Manuscripts/Mixed Material [A Scotch Quarryman's Widow]
Miss Mary Tomasi
63 Barre St.
Montpelier, Vt. The Granite Worker Scotch
A SCOTCH QUARRYMAN'S WIDOW
From Quarry Hill the far horizon is a series of soft roundings, Green Mountain [curves?] rimming a blue sky. Closer, slanting fields patched with brown squares of newly ploughed earth. Nearer, in the yards of the Hill dwellers, a blossoming apple or lilac, a straggling shrub or two striving to thrust its flowering color beyond the film of granite dust. A handful of children play unconcernedly on this porch and that, darting between heavily laden clothesline. All their lives they have heard the wearying quarry sounds - the monotonous rat-tat-tat of [pnosmatic?] drills, the exhausted, whining breath form an engine house. How they are conscious of them only when they cease.
The yellow house beside the struggling lilacs had seen better days. Two tiers of kitchen porches sag beneath the weight of ice-boxes and chairs. The woman spoke from behind the screen door of the lower porch. Her hair was pulled back to a grey, drab knob. She fumbled with her apron, and wiped her red hands dry. “Sure, come in.” After the noise of the quarries her voice, any voice, - was pleasant. A good natured smile wrinkled the corners of her dark eyes and wide, firm mouth. “Alex said you would be coming today. Come in. There's little I can tell you, but you're welcome to what little I know, and more that I feel—"