Prairie Girl

Prairie girl

by Chrissie LaFemme

The driver from the orphanage sighed.

The ranch buildings in front of him were in a dilapidated state and stood out like a sore thumb in the beautiful but remote countryside in which it was located. He had driven for almost three days to reach the place.

It was not the ranch though that depressed him it was the thought of meeting the rancher and his wife that made him feel heavy hearted. He had seen them when they had visited the orphanage three months before. He remembered the rancher's rough manner and equally rough temperament.

His wife had been different though, quieter, more subdued; 'close to tears' was how one of the cooks in the orphanage had described her. 'A high-born lady who'd married beneath her' was the consensus in the kitchen.

The rancher approached him with a scowl on his face.

"Who are you and want do you want around here?" he demanded in a menacing voice.

The driver explained who he was and why he was there.

"They're in the back," he concluded, indicating the back of his wagon.

The rancher gave him a smug look.

"Ah yes, we've been expecting them," he said. "Me and my wife have no kids of our own so we'll treat them real good!"

"OK, you guys, we're here," the driver called, opening the canvas cover.

Three boys clambered out and looked around them.

"Hey! What gives? There's three of 'em!" the rancher exclaimed in surprise. "The lady in the orphanage said we were only getting two?"

"No, I was told three. Mrs. Mellon ... she's the matron ... she picked out these three," the driver said, scratching his head. "You say you were told you were getting two: want me to bring back one?"

"Uh? No, no, no, ... my memory must've slipped me ... yes, it was three ..." the rancher replied hastily. "No, we'll take 'em."

The driver took out a piece of paper from his pocket and asked the rancher to sign the form. He handed the rancher a sealed letter which he said was from Mrs. Mellon to his wife.

Before the driver left he warned the rancher that if any of the boys escaped the others would be taken from him.

He wished the boys good luck and as he clicked the horses away on the long journey back to the orphanage he saw the rancher giving one of boys a cuff on the side of the head. He wanted to turn around and take the kids back with him but he knew it wasn't possible. He sighed, he had seen this situation so many times before: young boys from the orphanage being used virtually as unpaid laborers by unscrupulous ranchers. But the orphanage was under pressure to make space for new arrivals so the older children were placed wherever they could.

++++++++++++++++

The rancher told the three cowering boys in front of him he was to be known as Boss. He showed the boys to their quarters, a large, draughty building, set a short distance from the two-storey house where Boss and his wife lived.

Two make-shift beds had been set against one wall. There they met the rancher's wife, Queenie, who was putting blankets on straw mattresses.

"They've come," Boss grunted to her.

"There's three of them -- you didn't tell me about a third one -- I've only made beds for two!" she said sharply.

"Well, you'll have to make another bed cos' we've got three now!" her husband retorted.

The new arrivals felt the woman's piercing blue eyes scrutinize them.

"Look at that small skinny one!" she hissed, pointing at the boy in the middle. "He'll never last a day out with the herds! You're a fool for taking him!"

Boss looked at the boy.

"Damn orphanage -- I asked for big strapping guys and I get these two and this little weakling!" he cursed loudly. "The driver said that woman in the orphanage ... what's her name ... ?"

"Mrs. Mellon," his wife interjected.

"Yeah, Mrs. Mellon ... picked them out. Uh, that reminds me, the driver said this was for you," Boss said, taking an envelope out of his pocket and passing it to her. "She's doing this to spite me -- I never liked that stuck-up bitch anyway!"

The other two bigger boys looked protectively at the blonde- haired boy in between them. He hardly came to their shoulder and compared to him they were built like giants. They were used to manual labor from their days in the orphanage but their friend looked like he couldn't lift a stone.

Boss continued to rent the air with his curses. The atmosphere in the building became ominous and threatening. The two bigger boys feared the enraged farmer might do their companion harm.

"I'll take him."

"You'll what?" spluttered Boss.

"I'll take him," his wife repeated, quickly putting the letter she had been reading into her pocket. "He's plainly not suitable for outdoor work. He wouldn't last two days out there!"

"What would you do with him?" Boss demanded.

"I have plenty of work for him," Queenie assured him. "With three extra mouths to feed I'll be stretched to my limit, but with him I'll be able to get through the work."

Boss looked at her incredulously.

"He'll work with me ... end of story," he snarled.

The woman fell silent but the two bigger boys saw that her eyes never left their blonde companion.

The next day the three boys accompanied Boss out to where the herds were grazing; the work was hard and unremitting. The two bigger boys coped with the workload but their smaller companion struggled. Despite Boss's curses and wallops the boy was not able to work any faster.

When they returned to the ranch that evening for dinner the boy was hardly able to eat his meal from exhaustion. The woman had a broad smirk on her face as she served dinner.

The same pattern was repeated the next day; this time Boss found himself losing his temper at regular intervals. It was clear that the boy was not up to the physical work in the fields.

Boss hated to be proven wrong by his wife and especially in front of the two older boys, Homer and Dutchie. But he was losing so much time over the slightly built youngster that he had no choice. He decided, however, to keep the boy one last day in the field to at least prove his wife wrong that he wouldn't last two days.

During dinner time Queenie asked the boy to show her his hands.

"I've never seen such soft hands on a boy!" she exclaimed in wonderment, taking his hand in hers. Seeing that his hands had cuts and bruises she offered to put ointment on them. But Boss roared angrily at her to mind her own business.

Boss was to regret his decision to keep the boy one extra day. He spent so much time supervising the smaller boy that hardly any work was done that day. When they arrived back at the ranch that evening he yelled impatiently for his wife. Queenie appeared in the kitchen doorway, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Grabbing the small boy by the collar Boss shoved him in her direction.

"OK, you're in charge of him, do you hear! If he steps out of line or tries to escape, you've had it!" he roared at her.

Queenie turned pale.

"I'll see that it doesn't happen," she replied, recovering her composure. Then, beckoning to the fair-headed boy she said: "In here, Blondie."

Homer and Dutchie watched as their younger companion shuffled slowly towards the kitchen.

"I'm in charge of him now, Boss: he's my responsibility now, OK?" Queenie asserted.

Boss shrugged dismissively: "You can do what you like with him, he's useless!"

Homer and Dutchie saw the woman give the boy a gloating, almost possessive, look as he passed by her. She followed him into the kitchen and shut the door behind her.

++++++++++++++++

A routine was gradually established. Queenie was first up and when she had dressed she would go out to the building where the boys had been locked in for the night and wake her fair- haired assistant. Together they would prepare breakfast for Boss and the two bigger boys, Homer and Dutchie. Then they would fill bags with food and drink which Boss and his helpers would have for their mid-day meal.

They would wash the breakfast dishes when Boss and the two boys had saddled up and departed for the day. Next they would tidy the house and collect items for the laundry. Washing was done in a large tub for which they had to collect water in buckets from the well.

After lunch they would feed the farm animals before going inside to prepare the dinner. Dinner was served at six, sometimes it was later. They always knew when Boss and the two boys were coming: the barks of the dogs would herald their arrival. After dinner Boss would lock the two bigger boys into their quarters for the night. Queenie and Blondie would then clear away the table and wash the dishes. When she was satisfied that the kitchen was clean Blondie too was brought out to the out-house and locked in with the other two boys.

Then Queenie would sit with Boss until it was time for bed. Sometimes they would talk but mostly they sat in silence, she sewing and he smoking his pipe or drinking.

++++++++++++++++

Though they were in each other's company all day they rarely spoke apart from Queenie giving Blondie instructions and he acknowledging his understanding of them.

He liked to keep his distance from her: he showed that by chatting and joking with Homer and Dutchie at meal-times. It irked her that when he was in their presence he liked to behave as if she didn't exist.

Though he was not their equal in size he liked to demonstrate to Homer and Dutchie that in other ways he was as manly as they were.

He rebuffed any attempt she made to initiate conversation. She knew very little about him apart from that he had come from a large family. She sensed he wanted to keep his past to himself. When she discreetly questioned Homer and Dutchie about his background she discovered that they knew very little about him either.

What they had said about him was that in the orphanage though he was small in stature he made up for it with his derring- do, 'I'm-afraid-of-nothing' behavior. When volunteers were needed for a raid on the orphanage's kitchen, Blondie was the first to offer his name.

This trait in Blondie, she noted, had been slow to surface but when it did it was Boss, not her, that was the target of his antics. He started mimicing Boss behind his back -- much to the startled but amused delight of the two older boys. Then he started playing pranks on Boss: cutting his meat into baby-sized bites and covering his knife and fork with gravy. It was predictable that Boss would eventually respond to BlondieНs taunting with his fists. When one evening Boss could take no more from Blondie it was she who stepped in to prevent him from a savage beating.

"Just keep him under control!" Boss thundered, slowly sitting down. Smoldering with fury, he jabbed a finger over her shoulder at Blondie: "Try to smart-ass me once more and I'll ..."

She had pushed Blondie back into the safety of the kitchen until Boss had cooled down.

