飘

　Her　search　was　rewarded　but　she　was　too　tired　even　to　feel　pleasure　at　the　sight　of　turnips　and　cabbages；　wilted　for　want　of　water　but　still　standing；　and　straggling　butter　beans　and　snap　beans；　yellow　but　edible。　She　sat　down　in　the　furrows　and　dug　into　the　earth　with　hands　that　shook；　filling　her　basket　slowly。　There　would　be　a　good　meal　at　Tara　tonight；　in　spite　of　the　lack　of　side　meat　to　boil　with　the　vegetables。　Perhaps　some　of　the　bacon　grease　Dilcey　was　using　for　illumination　could　be　used　for　seasoning。　She　must　remember　to　tell　Dilcey　to　use　pine　knots　and　save　the　grease　for　cooking。
　Close　to　the　back　step　of　one　cabin；　she　found　a　short　row　of　radishes　and　hunger　assaulted　her　suddenly。　A　spicy；　sharp…tasting　radish　was　exactly　what　her　stomach　craved。　Hardly　waiting　to　rub　the　dirt　off　on　her　skirt；　she　bit　off　half　and　swallowed　it　hastily。　It　was　old　and　coarse　and　so　peppery　that　tears　started　in　her　eyes。　No　sooner　had　the　lump　gone　down　than　her　empty　outraged　stomach　revolted　and　she　lay　in　the　soft　dirt　and　vomited　tiredly。
　The　faint　niggery　smell　which　crept　from　the　cabin　increased　her　nausea　and；　without　strength　to　combat　it；　she　kept　on　retching　miserably　while　the　cabins　and　trees　revolved　swiftly　around　her。
　After　a　long　time；　she　lay　weakly　on　her　face；　the　earth　as　soft　and　comfortable　as　a　feather　pillow；　and　her　mind　wandered　feebly　here　and　there。　She；　Scarlett　O’Hara。　was　lying　behind　a　negro　cabin；　in　the　midst　of　ruins；　too　sick　and　too　weak　to　move；　and　no　one　in　the　world　knew　or　cared。　No　one　would　care　if　they　did　know；　for　everyone　had　too　many　troubles　of　his　own　to　worry　about　her。　And　all　this　was　happening　to　her；　Scarlett　O’Hara；　who　had　never　raised　her　hand　even　to　pick　up　her　discarded　stockings　from　the　floor　or　to　tie　the　laces　of　her　slippers—Scarlett；　whose　little　headaches　and　tempers　had　been　coddled　and　catered　to　all　her　life。
　As　she　lay　prostrate；　too　weak　to　fight　off　memories　and　worries；　they　rushed　at　her　like　buzzards　waiting　for　death。　No　longer　had　she　the　strength　to　say：　I’ll　think　of　Mother　and　Pa　and　Ashley　and　all　this　ruin　later—　Yes；　later　when　I　can　stand　it。”　She　could　not　stand　it　now；　but　she　was　thinking　of　them　whether　she　willed　it　or　not。　The　thoughts　circled　and　swooped　above　her；　dived　down　and　drove　tearing　claws　and　sharp　beaks　into　her　mind。　For　a　timeless　time；　she　lay　still；　her　face　in　the　dirt；　the　sun　beating　hotly　upon　her；　remembering　things　and　people　who　were　dead；　remembering　a　way　of　living　that　was　gone　forever—and　looking　upon　the　harsh　vista　of　the　dark　future。
　When　she　arose　at　last　and　saw　again　the　black　ruins　of　Twelve　Oaks；　her　head　was　raised　high　and　something　that　was　youth　and　beauty　and　potential　tenderness　had　gone　out　of　her　face　forever。　What　was　past　was　past。　Those　who　were　dead　were　dead。　The　lazy　luxury　of　the　old　days　was　gone；　never　to　return。　And；　as　Scarlett　settled　the　heavy　basket　across　her　arm；　she　had　settled　her　own　mind　and　her　own　life。
　There　was　no　going　back　and　she　was　going　forward。
