Who’s to say I can’t? I have an arm, a left foot, a

right foot. We set up a system: rope, hook, and pulley.

Pa encourages me: I don’t see why it shouldn’t work. He’s sure I

can lift a bale of hay from down here on the barn floor up into the

loft—I’ll be there to pull it up and over, he says. I’m here with Grace,

who watches from a safe distance—I’m determined to do this by myself. I

lay the rope straight out on the ground and use my arm and feet to roll the

hay bale onto it. Holding the rope in place with one foot, I can tie a knot. I

do that twice, then hook the bale to the pulley rope. (It’s not hard, I’ve

often done this.) I sit on the rope’s other end as I reach and pull. A

man is more than arms and legs, Pa said. (Tell that to Emma.)

Ma argued: It’s too much to attempt at this point. (She

might be right.) The bale rises—I’m scared I’ll

lose it. I don’t. I’ve got it! Pa calls down.

Look Deeper / Muriel

Look Deeper

Muriel

These buildings—they’re enormous!

How could people build something so high?

This is Washington, D.C.! I’ve never seen so many

people in one place—everyone rushing about

as if they have important business.

That lady’s hat is three times the size of her head—

it must take a hundred hat pins to hold it in place!

Ruby Madsen meets me at the station; I recognize her

by her gold-and-purple suffrage sash, her long black curls,

just as she described herself. She’s not much older than I am.

You must be Muriel! Are you hungry? Yes, and yes—

we go to the station café and sit down.

We are expecting Vera to be release tomorrow,

Ruby tells me. Until then, I show you around.

Will you like to see National Woman’s Party

headquarters while you’re here? I nod—there is so much

to see! Ruby has been in America for two years; she came

on her own from Denmark when she was seventeen.

I’d like to hear her whole life story, but she’s

anxious to get back to the picket line.

As we leave the café, I feel a tug at my skirt—

a girl about four years old, with dirty tear streaks

down her face, holds out her hand to me. I reach

into my pocket for a coin, but Ruby shakes her head

as we walk on. It’s a bad idea, she says,

to courage beggar children. This is not

a safe place for them—someone use

that little girl. The child’s face

stays with me—shouldn’t someone

help her? As we move through the station,

more children approach us, two boys, another