Charlotte Perkins Gilman

What Diantha Did Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoonwind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, redjewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. Thick stragglingroses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house. It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear tothe hearts of their dwellers. For no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxesbe repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was an attempt at a"lawn," the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at "flower-beds,"which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products. The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are; minus the hint of cosinessgiven by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke ofhuman living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean, clean with acleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cookstove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing. There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. But the place bore noatmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty-under restriction. In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing. The sun poureddown through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!-Ee-errr!-came the faint whine ofthe windmi