most of them — don’t work a lick harder than I do, and they get paid six dollars a week. And here I am, without a penny to call my own.
    Then the idea of a strike beckoned again. I imagined myself telling Father that I wouldn’t work unless he gave me six dollars a week. I almost laughed aloud, because Father would cut his throat before he separated himself from six dollars a week. Even two dollars a week, he’d cut his throat — or mine. I imagined myself saying, “I won’t lift a finger unless you let me have Miss Chandler as my friend and give me a dollar a week”— and then an idea flashed into my head.
    I thought about Ma’s egg money. Ma always had the egg money for her own. Raising chickens is women’s work, and it’s the lady of the house that gets the egg money — the butter money, too, often as not, but I wouldn’t dare ask for that. I tried to picture myself asking Father for the egg money. The last time I asked him, I was only ten or eleven, a little girl, really. But now I’m almost a woman. And if I went on strike — maybe not a whole strike, but a small strike — he might be persuaded to let me have the egg money.
    It’s not as if I’d be asking for six dollars a week. Eggs are cheap in the summer, eight or nine cents a dozen. And I wouldn’t be