minmarn/Gone_with_the_wind · Datasets at Hugging Face

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three months ago when they had come home, by request, from the
University of Virginia.

"Well," said Stuart, "she hasn't had a chance to say anything yet.
Tom and us left home early this morning before she got up, and
Tom's laying out over at the Fontaines' while we came over here."

"Didn't she say anything when you got home last night?"

"We were in luck last night. Just before we got home that new
stallion Ma got in Kentucky last month was brought in, and the
place was in a stew. The big brute--he's a grand horse, Scarlett;
you must tell your pa to come over and see him right away--he'd
already bitten a hunk out of his groom on the way down here and
he'd trampled two of Ma's darkies who met the train at Jonesboro.
And just before we got home, he'd about kicked the stable down and
half-killed Strawberry, Ma's old stallion. When we got home, Ma
was out in the stable with a sackful of sugar smoothing him down
and doing it mighty well, too. The darkies were hanging from the
rafters, popeyed, they were so scared, but Ma was talking to the
horse like he was folks and he was eating out of her hand. There
ain't nobody like Ma with a horse. And when she saw us she said:
'In Heaven's name, what are you four doing home again? You're
worse than the plagues of Egypt!' And then the horse began
snorting and rearing and she said: 'Get out of here! Can't you
see he's nervous, the big darling? I'll tend to you four in the
morning!' So we went to bed, and this morning we got away before
she could catch us and left Boyd to handle her."

"Do you suppose she'll hit Boyd?" Scarlett, like the rest of the
County, could never get used to the way small Mrs. Tarleton
bullied her grown sons and laid her riding crop on their backs if
the occasion seemed to warrant it.

Beatrice Tarleton was a busy woman, having on her hands not only a
large cotton plantation, a hundred negroes and eight children, but
the largest horse-breeding farm in the state as well. She was
hot-tempered and easily plagued by the frequent scrapes of her
four sons, and while no one was permitted to whip a horse or a
slave, she felt that a lick now and then didn't do the boys any
harm.

"Of course she won't hit Boyd. She never did beat Boyd much
because he's the oldest and besides he's the runt of the litter,"
said Stuart, proud of his six feet two. "That's why we left him
at home to explain things to her. God'lmighty, Ma ought to stop
licking us! We're nineteen and Tom's twenty-one, and she acts
like we're six years old."

"Will your mother ride the new horse to the Wilkes barbecue
tomorrow?"

"She wants to, but Pa says he's too dangerous. And, anyway, the
girls won't let her. They said they were going to have her go to
one party at least like a lady, riding in the carriage."

"I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow," said Scarlett. "It's rained
nearly every day for a week. There's nothing worse than a
barbecue turned into an indoor picnic."

"Oh, it'll be clear tomorrow and hot as June," said Stuart.
"Look at that sunset. I never saw one redder. You can always
tell weather by sunsets."

They looked out across the endless acres of Gerald O'Hara's newly
plowed cotton fields toward the red horizon. Now that the sun was
setting in a welter of crimson behind the hills across the Flint
River, the warmth of the April day was ebbing into a faint but
balmy chill.

Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden
frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white
stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills. Already the plowing
was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored
the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues.
The moist hungry earth, waiting upturned for the cotton seeds,
showed pinkish on the sandy tops of furrows, vermilion and scarlet
and maroon where shadows lay along the sides of the trenches. The
whitewashed brick plantation house seemed an island set in a wild
red sea, a sea of spiraling, curving, crescent billows petrified
suddenly at the moment when the pink-tipped waves were breaking
into surf. For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could
be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia
country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations.
The rolling foothill country of north Georgia was plowed in a
million curves to keep the rich earth from washing down into the
river bottoms.

It was a savagely red land, blood-colored after rains, brick dust
in droughts, the best cotton land in the world. It was a pleasant
land of white houses, peaceful plowed fields and sluggish yellow
rivers, but a land of contrasts, of brightest sun glare and
densest shade. The plantation clearings and miles of cotton
fields smiled up to a warm sun, placid, complacent. At their
edges rose the virgin forests, dark and cool even in the hottest
noons, mysterious, a little sinister, the soughing pines seeming
to wait with an age-old patience, to threaten with soft sighs:
"Be careful! Be careful! We had you once. We can take you back
again."

three months ago when they had come home, by request, from the

University of Virginia.

"Well," said Stuart, "she hasn't had a chance to say anything yet.

