Nellie Letitia McClung — novellutmaningen

Nellie McClung

Det tog en stund innan jag lyckades hitta en kalender med numrerade veckor, så att jag visste när vecka 36 inträffade. Veckan då novellutmaningen tar sin början.

Nu vet jag, och tänkte att det är lika bra att jag lägger mig i startgroparna (fast en grop räcker väl?), så jag har börjat välja ut lämpliga noveller. I början, när många noveller passar in under många temata, ligger svårigheten i att välja vilket tema jag ska välja — för jag vet ju att på slutet kommer jag att irritera mig över att jag redan använt en rubrik, som jag skulle behöva. 

Nu har jag börjat läsa noveller och lyrik av den intressanta kanadensiska författaren, kvinnosakskvinnan och reformatorn Nellie Letitia McClung (1873 - 1951). Flera av hennes böcker hittar du hos Gutenberg.

Jag presenterar mitt val av novell i nästa vecka, men här kommer en av hennes verser från boken "Be Good to Yourself. A Book of Short Stories" (1930).

THE ROARIN' GAME

Curling is a splendid sport for women. Not only does it provide healthful exercise, opportunities for self-control, and good sportsmanship, but being primarily a man's sport, it makes for better understanding between men and women. A man can understand how his wife may be late in getting home from a curling game much easier than if she has been at a missionary meeting.

MAGIC

She parks her baby with a friend,

She piles her dishes in the sink,

Pulls on her sweater, grabs her broom,

And hurries over to the rink.

She would have had her dishes done,

But she was drawn to curl at one.

She wins her game—and so is drawn

To curl again at half-past three;

This is a bear-cat of a game

Against an ancient enemy.

When she comes out, the lamps gleam high,

Like stars against the dull, gray sky.

Now by all things that we have learned

Of husbands and their ways,

This woman's man will angry be,

And grievous trouble raise

When he comes home, at close of day,

And finds his dear wife—far away.

He goes and brings his offspring home,

He lights the kitchen fire,

He sets the supper on to cook;

No trace of slumbering ire;

But knowing what we do of life

We tremble for the erring wife!

At half-past six her step is heard,

Her voice is full of joy:

"O Bill!—I didn't do a thing

To Mrs. Pomeroy!

I took her out with my last stone,

And we were one up coming home."

And as he stirred the baby's food

He said, "I'm glad you lammed her good!"