The Strike at Putney Page #3

"The Strike at Putney" is a novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery that delves into themes of social justice, community resilience, and the struggle for workers' rights. Set in the early 20th century, the story unfolds in the fictional town of Putney, where a labor strike leads to tensions between the working class and the authorities. Through well-drawn characters and poignant storytelling, Montgomery explores the complexities of human relationships against the backdrop of a significant social movement, highlighting the power of solidarity and the pursuit of fair treatment for all.

• Short story

								

here too. Where were the sopranos and the altos? Myra Wilson and
Alethea Craig and several other members of the choir were sitting down
in their pews with perfectly unconscious faces. Myra was looking out
of the window into the tangled sunlight and shadow of the great
maples. Alethea Craig was reading her Bible.

Presently Frances Spenslow came in. Frances was organist, but today,
instead of walking up to the platform, she slipped demurely into her
father's pew at one side of the pulpit. Eben Craig, who was the Putney
singing master and felt himself responsible for the choir, fidgeted
uneasily. He tried to catch Frances's eye, but she was absorbed in
reading the mission report she had found in the rack, and Eben was
finally forced to tiptoe down to the Spenslow pew and whisper, "Miss
Spenslow, the minister is waiting for the doxology. Aren't you going
to take the organ?"

Frances looked up calmly. Her clear, placid voice was audible not only
to those in the nearby pews, but to the minister.

"No, Mr. Craig. You know if a woman isn't fit to speak in the church
she can't be fit to sing in it either."

Eben Craig looked exceedingly foolish. He tiptoed gingerly back to his
place. The minister, with an unusual flush on his thin, ascetic face,
rose suddenly and gave out the opening hymn.

Nobody who heard the singing in Putney church that day ever forgot it.
Untrained basses and tenors, unrelieved by a single female voice, are
not inspiring.

There were no announcements of society meetings for the forthcoming
week. On the way home from church that day irate husbands and fathers
scolded, argued, or pleaded, according to their several dispositions.
One and all met with the same calm statement that if a noble,
self-sacrificing woman like Mrs. Cotterell were not good enough to
speak in the Putney church, ordinary, everyday women could not be fit
to take any part whatever in its work.

Sunday School that afternoon was a harrowing failure. Out of all the
corps of teachers only one was a man, and he alone was at his post. In
the Christian Endeavour meeting on Tuesday night the feminine element
sat dumb and unresponsive. The Putney women never did things by
halves.

The men held out for two weeks. At the end of that time they
"happened" to meet at the manse and talked the matter over with the
harassed minister. Elder Knox said gloomily, "It's this way. Nothing
can move them women. I know, for I've tried. My authority has been set
at naught in my own household. And I'm laughed at if I show my face in
any of the other settlements."

The Sunday School superintendent said the Sunday School was going to
wrack and ruin, also the Christian Endeavour. The condition of the
church for dust was something scandalous, and strangers were making a
mockery of the singing. And the carpet had to be paid for. He supposed
they would have to let the women have their own way.

The next Sunday evening after service Mr. Sinclair arose hesitatingly.
His face was flushed, and Alethea Craig always declared that he looked
"just plain everyday cross." He announced briefly that the session
after due deliberation had concluded that Mrs. Cotterell might occupy
the pulpit on the evening appointed for her address.

The women all over the church smiled broadly. Frances Spenslow got up
and went to the organ stool. The singing in the last hymn was good and
hearty. Going down the steps after dismissal Mrs. Elder Knox caught
the secretary of the Church Aid by the arm.

"I guess," she whispered anxiously, "you'd better call a special
meeting of the Aids at my house tomorrow afternoon. If we're to get
that social over before haying begins we've got to do some smart
scurrying."

The strike in the Putney church was over.
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