　Throughout　the　South　for　fifty　years　there　would　be　bitter…eyed　women　who　looked　backward；　to　dead　times；　to　dead　men；　evoking　memories　that　hurt　and　were　futile；　bearing　poverty　with　bitter　pride　because　they　had　those　memories。　But　Scarlett　was　never　to　look　back。
　She　gazed　at　the　blackened　stones　and；　for　the　last　time；　she　saw　Twelve　Oaks　rise　before　her　eyes　as　it　had　once　stood；　rich　and　proud；　symbol　of　a　race　and　a　way　of　living。　Then　she　started　down　the　road　toward　Tara；　the　heavy　basket　cutting　into　her　flesh。
　Hunger　gnawed　at　her　empty　stomach　again　and　she　said　aloud：　“As　God　is　my　witness；　as　God　is　my　witness；　the　Yankees　aren’t　going　to　lick　me。　I’m　going　to　live　through　this；　and　when　it’s　over；　I’m　never　going　to　be　hungry　again。　No；　nor　any　of　my　folks。　If　I　have　to　steal　or　kill—　as　God　is　my　witness；　I’m　never　going　to　be　hungry　again。”
　
　In　the　days　that　followed；　Tara　might　have　been　Crusoe’s　desert　island；　so　still　it　was；　so　isolated　from　the　rest　of　the　world。　The　world　lay　only　a　few　miles　away；　but　a　thousand　miles　of　tumbling　waves　might　have　stretched　between　Tara　and　Jonesboro　and　Fayetteville　and　Lovejoy；　even　between　Tara　and　the　neighbors’　plantations。　With　the　old　horse　dead；　their　one　mode　of　conveyance　was　gone；　and　there　was　neither　time　nor　strength　for　walking　the　weary　red　miles。
　Sometimes；　in　the　days　of　backbreaking　work；　in　the　desperate　struggle　for　food　and　the　never…ceasing　care　of　the　three　sick　girls；　Scarlett　found　herself　straining　her　ears　for　familiar　sounds—the　shrill　laughter　of　the　pickaninnies　in　the　quarters；　the　creaking　of　wagons　home　from　the　fields；　the　thunder　of　Gerald’s　stallion　tearing　across　the　pasture；　the　crunching　of　carriage　wheels　on　the　drive　and　the　gay　voices　of　neighbors　dropping　in　for　an　afternoon　of　gossip。　But　she　listened　in　vain。　The　road　lay　still　and　deserted　and　never　a　cloud　of　red　dust　proclaimed　the　approach　of　visitors。　Tara　was　an　island　in　a　sea　of　rolling　green　hills　and　red　fields。
　Somewhere　was　the　world　and　families　who　ate　and　slept　safely　under　their　own　roofs。　Somewhere　girls　in　thrice…turned　dresses　were　flirting　gaily　and　singing　“When　This　Cruel　War　Is　Over；”　as　she　had　done；　only　a　few　weeks　before。　Somewhere　there　was　a　war　and　cannon　booming　and　burning　towns　and　men　who　rotted　in　hospitals　amid　sickening…sweet　stinks。　Somewhere　a　barefoot　army　in　dirty　homespun　was　marching；　fighting；　sleeping；　hungry　and　weary　with　the　weariness　that　comes　when　hope　is　gone。　And　somewhere　the　hills　of　Georgia　were　blue　with　Yankees；　well…fed　Yankees　on　sleek　corn…stuffed　horses。
　Beyond　Tara　was　the　war　and　the　world。　But　on　the　plantation　the　war　and　the　world　did　not　exist　except　as　memories　which　must　be　fought　back　when　they　rushed　to　mind　in　moments　of　exhaustion。　The　world　outside　receded　before　the　demands　of　empty　and　half…empty　stomachs　and　life　resolved　itself　into　two　related　thoughts；　food　and　how　to　get　it。