Her intervention set a pattern. Blondie would provoke and tease Boss safe in the knowledge that if a thrashing seemed inevitable she would step in to intervene. Occasionally, if she thought Blondie had over-stepped the mark, she would allow Boss to box his ears.

She found the situation slightly amusing. Here was Blondie, the smallest of the three boys, taunting Boss -- something Homer and Dutchie would never dare to do. Yet at the first sign of trouble he hid behind her skirts. It amused her too that she could control his behavior; if he over-stepped himself he knew he couldn't rely on her for protection. Mostly though, she wished he would not put her in these situations of confronting her husband.

On the other hand, she had little cause for complaint as Blondie was a good worker: he kept the kitchen neat and tidy; he did his chores promptly and without protest; he had become a good cook (a fact appreciated by Boss and the two boys). He seemed glad not to be out working with the others though he never admitted it. Homer and Dutchie liked to tease him about his soft, easy job as a 'maid'.

Queenie though she was glad he was a willing worker found his presence increasingly uncomfortable. She realized deep down she was afraid of him. She feared that Blondie would try to escape: sometimes she woke up in a sweat at night thinking of what her husband would do to her if he did.

Her other great fear was that some day he would attack her before escaping and by the time Boss returned home he would be long gone. In this scenario she pictured herself as a defenceless female at the mercy of a vengeful man.

The responsibility of watching him all day was a much greater mental strain then she had anticipated. She tried to reassure herself that if he did attack her she would be able to defend herself. She knew she was stronger than him: she had just been able to lift a bag of corn while he could barely budge it.

Yet there were times she was glad he was around. Before his arrival she had a long day on her own and even when Boss was at home in the evenings sometimes he hardly spoke to her. Though she only gave orders to Blondie at least she was communicating with another person. She was uneasy though because she never knew what was going on in his mind. She imagined he must hate her -- particularly for making him do women's work.

++++++++++++++++

One day Queenie sent him out at noon to feed the hens. When he hadn't returned after a quarter of an hour, cold fear clutched her heart. She ran outside calling him: there was no answer.

Trembling with fear she searched the out-buildings. To her horror she could hear her husband's dogs in the distance; she realized that he must be coming home early. Panic-stricken, she intensified her search for the missing boy. Even if she saw the boy, she said to herself in a panic, with her long skirts she would never be able to catch him.

She had searched all the out-buildings bar one: an old shed where a young calf was tethered. Opening the door cautiously she caught sight of a movement beneath the straw. She pounced and dragged the boy out of his hiding place.

Queenie was white with anger. The boy lay shaking with fear on the ground while the calf tied to a ring on the wall gazed at both of them in dumb curiosity.

What happened next was like a blur to Queenie, a searing anger exploded deep inside her obliterating all her natural instincts. She seized a length of rope and struggle though he might, Queenie soon had the boy's wrists tied behind his back. She dragged him back to the house and then to the spare bedroom upstairs. There she opened a large empty closet and pushed the boy in locking the solid wooden doors behind him.

She rushed downstairs to meet her husband to explain what had happened.

When she opened the kitchen door there was no sound from the fields. No dog barked, no voices could be heard. With relief she guessed the dogs must have been chasing a coyote or something and had come close to the house.

Still trembling with shock, Queenie sat down in the kitchen. It would be another five or six hours before Boss would be home. She knew she had been lucky ... very lucky: the boy had probably heard the dogs too and had come to the same conclusion that she had -- which was why he had hidden in the out-building. He was probably even more afraid of Boss than she was. If it hadn't been for the dogs barking he would have run off and she wouldn't have had a chance to catch him in her long skirts.

The knowledge though that she was physically stronger than the boy comforted her. She had been able to tie him up and drag him into the house. But Blondie would run off again, she thought to herself, of that she was sure. Then she would have to face Boss's rage -- there would be no lucky escape like today.

How then to keep him from escaping? Queenie knew she couldn't keep him tied up or locked away all day. How could she shackle him so that escape was impossible?

++++++++++++++++

When Boss and the two bigger boys arrived back for dinner that evening their eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

"What's ... what's ... going on here?" Boss spluttered, wiping the sweat from his face.

"What do you mean?" Queenie replied nonchalantly.

"I mean ... him! What's he doing in those clothes!" her husband roared, stabbing a dirty finger at the fair-haired boy.

"That's his uniform ..." she started to reply.

"Uniform! Why the hell does he need a uniform like that?" Boss interrupted in a demanding voice.

"Because I say he needs a uniform and don't forget I'm in charge of him!" she flashed back angrily.

Boss was momentarily taken back by Queenie's sharp retort.

"He doesn't need a dress for a uniform!" he fumed.

"Whose in charge of him?" Queenie demanded, her hands on her hips. "You or me?"

"You are. But --"

"And if he's going to do a maid's work then I say he's going to dress in a maid's uniform," she interrupted.

"But --" Boss repeated.

"But what?" she challenged.

Boss, tired and weary from a day's toil and confused by his wife's maddening logic, banged his fists on the table.

"Where's my dinner?" he shouted.

Queenie nodded to the fair-haired boy who started to serve the meal. Dinner was eaten in silence except for Boss loudly slurping his soup. The two bigger boys each got a cuff from Boss when he caught them staring at his wife's helper.

++++++++++++++++

"I've put them away for the night," Boss grunted to his wife after dinner. She and Blondie were clearing away the dishes.

Queenie nodded.

"I'm going to keep him in the spare room from now on," she told her husband, indicating the boy beside her. "That way I can get him up earlier and make him work longer and harder."

"How long are you going to keep him in that?" Boss asked, pointing at the boy with distaste.

"In what?" Queenie asked, feigning innocence.

"In that dress, damn you!" Boss exploded.

"For as long as it's needed," she replied insouciantly. "Why should it bother you? You said I can do anything I like with him ..."

Boss looked at her in astonishment; then he threw his arms up in disgust.

"Have it your way," he replied wearily. "I think you're crazy."

He sat down on his favorite chair and picked up a half- finished bottle of whisky. Soon his snoring resounded throughout the house.

"Upstairs," Queenie ordered the humiliated boy. "I'm not finished with you yet."

++++++++++++++++

The next morning Queenie was up earlier than usual. She washed and dressed while her husband slept on in the bed.

She went down the passageway and taking a key from her pocket she quietly unlocked the door to the spare bedroom.

The boy was still asleep. While he was rousing she secured a length of cord to each wrist. Then she released the rope that tied his hands to the head of the bed. Before he could react she dragged him out of the bed and forced him to face the foot of the bed. Despite his struggles she effortlessly tied the cord attached to his left wrist to the bed-post and then the other wrist.

"What are you going to do with me?" he asked sullenly, his face suffused with the twin humiliation of being bound and finding himself still wearing her clothes.

"You'll see soon enough," she replied curtly.

Queenie first took off his night-gown, untying each wrist as necessary to take off the garment.

Then she passed a cotton chemise over his head and pulled it down over his slim frame. She released each wrist at a time to do the sleeves and then retied it to the bed.

Next she attached a pair of black stockings on his legs and held them in place with garters.

The boy's face fell as he saw what was coming next.

"No, no, no, not that, please, please, ..." he beseeched.

"Do you know how tight I'll make it? Tighter than yesterday!" she sneered, placing the corset around his middle. She started lacing it at back, tugging each lace as hard as she could.

"That's tight enough --" he gasped. "I can hardly breathe!!!"

Queenie redoubled her efforts. "I want to show off your figure!" she panted.

Next she put on five petticoats, trimmed with lace and ruffled to give them volume, followed by a purple dress. The dress was put on in the same laborious way as the chemise: she would release one arm at a time so she could put it through the sleeve before retying it to the bed-post and doing the other arm.

She buttoned up the dress at back and taking a wide leather belt she placed it around his waist with the buckle at back. Then she pulled the belt through the buckle as hard as she could so that it cinched at the tightest notch-hole possible. The belt fitted so tautly around his waist that she couldn't even insert her finger in between it and the dress. More importantly, it was so tight fitting that he wouldn't be able to pull the buckle around to the front to open it.

"There's nothing like a dress to make you quit thinking of running away! Just wait till you get used to the idea of a skirt limiting the length of your step!" she breathed triumphantly in his ear. "And I've fixed that you won't be able to get out of that dress without my help!"

Next came a white, full-length apron and then his feet were squeezed into a pair of lace-up ankle boots.

Finally, she worked his blonde hair with a brush and then pinned on a snood, a loose bag-like ornamental net which held his hair at back.

"Why are you making me wear these clothes?" he cried piteously as she untied his wrists. "Why are you doing this to me? What are you going to do with me?"

Queenie gave him a hard, spiteful look.

"What am I going to do with you? I'm going to see that you never, ever escape from me again!" she hissed venomously.

Before she led her hapless assistant down to the kitchen she dusted his face with scented powder.

++++++++++++++++

Boss was astonished at breakfast to find the boy still dressed in his wife's clothes. The meal, like the previous evening's dinner, was eaten in tense silence.