Tom and us left home early this morning before she got up, and

Tom's laying out over at the Fontaines' while we came over here."

"Didn't she say anything when you got home last night?"

"We were in luck last night. Just before we got home that new

stallion Ma got in Kentucky last month was brought in, and the

place was in a stew. The big brute--he's a grand horse, Scarlett;

you must tell your pa to come over and see him right away--he'd

already bitten a hunk out of his groom on the way down here and

he'd trampled two of Ma's darkies who met the train at Jonesboro.

And just before we got home, he'd about kicked the stable down and

half-killed Strawberry, Ma's old stallion. When we got home, Ma

was out in the stable with a sackful of sugar smoothing him down

and doing it mighty well, too. The darkies were hanging from the

rafters, popeyed, they were so scared, but Ma was talking to the

horse like he was folks and he was eating out of her hand. There

ain't nobody like Ma with a horse. And when she saw us she said:

'In Heaven's name, what are you four doing home again? You're

worse than the plagues of Egypt!' And then the horse began

snorting and rearing and she said: 'Get out of here! Can't you

see he's nervous, the big darling? I'll tend to you four in the

morning!' So we went to bed, and this morning we got away before

she could catch us and left Boyd to handle her."

"Do you suppose she'll hit Boyd?" Scarlett, like the rest of the

County, could never get used to the way small Mrs. Tarleton

bullied her grown sons and laid her riding crop on their backs if

the occasion seemed to warrant it.

Beatrice Tarleton was a busy woman, having on her hands not only a

large cotton plantation, a hundred negroes and eight children, but

the largest horse-breeding farm in the state as well. She was

hot-tempered and easily plagued by the frequent scrapes of her

four sons, and while no one was permitted to whip a horse or a

slave, she felt that a lick now and then didn't do the boys any

harm.

"Of course she won't hit Boyd. She never did beat Boyd much

because he's the oldest and besides he's the runt of the litter,"

said Stuart, proud of his six feet two. "That's why we left him

at home to explain things to her. God'lmighty, Ma ought to stop

licking us! We're nineteen and Tom's twenty-one, and she acts

like we're six years old."

"Will your mother ride the new horse to the Wilkes barbecue

tomorrow?"

"She wants to, but Pa says he's too dangerous. And, anyway, the

girls won't let her. They said they were going to have her go to

one party at least like a lady, riding in the carriage."

"I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow," said Scarlett. "It's rained

nearly every day for a week. There's nothing worse than a

barbecue turned into an indoor picnic."

"Oh, it'll be clear tomorrow and hot as June," said Stuart.

"Look at that sunset. I never saw one redder. You can always

tell weather by sunsets."

They looked out across the endless acres of Gerald O'Hara's newly

plowed cotton fields toward the red horizon. Now that the sun was

setting in a welter of crimson behind the hills across the Flint

River, the warmth of the April day was ebbing into a faint but

balmy chill.

Spring had come early that year, with warm quick rains and sudden

frothing of pink peach blossoms and dogwood dappling with white

stars the dark river swamp and far-off hills. Already the plowing

was nearly finished, and the bloody glory of the sunset colored

the fresh-cut furrows of red Georgia clay to even redder hues.

The moist hungry earth, waiting upturned for the cotton seeds,

showed pinkish on the sandy tops of furrows, vermilion and scarlet

and maroon where shadows lay along the sides of the trenches. The

whitewashed brick plantation house seemed an island set in a wild

red sea, a sea of spiraling, curving, crescent billows petrified

suddenly at the moment when the pink-tipped waves were breaking

into surf. For here were no long, straight furrows, such as could

be seen in the yellow clay fields of the flat middle Georgia

country or in the lush black earth of the coastal plantations.

The rolling foothill country of north Georgia was plowed in a

million curves to keep the rich earth from washing down into the

river bottoms.

It was a savagely red land, blood-colored after rains, brick dust

in droughts, the best cotton land in the world. It was a pleasant

land of white houses, peaceful plowed fields and sluggish yellow

rivers, but a land of contrasts, of brightest sun glare and

densest shade. The plantation clearings and miles of cotton

fields smiled up to a warm sun, placid, complacent. At their

edges rose the virgin forests, dark and cool even in the hottest

noons, mysterious, a little sinister, the soughing pines seeming

to wait with an age-old patience, to threaten with soft sighs:

"Be careful! Be careful! We had you once. We can take you back

again."