　Food！　Food！　Why　did　the　stomach　have　a　longer　memory　man　the　mind？　Scarlett　could　banish　heartbreak　but　not　hunger　and　each　morning　as　she　lay　half　asleep；　before　memory　brought　back　to　her　mind　war　and　hunger；　she　curled　drowsily　expecting　the　sweet　smells　of　bacon　frying　and　rolls　baking。　And　each　morning　she　sniffed　so　hard　to　really　smell　the　food　she　woke　herself　up。
　There　were　apples；　yams；　peanuts　and　milk　on　the　table　at　Tara　but　never　enough　of　even　this　primitive　fare。　At　the　sight　of　them；　three　times　a　day；　her　memory　would　rush　back　to　the　old　days；　the　meals　of　the　old　days；　the　candle…lit　table　and　the　food　perfuming　the　air。
　How　careless　they　had　been　of　food　then；　what　prodigal　waste！　Rolls；　corn　muffins；　biscuits　and　waffles；　dripping　butter；　all　at　one　meal。　Ham　at　one　end　of　the　table　and　fried　chicken　at　the　other；　collards　swimming　richly　in　pot　liquor　iridescent　with　grease；　snap　beans　in　mountains　on　brightly　flowered　porcelain；　fried　squash；　stewed　okra；　carrots　in　cream　sauce　thick　enough　to　cut。　And　three　desserts；　so　everyone　might　have　his　choice；　chocolate　layer　cake；　vanilla　blanc　mange　and　pound　cake　topped　with　sweet　whipped　cream。　The　memory　of　those　savory　meals　had　the　power　to　bring　tears　to　her　eyes　as　death　and　war　had　failed　to　do；　and　the　power　to　turn　her　ever…gnawing　stomach　from　rumbling　emptiness　to　nausea。　For　the　appetite　Mammy　had　always　deplored；　the　healthy　appetite　of　a　nineteen…year…old　girl；　now　was　increased　fourfold　by　the　hard　and　unremitting　labor　she　had　never　known　before。
　Hers　was　not　the　only　troublesome　appetite　at　Tara；　for　wherever　she　turned　hungry　faces；　black　and　white；　met　her　eyes。　Soon　Carreen　and　Suellen　would　have　the　insatiable　hunger　of　typhoid　convalescents。　Already　little　Wade　whined　monotonously：　“Wade　doan　like　yams。　Wade　hungwy。”
　The　others　grumbled；　too：
　“Miss　Scarlett；　‘ness　I　gits　mo’　to　eat；　I　kain　nuss　neither　of　these　chillun。”
　“Miss　Scarlett；　ef　Ah　doan　have　mo’　in　mah　stummick；　Ah　kain　split　no　wood。”
　“Lamb；　Ah’s　perishra’　fer　real　vittles。”
　“Daughter；　must　we　always　have　yams？”
　Only　Melanie　did　not　complain；　Melanie　whose　face　grew　thinner　and　whiter　and　twitched　with　pain　even　in　her　sleep。
　“I’m　not　hungry；　Scarlett。　Give　my　share　of　the　milk　to　Dilcey。　She　needs　it　to　nurse　the　babies。　Sick　people　are　never　hungry。”
　It　was　her　gentle　hardihood　which　irritated　Scarlett　more　than　the　nagging　whining　voices　of　the　others。　She　could—and　did—shout　them　down　with　bitter　sarcasm　but　before　Melanie’s　unselfishness　she　was　helpless；　helpless　and　resentful。　Gerald；　the　negroes　and　Wade　clung　to　Melanie　now；　because　even　in　her　weakness　she　was　kind　and　sympathetic；　and　these　days　Scarlett　was　neither。
　Wade　especially　haunted　Melanie’s　room。　There　was　something　wrong　with　Wade；　but　just　what　it　was　Scarlett　had　no　time　to　discover。　She　took　Mammy’s　word　that　the　little　boy　had　worms　and　dosed　him　with　the　mixture　of　dried　herbs　and　bark　which　Ellen　always　used　to　worm　the　pickaninnies。　But　the　vermifuge　only　made　the　child　look　paler。　These　days　Scarlett　hardly　thought　of　Wade　as　a　person。　He　was　only　another　worry；　another　mou