All eyes in the room were on Blondie. Boss and the two boys, Homer and Dutchie, embarrassed and confused by the boy's feminine attire, threw clandestine glances in his direction; Queenie, hovering in the background, watched his every movement like a cat with a captive mouse.

'I can tell from your face that you don't like any of this. Why did you let her make you wear her clothes yesterday?' Boss said to himself as the shame-faced boy served coffee. 'What happened between the two of you yesterday? Is she punishing you for something? Why are you so silent today? Why don't you say something?'

Boss observed how subservient the boy had become: Queenie scarcely had to raise her voice and Blondie would scurry to carry out her orders.

The dinner that evening was eaten in an equally strained atmosphere. Gone was the boy's usual good-natured banter with Homer and Dutchie, instead his downcast eyes sought to avoid meeting theirs. 'I can't figure out what she's doing with you but it's certainly cured your smart-ass behavior,' Boss said to himself with no small sense of satisfaction.

The following day passed and went, as did the next and the next. Boss was no nearer understanding the reason for Blondie's womanish attire then he was at the start. The silence which had characterized meal-times was slowly punctured; first, by he and the two bigger boys speaking in whispers and then gradually talking in their normal voices.

Queenie excluded Blondie from their conversations by confining him to the kitchen; he only came out when she told him to. Boss was astonished how -- without a murmur of protest -- the boy would let her fuss over his lace bonnet or re-tie his apron. The control that she seemed to exert over Blondie through dressing him in female clothing unsettled Boss and, if the truth be told, it unsettled him greatly.

He thought it was unnatural and unnecessary of Queenie to make the boy dress in her clothes. But whenever he raised the matter with his wife she always had a ready answer for him. "Aren't you glad he's stopped making fun of you," she would retort. If he continued to press her on the matter she would clinch the argument by pointing out that Blondie wasn't complaining ...

He fretted too that Queenie was spending too much time with the boy in the evening -- she no longer sat with him after dinner ("I'm too busy right now ... perhaps tomorrow," she would say). As he sat alone in his favorite chair he could hear the two of them in the spare bedroom upstairs. Occasionally, he would hear his wife's raised voice and the sudden scuffling of heels on the floor.

Boss came to regret putting Queenie in charge of Blondie: it had been a mistake on his part. He knew too that Dutchie and Homer secretly blamed him for what was happening to their friend. In his mind he saw the boy running away to escape the humiliation he suffered at Queenie's hands. He decided he would use this excuse to wrestle control of the boy from his wife, and he sought her out one evening after dinner.

He found the two of them in the spare bedroom. Blondie was sitting in front of a mirror with a large sheet wrapped around him; his wife was trimming the boy's long blond hair.

"What are you doing, woman?" he growled.

"Can't you see? I'm cutting his hair," she replied testily. She seemed to resent his presence in the room. "What do you want?"

"I think he's going to escape -- I've seen that look in his eyes; he's going to try to escape, mark my words!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"Not while I'm in charge of him!" Queenie snapped back.

"No! He's going to try and escape! I know it!" her husband persisted.

"He's not going to escape, I tell you!" Queenie rasped.

"How can you be so sure?" Boss demanded.

Queenie gave her husband an exasperated glare and whipped the sheet off the boy.

"There!" she said triumphantly. "Do you think he'll escape now?"

Her husband looked sheepish seeing that the boy's hands had been tied to the back of the chair.

"You can't keep him hog-tied like that all day!" her husband challenged furiously.

"I don't need to!" Queenie retorted. "I can control him well enough in other ways."

"How?" her husband demanded. "What's to stop him running away when he's out of your sight?"

Queenie went around to the front of the boy. Lifting up the hem of his dress and all but the inner-most petticoats she pointed to the remaining lace-trimmed underskirt.

"See that?" she said, blazing with anger.

"Yeah, what about it?" Boss replied impatiently. "You're going to tell me that a frilly underskirt is going to stop him running away?"

Queenie smirked.

"That's exactly what I'm going to tell you," she retorted. "That's a hobble skirt he's wearing -- do you know what that means?"

Boss shook his head.

"It means that it restricts his leg movement so he can't move more than six inches at a time!" she told him.

Her husband sneered.

"Oh yeah! What's to stop him taking it off?" he demanded.

"His dress."

"His dress?" her husband repeated incredulously.

"Yes, his dress; he can't take his petticoats off without taking off his dress and I fixed it that he can't take off his dress without me!" Queenie replied as if she was explaining something very simple to a not-very-bright small child.

Boss glared at her.

"You think women aren't as clever as men, but we know how to impose discipline in our own way," Queenie snapped. Then, going on the offensive, she added: "Where are your two? Do I see that the door of their quarters is open?"

Her husband went over to the window in disbelief and then with a roar rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

Queenie bolted the door closed behind him and draped the boy with the sheet again.

Taking up her scissors again she looked at his reflection in the mirror.

"Men!" she snorted derisively. "Take my advice: don't have anything to do with them!"

++++++++++++++++

Homer and Dutchie missed their friend; they only saw him at breakfast and dinner during the week and at lunch on Sundays. He was not allowed to talk to them on Queenie's express orders. She got Boss to punish them if she caught either of them talking to him.

They felt sorry for Blondie seeing the way Queenie treated him. They both agreed that despite Boss's physical maltreatment of them they preferred working with him than her.

"She never lets him out of her sight," Homer said one evening after Boss had locked them in for the evening.

"Yeah, she's a right devil!" agreed Dutchie who was the smarter of the two.

"She gives me the creeps! Those eyes -- like they can read your mind!" Homer exclaimed. "I don't know how Blondie sticks it."

"I don't think he has a choice. I heard Boss roaring to her the other night not to keep him tied up all day --" Dutchie said.

"You're joking! She keeps him tied up all day?" Homer breathed in horror.

"That's what Boss was shouting, anyway," Dutchie responded.

"But he can hardly move as it is, with all those skirts!" Homer commented. "I was watchin' him on Sunday and he could only shuffle along!"

"I know, I know," Dutchie agreed wearily. "She knows that he can't get very far in those clothes -- I bet that's why she makes him wear them!"

"I wish there was something we could do for him," Homer exclaimed. "Boss won't do anything for Blondie -- he's washed his hands on him!"

Dutchie nodded.

"I'd give my bottom dollar to help him escape," he said.

"But he can't escape, Dutchie!" Homer pointed out. "She has eyes like a hawk -- she misses nothing!"

He clambered up to the loft above them. He gave Dutchie a low whistle and waved him to come up.

Through the only window in their quarters they watched as a light came on in the spare bedroom over in the farm building. They saw Queenie drag the femininely-dressed boy into the room.

"Look, Dutchie!" Homer exclaimed in horror. "His hands are tied behind his back!"

"Poor fellah!" breathed Dutchie.

Then Queenie closed the curtains but the boys continued to watch. They could faintly hear their friend crying and pleading; then there was silence.

The light went out fifteen minutes later.

++++++++++++++++

It was just after noon and though it was still only early spring it was very hot.

They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose leafy branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.

Queenie felt relaxed and comfortable despite the heat. Her fingers deftly worked the needle in and out of her embroidery frame. She glanced briefly at her companion and decided to let him suffer for another while.

"My, it's hot out here!" she said a few minutes later. She gave him a smile (she smiled a lot these days) and squeezed his arm.

"Blondie, you've a lot to learn," she said. "But I'm disappointed that you're not very willing pupil today. But time is on my side, Blondie, and I can wait -- all day if I have to. I told you yesterday I was going to teach you embroidery and teach you embroidery I will!"

She shifted closer to him on the bench.

"Would you like an extra layer, Blondie?" she whispered.

There was no response from the boy.

"That's what I'll do, Blondie -- I'll add another layer! You've been disobedient for not wanting to do your embroidery lessons!" Queenie said playfully. She waited to see his reaction: he was already wearing four extra layers of petticoats! Each demeanour was punished by another layer being added to the standard five he wore; Blondie knew the rules: obey her -- or face the consequences!

Tears trickled down the boy's face.

"Oh, Blondie! Don't cry!" Queenie consoled him in an insincere voice. "Maybe embroidery lessons wouldn't be so bad after all? Would you like to try?"

The boy nodded.

Queenie reached over and untied the cord binding his wrists together. The boy tenderly rubbed his wrists; the red weals made by the cord were clearly visible on his skin.

"I'll leave the sash the way it is, Blondie," she told him. The boy nodded tearfully: Queenie had undone the sash of his dress when he had sat down on the bench. Then she had slipped the two ends of the sash between the wooden bars of the bench before retying them. In this way he was secured to the bench. The boy knew from bitter experience how Queenie loved to tether him in this way; he knew too it was impossible to reach around to free himself, leaving him at her mercy.

Acting on impulse and even though she knew it was an over- kill, she had even tied his ankles together. She remembered looking up and seeing the hot tears of humiliation welling in his eyes as she had reached under his skirts. Best of all, she remembered expecting resistance but it never came: he had meekly submitted his slim ankles being bound together with a length of silk ribbon.

