The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (best books to read for self development txt) đ
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âShe can work,â replied Carley, bluntly.
âOh yes, she can, but she doesnât,â went on Eleanor. âYou donât work. I never did. We both hated the idea. Youâre calling spades spades, Carley, but you seem to be riding a morbid, impractical thesis. Well, our young American girl or bride goes in for being rushed or she goes in for fads, the ultra stuff you mentioned. New York City gets all the great artists, lecturers, and surely the great fakirs. The New York women support them. The men laugh, but they furnish the money. They take the women to the theaters, but they cut out the reception to a Polish princess, a lecture by an Indian magician and mystic, or a benefit luncheon for a Home for Friendless Cats. The truth is most of our young girls or brides have a wonderful enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. What is to become of their surplus energy, the bottled-lightning spirit so characteristic of modern girls? Where is the outlet for intense feelings? What use can they make of education or of gifts? They just canât, thatâs all. Iâm not taking into consideration the new-woman species, the faddist or the reformer. I mean normal girls like you and me. Just think, Carley. A girlâs every wish, every need, is almost instantly satisfied without the slightest effort on her part to obtain it. No struggle, let alone work! If women crave to achieve something outside of the arts, you know, something universal and helpful which will make men acknowledge her worth, if not the equality, where is the opportunity?â
âOpportunities should be made,â replied Carley.
âThere are a million sides to this question of the modern young womanâthe fin-de-siecle girl. Iâm for her!â
âHow about the extreme of style in dress for this remarkably-to-be-pitied American girl you champion so eloquently?â queried Carley, sarcastically.
âImmoral!â exclaimed Eleanor with frank disgust.
âYou admit it?â
âTo my shame, I do.â
âWhy do women wear extreme clothes? Why do you and I wear open-work silk stockings, skirts to our knees, gowns without sleeves or bodices?â
âWeâre slaves to fashion,â replied Eleanor, âThatâs the popular excuse.â
âBah!â exclaimed Carley.
Eleanor laughed in spite of being half nettled. âAre you going to stop wearing what all the other women wearâand be looked at askance? Are you going to be dowdy and frumpy and old-fashioned?â
âNo. But Iâll never wear anything again that can be called immoral. I want to be able to say why I wear a dress. You havenât answered my question yet. Why do you wear what you frankly admit is disgusting?â
âI donât know, Carley,â replied Eleanor, helplessly. âHow you harp on things! We must dress to make other women jealous and to attract men. To be a sensation! Perhaps the word âimmoralâ is not what I mean. A woman will be shocking in her obsession to attract, but hardly more than that, if she knows it.â
âAh! So few women realize how they actually do look. Haze Ruff could tell them.â
âHaze Ruff. Who in the world is he or she?â asked Eleanor.
âHaze Ruff is a he, all right,â replied Carley, grimly.
âWell, who is he?â
âA sheep-dipper in Arizona,â answered Carley, dreamily.
âHumph! And what can Mr. Ruff tell us?â
âHe told me I looked like one of the devilâs angelsâand that I dressed to knock the daylights out of men.â
âWell, Carley Burch, if that isnât rich!â exclaimed Eleanor, with a peal of laughter. âI dare say you appreciate that as an original compliment.â
âNo⊠. I wonder what Ruff would say about jazzâI just wonder,â murmured Carley.
âWell, I wouldnât care what he said, and I donât care what you say,â returned Eleanor. âThe preachers and reformers and bishops and rabbis make me sick. They rave about jazz. Jazzâthe discordant note of our decadence! Jazzâthe harmonious expression of our musicless, mindless, soulless materialism!âThe idiots! If they could be women for a while they would realize the error of their ways. But they will never, never abolish jazzâ never, for it is the grandest, the most wonderful, the most absolutely necessary thing for women in this terrible age of smotheration.â
âAll right, Eleanor, we understand each other, even if we do not agree,â said Carley. âYou leave the future of women to chance, to life, to materialism, not to their own conscious efforts. I want to leave it to free will and idealism.â
âCarley, you are getting a little beyond me,â declared Eleanor, dubiously.
âWhat are you going to do? It all comes home to each individual woman. Her attitude toward life.â
âIâll drift along with the current, Carley, and be a good sport,â replied Eleanor, smiling.
