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reaching for the limp； drab work…worn garments that used to drape the
chair by his bed。 Then he would remember and sink back while a great
wave of depression swept over him。 Nothing to get up for。 Store
clothes on the chair by the bed。 He was taking it easy。
Back home on the farm in southern Illinois he had known the hour the
instant his eyes opened。 Here the flat next door was so close that the
bed… room was in twilight even at midday。 On the farm he could tell by
the feelingan intangible thing； but infallible。 He could gauge the very
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quality of the blackness that comes just before dawn。 The crowing of the
cocks； the stamping of the cattle； the twittering of the birds in the old elm
whose branches were etched eerily against his window in the ghostly light
these things he had never needed。 He had known。 But here in the un…
sylvan section of Chicago which bears the bosky name of Englewood； the
very darkness had a strange quality。
A hundred unfamiliar noises misled him。 There were no cocks； no
cattle； no elm。 Above all； there was no instinctive feeling。 Once； when
they first came to the city； he had risen at twelve…thirty； thinking it was
morning； and had gone clumping about the flat； waking up everyone and
loosing from his wife's lips a stream of acid vituperation that seared even
his case…hardened sensibilities。 The people sleeping in the bedroom of
the flat next door must have heard her。
〃You big rube！ Getting up in the middle of the night and stomping
around like cattle。 You'd better build a shed in the back yard and sleep
there if you're so dumb you can't tell night from day。〃
Even after thirty…three years of marriage he had never ceased to be
appalled at the coarseness of her mind and speechshe who had seemed so
mild and fragile and exquisite when he married her。 He had crept back to
bed shamefacedly。 He could hear the couple in the bedroom of the flat
just across the little court grumbling and then laughing a little； grudgingly；
and yet with appreciation。 That bedroom； too； had still the power to
appall him。 Its nearness； its forced intimacy； were daily shocks to him
whose most immediate neighbor； back on the farm； had been a quarter of a
mile away。 The sound of a shoe dropped on the hardwood floor； the rush
of water in the bathroom； the murmur of nocturnal confidences； the fretful
cry of a child in the night； all startled and distressed him whose ear had
found music in the roar of the thresher and had been soothed by the rattle
of the tractor and the hoarse hoot of the steamboat whistle at the landing。
His farm's edge had been marked by the Mississippi rolling grandly by。
Since they had moved into town； he had found only one city sound
that he really welcomedthe rattle and clink that marked the milkman's
matutinal visit。 The milkman came at six； and he was the good fairy who
released Ben Westerveld from durance vileor had until the winter months
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made his coming later and later； so that he became worse than useless as a
timepiece。 But now it was late March； and mild。 The milkman's
coming would soon again mark old Ben's rising hour。 Before he had
begun to take it easy； six o'clock had seen the entire mechanism of his
busy little world humming smoothly and sweetly； the whole set in motion
by his own big work…callused hands。 Those hands puzzled him now。
He often looked at them curiously and in a detached sort of way； as if they
belonged to someone else。 So white they were； and smooth and soft；
with long； pliant nails that never broke off from rough work as they used
to。 Of late there were little splotches of brown on the backs of his hands
and around the thumbs。
〃Guess it's my liver；〃 he decided； rubbing the spots thoughtfully。
〃She gets kind of sluggish from me not doing anything。 Maybe a little
spring tonic wouldn't go bad。 Tone me up。〃
He got a little bottle of reddish…brown mixture from the druggist on
Halstead Street near Sixty…third。 A genial gendeman； the druggist； white…
coated and dapper； stepping affably about the fragrant…smelling store。
The reddish…brown mixture had toned old Ben up surprisinglywhile it
lasted。 He had two bottles of it。 But on discontinuing it he slumped
back into his old apathy。
Ben Westerveld； in his store clothes； his clean blue shirt； his
incongruous hat； ambling aimlessly about Chicago's teeming； gritty streets；
was a tragedy。 Those big； capable hands； now dangling so limply from
inert wrists； had wrested a living from the soil； those strangely unfaded
blue eyes had the keenness of vision which comes from scanning great
stretches of earth and sky； the stocky； square…shouldered body suggested
power unutilized。 All these spelled tragedy。 Worse than tragedywaste。
For almost half a century this man had combated the elements； head
set； eyes wary； shoulders squared。 He had fought wind and sun； rain and
drought； scourge and flood。 He had risen before dawn and slept before
sunset。 In the process he had taken on something of the color and the
rugged immutability of the fields and hills and trees among which he
toiled。 Something of their dignity； too； though your town dweller might
fail to see it beneath the drab exterior。 He had about him none of the
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highlights and sharp points of the city man。 He seemed to blend in with
the background of nature so as to be almost undistinguishable from it； as
were the furred and feathered creatures。 This farmer differed from the
city man as a hillock differs from an artificial golf bunker； though form
and substance are the same。
Ben Westerveld didn't know he was a tragedy。 Your