"The gag can stay on too," she added with an imperious smile.

++++++++++++++++

When Queenie had dressed Blondie in one of her night-gowns one evening and tied his wrists to the bed, she laid out his clothes for the following day.

"You're going to look very pretty in this dress, girlie," she smiled, showing him the dark green garment. She hung it in his closet and verbally checked off his uniform: "Chemise, stockings, corset, petticoats, apron, lace bonnet! All your pretties ready for you tomorrow!"

She did a final check on the cords securing his wrists to the bed-post. Satisfied, she splashed his neck and wrists with eau-de-cologne.

"Sweet dreams, girlie!" she whispered softly before blowing out the lamp. She locked the door behind her.

Downstairs she took out the letter she had started writing to her cousin, a herbalist living near a city on the east coast.

She read what she had written so far:

"Dearest Anita:

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

All is well here and if the weather continues to hold it looks that we will have a good year on the ranch.

I am most grateful for your letter and package which finally arrived last month. I have been administering the contents of the green bottle to Blondie. Of course, he does not know that I am giving it to him. But you were right! He complains of extra tiredness and of weary limbs. He is like a lamb now -- so docile! It is a great mental relief to me to know that I can give him this to sap his boyish energy!

Anita, it is so amusing! When he complains of tiredness, I tell him he is a weakling -- that he is just like a girl! Then, he gets offended and tries to stand up! But he soon runs out of strength and has to sit down again! I don't say anything but I let him know by my expression that I have been proven right! Of course, I have been adding extra petticoats underneath his dress and the weight of these adds to his difficulties! Just lifting his skirts takes its toll!

If only, Anita, I had the excuse to dress him in female clothes from the start! I remember when he first worked under my supervision, I was so apprehensive about him escaping. Now that his movements are dictated by the constraints of voluminous underskirts, hoops, and long skirts with which you and I are so familiar, I feel so relaxed knowing that he can't abscond.

My 'girlie' (how he hates the term!) has always coped well with his domestic chores but now he has to re-learn how to do them wearing a dress! He's found that simple things like picking something up from the floor have to be done differently: for a start, whale-boned corsets don't allow any flexibility at the waist and, secondly, young ladies are 'trained' not to show their petticoats!

I have begun instructing girlie in the finer points of femininity: I have started him on embroidery and though he doesn't know it yet I will soon teach him to braid his hair.

Of course, Boss is jealous of the attention I give to Blondie. But, Anita, I don't care! I dedicated my life to Boss up to now and never got any thanks or recognition in return. Now, I've got Blondie and, believe me, I don't intend to let him go! Boss has his two boys, Homer and Dutchie, so in a way he's happy too. Anyway, I've got a plan to get Boss to quit cribbing about how I treat Blondie. If it works -- and I am sure it will -- I can get on with molding Blondie in the way I told you about in my last letter.

It is richly ironic but I am as strict on girlie as my mother was on me! How I resented her authoritarian ways and how I detested her attempt to turn me into -- what I thought then -- was the personification of a porcelain doll: delicate, beautiful to look at but voiceless! But now I look back and realize the value of what she was trying to do; she knew then, as I do now, that until women receive emancipation we will never be treated as equals by men. While we wait for our rights our only hope is to sit daintly and attract a husband who hopefully will come to recognize our qualities. I ran away with Boss before my mother could teach me about men -- a mistake I do not intend to make with girlie."

Then Queenie finished the letter with a few more sentences describing how female clothing was shaping Blondie's behavior. She related with relish how Blondie had learnt to lift his skirts off the ground when he went anywhere and how he smoothed the back of his dress when sitting down. She recounted how one day at dinner Boss and the boys had noticed a bruise on Blondie's forehead; even they had laughed when she explained that he had tripped on his skirts and fallen against a chair!

She sealed the letter in an envelope; she would tell Boss to post it the next time he was in Stuger City.

++++++++++++++++

Boss was surrounded by his drinking cronies in the Thunder Mountain Salon when the owner, a widow by the name of Hettie Baldwin, approached holding a bottle of whisky.

She was a small, compact woman in her early forties and though more comfortable in female company had an easy way with her mostly male customers.

Though Boss was an infrequent visitor to her salon in Stuger City, Hettie had recently learnt a great detail of information about him. Information which lowered her already low opinion of him.

Boss, she learnt, had been married for over fifteen years and as his wife was infertile had no children of his own. When his wife had suggested adopting a girl and a boy from an orphanage, he had refused to entertain the idea. A few days later, he suddenly reversed his stance. But his wife's joy was short-lived; instead he bullied her into accepting his proposal of firstly taking boys only and, secondly, taking older boys who could help him on the ranch. His wife had cried on the journey to the orphanage and back but he had remained unmoved by her tears. The matron of the orphanage had tried to facilitate her original wishes but could not do so without her husband's consent.

Hettie learnt that the orphanage had provided Boss with three boys, one of whom was physically unsuitable for manual work and whom his wife had molded into a domestic help (Boss's wife had been pleasantly surprized at how well the boy had settled into his new role). Not long after though, the boy had tried to escape but she had caught him just in time. Had he succeeded she would have faced a certain beating from her husband. To prevent the boy from escaping again she had dressed him in female clothing. She knew it was unorthodox and very humiliating for him but she justified it on its effectiveness in preventing him from running away again. She had a hunch, a feeling -- it was no more than that -- he would somehow come to the realization that on the prairie he was better off posing as a girl rather than as a physically inadequate boy who did woman's work.

The only fly in the ointment was that Boss continually railed against her emasculation of the boy and was threatening to take him from her control.

As Hettie approached the table where Boss and his friends were sitting, she could hear them talking about recent hangings in the town.

"Evening, boys," she greeted them.

"Hello, Hettie," they chorused.

"Couldn't but overhear you talking about hangings," she said, pouring them a refill of whisky ["The drink's on me," she told them]. Looking directly at Boss she said: "Ever hear of what happened to Wally Segard?"

"Wally Segard? No, who's he? What about him?" Boss replied.

"You never heard about poor old Wally!" Hettie exclaimed in surprise.

Boss shook his head.

"He was murdered six months ago," Hettie continued.

"Murdered? By who?" Boss quizzed.

"His wife --" Hettie replied.

"His wife!" Boss interjected.

"Yes, it seems she wanted children but couldn't have any of her own. Seems too she wanted to adopt a girl from an orphanage but Wally wouldn't let her," Hettie said.

"He wouldn't let her?" Boss repeated, suddenly going red.

"That's right. So, she got a knife and cut off his manhood while he was in a drunken sleep," Hettie said calmly.

"Oh man!" Boss moaned and involuntarily crossed his legs.

"Yes, it was terrible!" Hettie said. "So they arrested her -- Wally died a few days later -- and questioned her why she'd did it. She said she'd wanted a daughter so bad that she'd kill anyone who got in her way. And it seems Wally got in her way ..."

"She did that because ... that's unbelievable ..." Boss stuttered.

"No, it happened, Boss," Hettie confirmed. "Every married woman longs for a daughter ... it's a woman thing ... we've this intense craving for another female with whom we can share our inner-most thoughts and secrets. Seems Wally couldn't understand that desire in his wife -- not that most husbands do --"

"That's hogwash!" Boss interrupted. "Women are just plain irrational!"

"Maybe so, Boss," Hettie said softly, "but, Boss, just remember this: when someone tries to get in the way of that mother-daughter relationship, the female is the most dangerous of the species!"

She walked away before Boss could reply.

++++++++++++++++

Queenie knew her next task was to put as much distance between Blondie and the other two boys as she could. Keeping him tied up and locked in the spare bedroom at night while they slept in the out-house heightened his sense of isolation from things masculine.

She forbade him to talk to the boys at meal times threatening dire consequences if he did.

One morning Boss did not come down for breakfast and it was Queenie who let Homer and Dutchie out of their sleeping quarters.

Blondie served them their breakfast while Queenie busied herself in the kitchen.

Dutchie touched Blondie on the arm and pointed questioningly to Boss's empty place. Blondie, nervously looked back to the kitchen and seeing that Queenie had her back to them, signalled to them that Boss had been drinking.

'Last night or this morning?' Dutchie tried to signal back.

Blondie stared at him blankly.

Dutchie repeated the signal.

But still Blondie did not understand what he was saying.

Exasperated, Dutchie whispered:

"Was he drinking last night or this morning?"

Blondie looked around again and saw that Queenie still had her back to them.

"Last night," he whispered. "He nearly drank a whole bot --"

"YOU WENCH! I CAUGHT YOU, YOU WENCH," Queenie shouted. "I CAUGHT YOU TALKING!"

She strode into the room, grabbed Blondie by the arm and dragged him, skirts flying, back into the kitchen. She slammed the door shut behind her and slapped repeatedly him across the face.

"I told you you're not allowed to talk except when I tell you," she hollered.

The boy tried to ward off the blows but this incensed Queenie even further.

