Hardihood* "Realism Has Crossed the Potomac," by Ferry The Story. "Broom sedge," old Matthew Fairlamb used to say, "ain't jest wild stuff. It's a kind of fate." Opposed only by ignorance and indigence, it crowded Virginia farmlands, Pedlar's Mill in particular, into hopelessness. Men either subsided into rutslike Dorinda Oakley's plodding father and slaving mother; or their lives straggled, grew weedy like Dr. Graylock with his whiskey, yellow wench and brood of pickaninnies at dilapidated Five Oaks. Walking early and late to work at the store in Pedlar's Mill, Dorinda wore a flame-colored...
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