âYou donât care about the women and children of the future? Youâll not deny yourself now, and think and work, and suffer a little, in the interest of future humanity?â
âHow you put things, Carley!â exclaimed Eleanor, wearily. âOf course I careâwhen you make me think of such things. But what have I to do with the lives of people in the years to come?â
âEverything. America for Americans! While you dawdle, the life blood is being sucked out of our great nation. It is a manâs job to fight; it is a womanâs to save⊠. I think youâve made your choice, though you donât realize it. Iâm praying to God that Iâll rise to mine.â
Carley had a visitor one morning earlier than the usual or conventional time for calls.
âHe wouldnât give no name,â said the maid. âHe wears soldier clothes, maâam, and heâs pale, and walks with a cane.â
âTell him Iâll be right down,â replied Carley.
Her hands trembled while she hurriedly dressed. Could this caller be Virgil Rust? She hoped so, but she doubted.
As she entered the parlor a tall young man in worn khaki rose to meet her. At first glance she could not name him, though she recognized the pale face and light-blue eyes, direct and steady.
âGood morning, Miss Burch,â he said. âI hope youâll excuse so early a call. You remember me, donât you? Iâm George Burton, who had the bunk next to Rustâs.â
âSurely I remember you, Mr. Burton, and Iâm glad to see you,â replied Carley, shaking hands with him. âPlease sit down. Your being here must mean youâre discharged from the hospital.â
âYes, I was discharged, all right,â he said.
âWhich means youâre well again. That is fine. Iâm very glad.â
âI was put out to make room for a fellow in bad shape. Iâm still shaky and weak,â he replied. âBut Iâm glad to go. Iâve pulled through pretty good, and itâll not be long until Iâm strong again. It was the âfluâ that kept me down.â
âYou must be careful. May I ask where youâre going and what you expect to do?â
âYes, thatâs what I came to tell you,â he replied, frankly. âI want you to help me a little. Iâm from Illinois and my people arenât so badly off. But I donât want to go back to my home town down and out, you know. Besides, the winters are cold there. The doctor advises me to go to a little milder climate. You see, I was gassed, and got the âfluâ afterward. But I know Iâll be all right if Iâm careful⊠. Well, Iâve always had a leaning toward agriculture, and I want to go to Kansas. Southern Kansas. I want to travel around till I find a place I like, and there Iâll get a job. Not too hard a job at firstâthatâs why Iâll need a little money. I know what to do. I want to lose myself in the wheat country and forget theâthe war. Iâll not be afraid of work, presently⊠. Now, Miss Burch, youâve been so kindâIâm going to ask you to lend me a little money. Iâll pay it back. I canât promise just when. But some day. Will you?â
âAssuredly I will,â she replied, heartily. âIâm happy to have the opportunity to help you. How much will you need for immediate use? Five hundred dollars?â
âOh no, not so much as that,â he replied. âJust railroad fare home, and then to Kansas, and to pay board while I get well, you know, and look around.â
âWeâll make it five hundred, anyway,â she replied, and, rising, she went toward the library. âExcuse me a moment.â She wrote the check and, returning, gave it to him.
âYouâre very good,â he said, rather low.
âNot at all,â replied Carley. âYou have no idea how much it means to me to be permitted to help you. Before I forget, I must ask you, can you cash that check here in New York?â
âNot unless you identify me,â he said, ruefully, âI donât know anyone I could ask.â
âWell, when you leave here go at once to my bankâitâs on Thirty-fourth Streetâand Iâll telephone the cashier. So youâll not have any difficulty. Will you leave New York at once?â
âI surely will. Itâs an awful place. Two years ago when I came here with my company I thought it was grand. But I guess I lost something over there⊠. I want to be where itâs quiet. Where I wonât see many people.â
âI think I understand,â returned Carley. âThen I suppose youâre in a hurry to get home? Of course you have a girl youâre just dying to see?â
âNo, Iâm sorry to say I havenât,â he replied, simply. âI was glad I didnât have to leave a sweetheart behind, when I went to France. But it wouldnât be so bad to have one to go back to now.â
âDonât you worry!â exclaimed Carley. âYou can take your choice presently. You have the open sesame to every real American girlâs heart.â
âAnd what is that?â he asked, with a blush.
âYour service to your country,â she said, gravely.
âWell,â he said, with a singular bluntness, âconsidering I didnât get any medals or bonuses, Iâd like to draw a nice girl.â
âYou will,â replied Carley, and made haste to change the subject. âBy the way, did you meet Glenn Kilbourne in France?â
âNot that I remember,â rejoined Burton, as he got up, rising rather stiffly by aid of his cane. âI must go, Miss Burch. Really I canât thank you enough. And Iâll never forget it.â
âWill you write me how you are getting along?â asked Carley, offering her hand.
âYes.â
Carley moved with him out into the
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