"I know how to sort you out!" she snarled through clenched teeth. She took a length of cotton and gagged the boy as tightly as she could.

She pushed the muzzled boy back into where the two boys were sitting and told him to finish serving the meal.

"What's ... what's ... going on here?" Boss said groggily he as came into the room.

"Blondie here was disobedient and I had to punish the wench," Queenie said calmly.

The muzzled boy looked at Boss with beseeching eyes.

Boss made his way unsteadily to his place, clutching on to the table to balance himself and sat down. He rubbed his blood-shot eyes with the back of his hand; he avoided looking at Blondie.

"What's going on here?" he repeated in a hollow voice.

Queenie leant against the kitchen door with her arms folded; a scornful look appeared on her face.

"I forbade Blondie to talk to the boys at the table and the wench disobeyed me. Now Blondie's paying the penalty," she said smoothly.

"But --" Boss started to reply.

"I'm in charge of Blondie, remember, and I'll decide what the wench can or cannot do!" she snapped.

"But --" Boss tried again.

"But nothing! I won't have you undermining my authority with the wench. Hear me, Boss? Just don't get in my way again -- or else!" Queenie snarled through clenched teeth, picking up a carving knife and ramming it into the wooden carving block.

Boss, suddenly remembering the story of Wally Segard, blanched and his hands moved to cover his crotch.

"But he needsstht to talhk!" he stuttered incoherently.

Homer and Dutchie looked on with bewilderment: was Boss going to let her talk back to him in front of them like this? Surely he was not going to allow her to punish Blondie like this? 'Come on, man,' they silently urged, 'get up and show her whose boss around here!'

The boy too continued to silently implore Boss with his eyes.

It was Queenie who broke the eerie silence.

"Blondie, come here to me! NOW!" she ordered.

The boy gave a last, despairing glance at Boss who averted his eyes. He lifted his skirts and slowly walked over to where Queenie was standing.

"Turn around: your gag is loose," she commanded in an imperious voice.

The boy slowly turned around to face the men at the table while Queenie made a great show of taking off his gag and retying it with as much force as she could muster.

She spun him around to face her.

"There, that'll still you. You listen to me, Blondie: you answer to me and to me alone. Is that clear?"

The boy nodded his head.

In a louder voice Queenie continued:

"Let everybody be a witness to this: in this house you have the status of a maid and since I'm the mistress of this household I -- and I alone -- will punish you as I see fit," she pronounced. "Now, get Boss his breakfast."

From that day on Homer and Dutchie knew that Blondie's fate was sealed; it was clear that Boss would never even try to intervene on Blondie's behalf again in the future. It was their first sign that Boss's absolute authority was on the wane.

++++++++++++++++

Queenie made her hapless assistant change clothes twice a day. He started the day wearing stiffened petticoats and a dress. Then when Boss and the boys had gone out to the herd she put him into hoops. She liked the idea of the widest possible crinoline on Blondie -- the wider the spread of his dress the more difficult it was for him to maneouvre (and to escape).

When he thought he was out of her eye sight he would try to undo the buttons of his dress to take the hoops off. She would smile to herself when realizing the futility of what he was doing Blondie would give up in despair.

Queenie deliberately created a claustrophobic atmosphere of enforced feminine helplessness into which she sucked Blondie and from which there was no escape:

• she never let him out of her sight;

• she kept him permanently dressed in constrictive feminine clothing;

• she kept him tethered to his bed at night;

• she isolated him from the three other males in the household; and,

• by her actions and commands, constantly reminded him of his feminized state.

An important key to emphasizing his newly imposed femininity she discovered was his hair. Queenie kept his blonde hair long and only trimmed it to keep the locks even. At night she would braid his hair before pinning on a lace sleeping cap. In the morning she would fix his hair into plaits or some other equally feminine arrangement. During the day he was not allowed to wear his hair bare -- it had to be covered by a cap, snood, veil, or bonnet. At random intervals -- during the day or night -- she would strap him to a chair and would spend ten, fifteen or twenty minutes combing and brushing his hair.

Queenie let a fringe grow at the front and was pleased when every five minutes Blondie would have to sweep the hair out of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear. Though he was not yet conscious of it Queenie quite liked this feminine mannerism she had developed in Blondie.

++++++++++++++++

From time to time Blondie had what Queenie would describe as 'teenage tantrums'. She learnt to recognize the warning symptoms and the treatment she devised was remarkably successful in smothering any rebelliousness.

The tantrums were usually sparked off by Blondie venting his anger and frustration at new rules she imposed on him. Sometimes the sense of being hopelessly enmeshed in the feminine net she was gradually tightening around him caused the boy to erupt. His gradual loss of physical strength was another source of intense frustration as were her restrictions on his diet. Occasionally, she would deliberately goad him into a tantrum: the easiest way to do that, she found, was to remind him how he had been rejected by men for men's work (by implication he was only suitable, therefore, for women's work).

Two days previously when she had caught him eating cooked meat which he was supposed to have been slicing, the most recent tantrum had developed.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed as she dragged him upstairs. "I hate you!"

He was sobbing by the time she pushed him into his bedroom. "I was hungry!" he wept. "I haven't eaten meat for months!"

"You should have known better, you little hussy! You'll eat when I tell you can!" Queenie snapped, tying his wrists together. "How do you expect to keep your figure if you keep eating between meals?"

"Let me gooooooooooooo!" the boy screamed. "I don't waaaaaaaaant to be a girrlllllll! Pleeeeaaaaaseeeee let me go!"

He tried to kick her but the impact was muted by the heavy layers of petticoats and skirts he wore.

"I hate you, I haaaaaaattttte you!" he shrieked.

Ignoring him, Queenie went over to the closet and cleared a space between the racks of dresses.

"Come over here!" she snapped.

"Nooooooooo, I won't," Blondie wept defiantly. "You can't maaaaaake me!"

Queenie's action was swift and decisive.

"Oh, I can't, can I not?" she asked airily a minute later. "You look a pretty sight, girlie, surrounded by these lovely dresses!" Then she scoffed: "Let me know which one you want to wear when you cool down ..."

She went downstairs to continue her work. When she had dressed him first, there had been twenty tantrums that month -- she remembered each and every one of them. She looked at her diary: today had been the only tantrum so far this month; there had been three in the previous month, five the month before that: the futility of resisting was beginning to sink in ...

Three hours later she went back up to his bedroom. Spreading out her skirts she sat on his bed and took out her embroidery frame.

The boy was exhausted from trying to keep his balance; he kept looking despairingly up at the clothes railing above his head to which Queenie had attached his wrists. She had fixed it that he could just about stand on his tip-toes in the closet. Tear stains ran like dried-up rivers through his make-up.

"Let me go!" the boy sobbed.

"Are you sorry?"

There was a silence. She could see the boy hesitating. If he refused he would spend another three hours in the closet (and miss dinner).

"Yes, ... I'm sorry, ... Queenie," he replied in a low voice. "I won't eat again ... without your permission."

"I think you have suffered enough, girlie," she said. "But before I release you, have you made up your mind?"

The boy looked at her and then up at his bound wrists. Queenie gloated inwardly: 'This is hard on you, Blondie, real hard,' she said gleefully to herself, 'you get punished for reacting against all this femininity and then to set yourself free you have to decide what you're going to wear for the rest of the day!'

"The ... red and black check dress," he said quietly.

Queenie said nothing but eyed him beadily.

"Forgive me, Queenie, I meant to say: I want to wear the red and black check dress."

"I'm pleased with your choice, girlie," she commented approvingly. Then, she added in a silky voice: "Tell me, girlie, why do you want to wear such a pretty dress?"

Queenie waited for the boy to answer; he knew by now there was only one answer she would permit.

"Because ... because ..." the boy started and then stopped.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Because I want to wear ... ," the boy continued in a faltering voice. He looked up at her and hurriedly gulped: "I want ... I'd like ... a dress that'll make men sit up and take notice of me."

Queenie nodded sagely.

"That's the reason why we all want to wear a pretty dress, girlie -- and the woman who says otherwise is telling a lie. We live in an age where, sadly, men don't appreciate our intellectual abilities -- you've seen how Boss and the boys just ignore you now. The only way we can impress men is to emphasize our natural attractions," she said, reaching up to untie his wrists.

"Come on, girlie, let me help you into this dress. I'll freshen your make-up too -- you don't want them to see that you've been crying!" she offered in a friendly voice. Then she added with a smile: "I've a treat for you, girlie: I bought some lovely new silk ribbons that'll look real pretty in your hair!"

++++++++++++++++

Queenie read over the letter she had just written to her cousin Anita. She was breathless with excitement and she could hear her heart pounding.

"Dear Anita:

Do you remember the first time I wrote to you about girlie? How clumsy he was in a dress? How he tripped over his skirts?

Well, I am so excited at what I observed earlier this evening that I can scarcely write!

It happened like this. As a bonus for cleaning the kitchen I gave girlie one of my books to read after dinner. He hadn't read anything since he came here so he was soon engrossed in the book!

