A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

ashore again, refreshed by the ride.

Only the men did this; the women were too busy.

The women do all kinds of work on the continent. They dig,

they hoe, they reap, they sow, they bear monstrous burdens

on their backs, they shove similar ones long distances

on wheelbarrows, they drag the cart when there is no dog

or lean cow to drag it–and when there is, they assist

the dog or cow. Age is no matter–the older the woman

the stronger she is, apparently. On the farm a woman’s

duties are not defined–she does a little of everything;

but in the towns it is different, there she only does

certain things, the men do the rest. For instance,

a hotel chambermaid has nothing to do but make beds and

fires in fifty or sixty rooms, bring towels and candles,

and fetch several tons of water up several flights of stairs,

a hundred pounds at a time, in prodigious metal pitchers.

She does not have to work more than eighteen or twenty hours

a day, and she can always get down on her knees and scrub

the floors of halls and closets when she is tired and needs

a rest.

As the morning advanced and the weather grew hot, we took

off our outside clothing and sat in a row along the edge

of the raft and enjoyed the scenery, with our sun-umbrellas

over our heads and our legs dangling in the water.

Every now and then we plunged in and had a swim.

Every projecting grassy cape had its joyous group

of naked children, the boys to themselves and the girls

to themselves, the latter usually in care of some motherly

dame who sat in the shade of a tree with her knitting.

The little boys swam out to us, sometimes, but the little

maids stood knee-deep in the water and stopped their splashing

and frolicking to inspect the raft with their innocent

eyes as it drifted by. Once we turned a corner suddenly

and surprised a slender girl of twelve years or upward,

just stepping into the water. She had not time to run,

but she did what answered just as well; she promptly

drew a lithe young willow bough athwart her white body

with one hand, and then contemplated us with a simple and

untroubled interest. Thus she stood while we glided by.

She was a pretty creature, and she and her willow bough

made a very pretty picture, and one which could not

offend the modesty of the most fastidious spectator.

Her white skin had a low bank of fresh green willows for

background and effective contrast–for she stood against

them–and above and out of them projected the eager faces

and white shoulders of two smaller girls.

Toward noon we heard the inspiring cry:

“Sail ho!”

“Where away?” shouted the captain.

“Three points off the weather bow!”

We ran forward to see the vessel. It proved to be

a steamboat–for they had begun to run a steamer up

the Neckar, for the first time in May. She was a tug,

and one of a very peculiar build and aspect. I had

often watched her from the hotel, and wondered how she

propelled herself, for apparently she had no propeller

or paddles. She came churning along, now, making a deal

of noise of one kind or another, and aggravating it every

now and then by blowing a hoarse whistle. She had nine

keel-boats hitched on behind and following after her

in a long, slender rank. We met her in a narrow place,

between dikes, and there was hardly room for us both in the

cramped passage. As she went grinding and groaning by,

we perceived the secret of her moving impulse. She did

not drive herself up the river with paddles or propeller,

she pulled herself by hauling on a great chain.

This chain is laid in the bed of the river and is only

fastened at the two ends. It is seventy miles long.

It comes in over the boat’s bow, passes around a drum,

and is payed out astern. She pulls on that chain,

and so drags herself up the river or down it. She has