lady," he said in a high voice,
"if I had of been there I would
of known and I wouldn't be
like I am now." His voice
seemed about to crack and the
grandmother's head cleared for
an instant. She saw the man's
face twisted close to her own
as if he were going to cry and
she murmured, "Why you're
one of my babies. You're one
of my own children!" She
reached out and touched him
on the shoulder. The Misfit
sprang back as if a snake had
bitten him and shot her three
times through the chest. Then
he put his gun down on the
ground and took off his glasses
and began to clean them.
Hiram and Bobby Lee returned
from the woods and stood over
the ditch, looking down at the
grandmother who half sat and
half lay in a puddle of blood
with her legs crossed under her
like a child's and her face
smiling up at the cloudless sky.
Without his glasses, The
Misfit's eyes were red-rimmed
and pale and defenseless-
looking. "Take her off and
thow her where you shown the
others," he said, picking up the
cat that was rubbing itself
against his leg.
"She was a talker, wasn't she?"
Bobby Lee said, sliding down
the ditch with a yodel.
"She would of been a good
woman," The Misfit said, "if it
had been somebody there to
shoot her every minute of her
life."
"Some fun!" Bobby Lee said.
"Shut up, Bobby Lee" The
Misfit said. "It's no real
pleasure in life."
THE SNOWS OF KILIMANJARO BY E
This short story -- written in
1938 -- reflects several of
Hemingway's personal
JOY FEELINGS | DECEMBER ISSUE
249