So much so that he forgot where he was and what he was wearing!

I normally have to remind him to smooth his dress at back when he sits down but this time I didn't need to! It's almost an instinctive reaction on my part to call out and remind him but I realized just in time that he already done it! Automatically! Spontaneously! Intuitively!

Exhilarated at my discovery, I continued to watch him out of the corner of my eyes. While he was lost in his book, I saw his hand playing with the folds of his dress! Anita, it simply took my breath away!

Then he noticed me looking at him and he stopped reading. He got up to go up to his bedroom making sure he tripped over his skirts on the way!

It was just one small episode but for me it was like a fog lifting: suddenly you get a glimpse of the landscape of the inner soul.

When he was asleep I re-read the letter from Mrs. Mellon: it set me thinking again about girlieНs circumstances before he came to the orphanage.

Anita, could I ask you a favor? Could you make a visit to the orphanage for me? I would be most grateful if you can find anything about his family background.

As always, many thanks for the latest parcel of medicines. Blondie's skin has got even softer and more supple than I could ever have believed possible.

Love as always,"

Queenie signed and sealed the letter. She put her hand to her bosom: her heart was still racing at the significance of what she had just witnessed.

++++++++++++++++

There was no let up in the stifling, suffocating feminine 'prison' regime for Blondie. Each Sunday afternoon when Boss was asleep inside the house and the boys were messing down by the river, upstairs in her bedroom Queenie was dressing Blondie for their Sunday stroll.

She fastened her widest crinoline around the boy's waist and followed it with a succession of petticoats. Then after a few minutes deliberation she fitted him in a double flounced gown with chantilly lace frills and edging.

"Mauve is such a lovely color on you, Blondie," she told him, tying the satin ribbon sash at back. Then, she turned him to face the mirror and added with a leer: "You look so pretty -- and I haven't finished with you yet!"

She grinned as the boy's face burned red with embarrassment and humiliation.

She lightly brushed the ringlets she had set in his hair that morning and dabbed eau-de-cologne on his neck.

Then she took a silk scarf from a drawer and laying it out flat on the bed in front of him she folded it to make a wide band.

"Please, Queenie: you know I won't --" he started to say as she approached him.

Before the boy could finish his plea, Queenie muzzled him securing the gag with a tight knot at the back of his head.

Then she took a wide brimmed bonnet from the bed and carefully placed it on his head. Releasing a pin she allowed a heavy, cream-colored lace veil draped on the brim of the hat to fall down and to touch his shoulders. The veil was one of her favorite touches: it allowed the boy to see where he was going but nobody looking at him could see through it that he was gagged.

When she was satisfied that he was ready she too changed into a Sunday dress. She had decided -- right from the very beginning -- to dress and undress in his presence. Though initially she found it unnerving to have a male watch her she persevered. She reasoned that it would further undermine his sense of male identity because he'd realize that apart from her husband or infant son no woman would ever willingly permit a male see her dress and undress in the privacy of her own bedroom. Her policy of letting him see her in her underwear would sent him the very clear but subtle message that she did not consider him a male.

When she was finished dressing Queenie untied the cords securing Blondie's wrists to the bed-post. She forced his hands into a pair of white gloves and with a length of white ribbon tied his wrists together in front. She unlocked the bedroom door and propelled the feminized boy down to the kitchen.

"Hold this in your left hand, girlie," she ordered, giving him a lace parasol.

Knowing what was coming, the boy cautiously reached out for the parasol. Taking another length of white ribbon Queenie strapped the parasol to his hand so he could not let go of it even if he wanted to.

"Hold your skirts up with your free hand," Queenie said, stressing the word 'free' with sarcastic irony. The boy gathered his voluminous skirts with difficulty with his right hand while still keeping his parasol upright in his other hand. Queen watched with detached amusement.

"I think you'll be too preoccupied to run away from me this afternoon, girlie!" she joked. "Better still, if Homer and Dutchie see you, they'll think how daintily you're holding your pretty parasol!"

Linking arms with her hapless companion she led Blondie along her favorite walk, to the small hill overlooking the ranch and the river. Years ago she had gotten Boss to make her a wooden seat under the shade of a tree. Boss had labeled it 'Lady's View' and the name had stuck.

"Here we are!" she announced.

The boy looked at her hesitantly.

"Relax, Blondie! You can sit down on the bench today!" Queenie laughed (she liked to keep him guessing what she intended to do with him: sometimes she would keep him standing in the blazing sun until he would scream through his gag from pain and exhaustion, at other times she would sit him on a rug but bind his ankles and wrists together).

She settled the boy on the bench, spreading his skirts about him. She released the parasol, untied his wrists and removed his gloves. Next, she carefully lifted the veil up off his face and pinned it back up on the brim of the bonnet. Then, much to his relief, she took off his gag. Finally, she gave him his embroidery frame, needle and threads.

"What color are you going to make the dress?" she asked chattily.

The boy glanced at her and then looked at the outline of a woman printed on the fabric stretched taut over the frame in his hands. He looked back up at her with a defiant look in his eyes.

Queenie picked up a cord and waved it warningly in his face.

"Purple!" the boy replied hastily.

Queenie laughed.

"Off you go, girlie!" she said, sitting down beside him.

For the next hour she watched as he embroidered, his slim fingers working the needle and colored threads through the fabric as she had taught him. She stopped him occasionally to correct a mistake or to teach him a new technique. He had come to like embroidery -- Queenie had rightly figured that he'd find it preferable to spending the afternoon bound and gagged.

"Are you hungry, girlie? Would you like an apple?" she inquired later.

The boy looked at her in surprise and nodded his head. Before he could put down his embroidery frame, Queenie abruptly dropped the apple in his lap which he trapped in his skirts and hungrily ate.

A few minutes later, Queenie was about to pick up her own frame when she heard shouts. Then she saw Homer and Dutchie brawling playfully in the river below. Even from where she was sitting it was plain that they were naked. Blondie looked up from his embroidery.

Queenie rummaged through her basket and pulled out a cotton scarf.

"You're not going to gag me, are you? Why?" the boy gasped in dismay, the blood draining from his face.

"No, girlie, I'm not going to gag you," Queenie replied, getting up and standing in front of him. "I'm going to blindfold you."

"Why? Why are you blindfolding me? What have I done? Please, tell me why?" the boy pleaded.

"Because impressionable young girls should not be exposed to the sight of male nudity until they're married!" she replied sternly, tying the blindfold tightly at the back of his head. Once more she released the heavy lace veil, allowing it to fall down over the brim of the bonnet and obscure his face.

She sat down and waited for his response. 'I know what you'd like to say,' she said to herself, 'you'd like to say: "But I'm not a girl -- I'm a boy just like they are!" But you know that's not the answer I want to hear!'

There was a silence before the boy replied.

"I won't be able to embroider now," he said in a small, subdued voice.

Queenie smiled broadly.

"That's men for you, girlie! They always spoil things on us," she said.

Blondie said nothing.

"You can finish this later, girlie," she said, taking the embroidery frame from him, "because, right now, I want your undivided attention. It's high time we talk again, woman-to- woman, on what it means to be female."

She moved closer to the boy until their skirts pressed against each other and she could feel the outline of his crinoline. She knew Blondie hated these "womanly chats" which always lauded his feminine characteristics and denigrated his masculine traits.

"What would you say, girlie, is the main difference between men and us?" she asked.

Her blind-folded and cross-dressed companion shrugged his shoulders in reply.

"Our femininity. We're endowed with the qualities of gentleness, softness, sensitivity and kindness. The qualities that tell us apart from men," she replied. "And the qualities other women recognize in us."

Then pulling a letter from her pocket, she said: "Let me read what someone who knows you well has said about you: 'when I first met him he was the most gentle child I have ever encountered ... so small and perfectly formed ... and with such soft skin [the envy of every woman who came in contact with him] ... he preferred female company ... hated the rough behavior of boys'. You know who wrote this letter, girlie?"

The boy shook his head.

"Mrs. Mellon," Queenie replied.

The boy gasped in astonishment.

"Yes, girlie, you're surprized! I never told you this before but Mrs. Mellon picked you! Mrs. Mellon, the matron of your orphanage! She originally offered us two boys but, after a private conversation with me, she later decided to add you as a bonus! That was why Boss and I were so surprized when the driver from the orphanage brought the three of you -- we had only expected two!" Queenie said.

Blondie continued to gape sightlessly at her.

Queenie continued: "Let me explain, girlie: I had wanted to adopt a boy and a girl from the orphanage but Boss wouldn't let me -- he wanted boys only. I was in tears when we visited the orphanage and Mrs. Mellon took me aside to find out why. When I explained this to her she said she couldn't let me adopt a girl without Boss's permission. She said she sympathized with me and assured me she would do her very best to help me achieve my goal! She had a knowing smile on her face when she said it!"

She took Blondie's hands in her own.

"And do you know why, girlie?" she asked softly.

The boy shook his head for a second time.

