but he follow me—I am close to cry when Vera

walk right up, just like she know me:

“Oh, there you are,” she say, in English—

but I can hear Danish in her accent!

“I’m sorry to be late,” she say. “Your father

was delay and he can’t meet you. Come along

home now.” That man disappear like a mouse into a

hole in the wall! I never see Vera before in my life,

but she introduce herself, speaking Danish,

and then she bring me to Hull House—

you know it? A settlement house in Chicago.

They helping me so much, I want to help

other people, and when I hear they need teacher

in Washington, I come, and now I’m here ten month.

Vera always stay with me when she come to Washington.

She find my name in English because people

can’t pronounce my Danish name, Ragnhild.

I smile at that—it is hard to pronounce.

I don’t think I could do what Ruby has done.

I think about waking up at home: the smell of biscuits

and fried eggs, the rooster’s boisterous “good morning,”

the whisper of Crabapple Creek against the stones. I’ve lived

in the same place since I was born, I tell Ruby,

and soon I’m telling her all about my life,

as if it is as interesting as her own. She asks me

questions about Frank and Ollie, Mr. Sander;

I tell her I despise this war, but I hardly ever

dare to say so. I wish women could vote,

I venture, and Ruby answers, Wishing

won’t happen it. We’ve walked

two and a half miles. Look—the White House.

It’s even bigger, more imposing than it appears

on picture postcards. It makes the women

standing with their banners at the gate

look awfully small, but when Ruby

introduces me to them, each one in turn

smiles and miraculously becomes a giant.

Picket Line / Muriel

Picket Line

Muriel

A light snow is falling as I meet

the women on the picket line—

Lucinda Schultz wears her hair like Emma’s;

Mrs. Ellis reminds me of my fourth-grade teacher;

Mary McGill tilts her head to one side, like

the Normans’ photograph of Great-aunt Sarah.

Some of these women are Mama’s age, some are closer

to mine; some wear expensive fur coats, others threadbare cloth.

Ruby steps into the line to hold a banner with Lucinda:

DENMARK ON THE VERGE OF WAR GAVE WOMEN THE VOTE.

WHY NOT GIVE IT TO AMERICAN WOMEN NOW?

I don’t join the line; I stand aside to watch.

When four young men approach the picketers,

a crowd gathers, watching and cheering—clearly they

expect something to happen. A little girl stands on tiptoe

peering through the crowd, and her mother pulls

her back, glancing at the women in the picket line

as if they, and not the four young men, are dangerous.