"Because she immediately thought of you, girlie. She wrote in her letter that because of your feminine characteristics ... of gentleness, softness, sensitivity ... you could be the nearest substitute to the girl I had been hoping for!" Queenie replied. "She added that all you lacked was a dress but this has not always been the case in the past! I always thought this was a strange remark but I never made anything of it. But lately, girlie, I've observed some things in you that has made me think of her remark. Of course, most of the time you pretend to hate your present predicament but deep down I'm not so sure ..."

"You're wrong! I do hate it!" the boy interrupted.

"Then explain this: a few minutes ago, I dropped an apple in your lap while you were holding your embroidery frame in your hands. Remember how you caught it? By spreading your knees wide and catching it with your skirt: that's the way a girl catches something dropped in her lap. A boy does the opposite: he catches by bringing his legs together," Queenie said.

"So?" the boy muttered scornfully.

"So where did you learn to catch that way?" Queenie asked. "You were tutored at a very early age, I imagine ..."

"Hogwash!" Blondie replied, reddening. "What does it prove?" he added in a husky voice.

"Prior tutoring, girlie, prior tutoring!" Queenie asserted. "And, I suspect, tutoring which began at a very early age ..."

The boy looked sightlessly down at the ground and didn't reply.

"There are other little clues, girlie," Queenie continued softly. "You thread your embroidery needle the way a woman does! A few days ago as an experiment, I asked Dutchie and Homer to thread a needle. They both did it the opposite way you and I do it ...!"

Blondie said nothing and continued to look at the ground.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, girlie?" Queenie prompted gently. "How is it that you do all of these things the way a girl does ... ?"

The boy did not reply.

"Don't want to talk, girlie?" Queenie responded briskly. "Don't you worry, girlie, I'll make a few enquiries ..."

++++++++++++++++

Most of the time Homer and Dutchie ignored Blondie; it simply didn't make any sense to risk a beating by conversing with their former friend. They acted as if Blondie didn't exist.

Queenie found it amusing to watch Blondie as he sought to covertly attract their attention at meal-times. He would dawdle at their table when he thought she wasn't looking or give them unsolicited extra helpings. But his efforts were wasted on Homer and Dutchie: they had decided he wasn't worth the trouble of antagonizing Boss and they carried on as if he didn't exist.

Their aloof attitude gave Queenie the opportunity to impress on Blondie the reality of his new situation. She told him he as a "woman" he would have to live with the fact that men would treat him as a second-class citizen. However, if Blondie was willing she would show him how to gain and keep their attention. She could see he was interested in finding out how but his pride wouldn't allow it.

One morning she rose earlier than usual and instead of fixing his hair into two pony-tails she set about arranging his long blond tresses into a french braid. She interleaved a silk ribbon between the braids of hair, creating a stunning effect. From the corner of her eye she watched the boy's reaction. She could see that Blondie was interested but he was trying hard not to show it. When she was nearly finished she held up a small mirror at the back of his head so he could see in the mirror in front of him the intricate braiding of hair and ribbon. It was the kind of hair arrangement that would catch any man's attention -- and he knew it.

Then, to his complete astonishment, she undid everything. Soon his hair was back to the point from which she had started. She handed him a brush.

"You do your hair the way I've just done it -- and be quick!" she said curtly.

The boy tentatively dragged the brush through his hair and grabbing locks of hair tried to tie them into a braid. The result was a complete and utter mess; however, Queenie refused to remedy the situation and made the boy serve breakfast as he was.

He had to suffer the humiliation of the guffaws of laughter from Boss and Homer seeing the dishevelled state of his hair. Only Dutchie seemed to show sympathy for his plight by not joining in their laughter; he just looked quizzically at Blondie's normally neatly coifed hair.

"Being sleeping in the hay, girlie?" Boss snorted with laughter, winking lewdly at Homer.

When Boss and his helpers had saddled up and departed for the day, a stern-faced Queenie dragged her hapless assistant up his bedroom.

"You disgraced me and every woman with your appearance!" she stormed, pushing the cowering boy into a chair.

"Just look at your hair! You just don't get it, do you girlie?" she spat. "Men judge you and me not by our brains but by our appearance! How are you going to earn their respect if you can't even arrange your hair? They were laughing at you, girlie! Boss even said you look like a whore!"

She picked up a brush.

"Do you want to look like a whore, girlie?" she demanded ominously in a low voice. "Do you want men to laugh at you? To mock your appearance? To call you a frump or Plain Jane behind your back?"

The boy shook his head.

"Of course not -- you're not a dumb blonde! You want to learn to look after your hair, to be able to braid it and plait it, to curl it, and to arrange it so it looks pretty! Don't you, girlie?" Queenie demanded. "Do you want to take pride in your appearance? Do you want to command their respect?"

After a moment's hesitation, Blondie nodded his head.

"Say it, girlie!" Queenie shouted. "Say it like you really mean it!"

"I want to do all these things; I want to make my hair pretty!" the boy sobbed.

Queenie beamed.

"Good girl, we'll start with a simple pony-tail. I'll do it first and then you'll do it second. I'll make you practice every day until you can do it backwards, sidewards, upside down, inside out and with your eyes closed!" she declared.

++++++++++++++++

Queenie never missed an opportunity to emphasize to Blondie that in the men's eyes he'd crossed an invisible line beyond which he would be considered weak, helpless and feminine. This she planned to bring home to him in the most daring scheme she had yet devised.

Even Blondie was surprized one night with the length of the night-gown that she dressed him in -- it trailed on the floor behind him as Queenie led him over to the mirror to fix his hair for the night. But unlike previous nights too Queenie did not braid his hair into two strands which she would wind clock-wise around his crown. Instead she curled his hair using small strips of white cloth which she tied around each lock of hair.

When she was finished she smiled at his reflection in the mirror.

"When I was your age I hated boys seeing me look like this лл so I can understand how you feel, girlie!" she commented sympathetically. "You know, it used to make me feel so different from them; while they were out enjoying themselves or doing something important I had to sit patiently for hours while my mother curled my hair! But then, as I've told you many times before, men just don't realize the trouble we take to look after our appearance!"

Blondie said nothing; soon he was tucked in bed with his wrists tied to the bed-post. Queenie blew out the candle and softly locked the door behind her.

"Wake up, girlie!" Queenie shouted, shaking the boy's sleeping frame.

"Whattssss the maaaaaattttter!?!" Blondie replied groggily.

"There's a fire outside! Hurry! Get up!" Queenie cried, untying his wrists. "The old shed is on fire!"

Queenie dragged him out of the bed and quickly shod his feet in a pair of high heeled ankle boots.

The boy shivered in the cold night air.

"Come on, girlie, let's go!" Queenie urged.

"I'm freezing in this! Can't I wear something else ... ?" the boy beseeched her.

"We don't have time, girlie!" Queenie snapped impatiently. Then she stopped, opened a closet and handed him a shawl. "Here, put this around you -- this will keep you warm."

When they got outside they saw that Boss and the two boys were already fighting the fire. Flames were leaping from the shed and Boss was shouting orders to Homer and Dutchie.

"Stand by me, girlie," Queenie directed. She stood a safe distance away from the fire and positioned him so that he was slightly behind her.

After an hour Boss and the boys had the fire under control.

Queenie called out:

"Boss, are you all right?"

Boss nodded, sweat pouring down his smoke-grimed face.

"Yeh, I'm fine. Homer, Dutchie: you OK?"

The two boys nodded.

"Oh ... I'm so relieved you're not hurt!" Queenie cried in the most gushing, effusive and emotional voice she could muster. "Blondie and I were ... were so afraid! We wanted to help but we couldn't -- could we, girlie?"

Boss and the two boys looked at her and then at Blondie.

'Feast you eyes on girlie, boys!' Queenie said gleefully to herself. 'Isn't Blondie the picture of feminine helplessness??? One hand holding a silk shawl around him to keep warm and the other holding his pretty night-gown up off the damp grass! Take a look at his hair!?! Gentlemen, have you ever seen a head so festooned with ... ribbons? I can guess what you're thinking: girlie's too busy making himself look pretty that he couldn't put out a fire let alone a candle!!!'

Boss spat at the ground. Then, a slow smile creased his face and he turned to Homer and Dutchie.

"Y'know, the more I see of the value of some women, the more I like dogs!" he quipped to Homer and Dutchie's raucous laughter.

++++++++++++++++

Though Queenie had reduced Blondie to a passive, submissive and feminine state underneath the surface she felt there still burned a masculine ego. He still acted as if he had nothing in common with her. He would only choose his clothes for the following day if she made him.

Queenie decided it was time to step up his acceptance of his femininity. She wrote a letter to her cousin Anita explaining what she had in mind.

++++++++++++++++

"I overheard Homer and Dutchie talking about you yesterday."

While Queenie waited for Blondie to react she started to lace him into the new whale-bone corset she had bought. Starting at the top lace and working her way down, she pulled firmly on the two ends of each lace and knotted them together.

For the past week she had kept Blondie isolated from Boss and the two boys -- she had forbade him to be even in the same room with them. She had confined him to the kitchen at meal- times and locked him in his bedroom at other times they were around. When they were alone together she had told him stories -- some real, some fictitious -- though all with the same theme: the vulnerability of women living in isolated farmsteads to being terrorized by gangs of marauding men.

Right now, Queenie could see the boy was in two minds -- she had reckoned he would be interested in hearing what Homer and Dutchie had been saying about him but at the same time he wouldn't want to engage her in conversation. She reckoned too that he would want to know where Boss and the boys had gone.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she echoed. 'Come on, girlie, you've shown you're interested -- you can't go back now!' she said gleefully to herself.

As she worked her way down to his waist she pushed her knee into the small of his back to gain greater leverage. She could see the corset beginning to compress his waist into the desired shape.

"What did they say about me?"

Queenie didn't reply immediately. Inwardly, she was gloating: 'My, Blondie! Six whole words -- that's more than you said all of yesterday!'

Then she chuckled aloud.

"Men can be so ignorant about women at times!" she exclaimed with a rueful laugh.

Blondie went pale and in a hurt tone asked: "What do you mean? What were they saying about me? Please tell me!"

Queenie took hold of another lace and started to draw the ends together.

"You remember yesterday when you dropped those spoons in the kitchen at breakfast?" she asked. "Take another deep breath, Blondie."

"Yes, I do: why?" Blondie replied, puzzled. He inhaled and then grimaced with discomfort as the corset squeezed his waist further.

"You remember Dutchie wanted to go in and help you pick them up but I wouldn't let him?" Queenie continued.

"Yes, what about it?" Blondie answered. A warm glow briefly surfaced on the boy's face and disappeared just as quickly -- but not before Queenie noticed it.

"Dutchie's such a gentleman, isn't he, girlie," she observed smoothly.

"What were they saying about me?" the boy cried impatiently.

"They were talking about the way you picked up the spoons," Queenie replied enigmatically. She chuckled to herself inwardly: 'I'm teasing you, Blondie! You'll have to talk to me eventually -- and in the way I taught you!'

"The way I picked up the spoons ... ? I don't understand!" Blondie cried in frustration. "Tell me!"

Queenie didn't reply; she continued lacing the corset.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at her.

"I'm sorry, Queenie, it wasn't very lady-like of me to talk to you like that," he said meekly. "Please tell me: what did they say about me?"

"They were trying to figure out why you picked up the spoons like you did," Queenie responded.

"I still don't understand," the boy replied, shaking his head.

"They were wondering why you had to bend from the knees and why you had to keep your back straight," Queenie said.

"Oh."

Queenie finished lacing the corset. It was longer than any he had worn previously, reaching down to the middle of his thighs. The catalog had said it was suitable as a first corset for girls entering puberty who required firm abdominal control (Queenie smiled as she remembered the manufacturer's euphemism for rigid). With the changes her cousin Anita's potions were having on Blondie's body, her cast-off corsets were no longer suitable. Already Blondie's nipples had become swollen and sensitive and his budding breasts would soon need the proper support of a girl's corset. Anita's 'Scarlet Woman' medicine, as she jokingly called it (because it was colored red and designed to feminize), was also working wonders on smoothening the area between his legs: his penis and testicles had shriveled so much that they nearly had disappeared back inside his body.

"Like I said: men can be so ignorant about women!" she said breezily. She let him digest this in silence as she handed him a pair of stockings from the bed.

As she watched him pull one stocking at a time up his smooth, hairless legs and fasten them to the suspenders, she reminded herself -- not for the first time either -- how most women would kill to have shapely legs like his.

When he was finished she passed him the first of his petticoats from the bed.

'This is your least favorite underskirt, girlie!' she said to herself as she watched him step in to the lace-trimmed garment and pull it up to his waist. 'You detest the way it squeezes your legs together! You despise, too, the way it makes you take little dainty steps! Most of all, you hate the way it makes you feel vulnerable -- vulnerable in a way only a woman can understand: like us, if you're threatened by a man, you know you won't be able to run!'

Four more petticoats followed; then, instead of giving him the dress she had laid out on the bed she went over to the closet and picked out a Sunday outfit. She knew he'd realise the significance of her choosing a frilly dress rather than the week-day dress on the bed: it meant the men weren't around, it meant not having to tidy up after them, not having to cook, it meant having a day to themselves, a day of tranquillity, a day embroidering up at Lady's View with only the babbling sounds of the river below to disturb them.

"Where did they go last night?"

It was the question Queenie had been expecting all morning.

"Did the men not tell you?" she asked insouciantly, taking the dress off its hanger. "Maybe they didn't want to frighten you!"

"Tell me what?" the boy asked, mystified and alarmed. "Frighten me about what?"

Queenie gathered the dress up in her arms and lifted it over the boy's head.

"Newsome's homestead -- a half a day's ride from here -- gang of five men looted the place -- killed Pa Newsome," she said in between guiding one arm into the sleeve and then the next and lowering the dress down over his slender frame.

"They killed someone?!" Blondie asked, horrified.

"Sure did," Queenie answered, pulling on the hem of the dress to make it sit better on the layers of petticoats. Then, she added ominously: "And they raped Ma Newsome and her two daughters ... "

"They what ... ?" the boy breathed in horror.

Queenie closed her eyes momentarily as if in silent prayer and nodded her head.

"Where are they now?"

"Who?"

"The gang -- the men who raped ... "

"Don't know, girlie. Boss and the boys have gone to join a posse to find them."

"But they could be coming this way!" Blondie yelped. "Who's going to protect us ... what will we do if they come, Queenie? We're defenceless ... !"

Queenie finished buttoning his dress at back.

"Don't fret, girlie," she commented comfortingly. "If anybody comes just stay close to my side. I'll see that nothing happens to you."

Inwardly, Queenie was exhilarated: Blondie was reacting in a way that exceeded her wildest dreams. 'I can't wait for Anita's new potion to arrive!' she thought ecstatically to herself as she tied the sash of his dress.

"What'll happen if they realize I'm a ... " the panic- stricken boy started to say.

Queenie put her finger to his lips.

"You mean what will happen when they realize you're a virgin? That's what you meant to say, girlie, isn't it?" she replied soothingly but with a menacing undertone.

Blondie nodded his head nervously.

"I won't let any man near you and even if they did they wouldn't be able to take off that corset!" she said jokingly to show him she wasn't worried.

She ran her fingers through the lace frills of his bodice and looked into his terror-filled eyes.

"I guess that's why the men didn't tell you anything, girlie," she said softly, leading him over to the mirror to do his hair. "They didn't want you to get all jittery or anything, girlie ... there's nothing worse than a man hates in these situations than a panicky female ... "

++++++++++++++++

The annual outing to Lake Tataho had been a permanent fixture in Queenie's married life since she and her husband since they had come out west fifteen years ago. They had promised each other that their first child would be baptised in the lake. But when the stork failed to deliver the natural beauty of the lake became a stark reminder to Queenie of her barrenness.

This year Queenie felt more at ease, more serene on the ride to Lake Tataho since any time in her marriage. She sat in the middle with Boss holding the reins on her right and Blondie sat passively on her left. Blondie and Dutchie rode on ahead of them.

Though they had left shortly after sun-rise on the four hour trip to the lake the heat was already uncomfortable. Boss was in his usual surly mood after finishing a half bottle of whisky the night before.

She hadn't expected Blondie to be so sulky and pouty. She had assumed he would enjoy the opportunity to see the lake that she had told him so much about. Perhaps it had been the heat ...

'Maybe I shouldn't have assumed too that he'd enjoy wearing the dress that I wore for my graduation,' she thought to herself. Though the silk batiste gown was over sixteen years old it was still in perfect condition. She had taken pleasure while she was dressing him of pointing out the details that had made it the height of fashion: the gauged skirt with deep flounces; the blouse with gathered frills of embroidered batiste; the crushed taffeta belt.

"It's yours now," she had told him. The dress made him look so gracious and feminine that she had fully expected him to be pleased. But he had stood silently in front of the mirror pointedly holding out his arms to show the fullness of the balloon sleeves.

She felt somehow that he had slighted her choice of outfit. Of course, in her glowing description of the dress she had omitted to mention that balloon sleeves -- which had been popular then -- had since given way to the much softer and less fuller bishop sleeves.

Queenie was determined not to let her disappointment at his reaction to her graduation dress jeopardize her day. But her intuition told her that the episode warranted deeper reflection.

They arrived at Lake Tataho in good time. Dutchie dismounted from his horse and helped Queenie and a blushing Blondie down from the carriage.

Boss and the two older boys headed down to the lake shore to find logs for a fire while Queenie and Blondie unpacked the lunch.

When the meal was over Homer and Dutchie headed off to explore the far side of the lake. Boss retreated behind a big rock and promptly fell asleep.

"Let's find somewhere to shelter from this sun," Queenie suggested after they had finished tidying up. "Come on, girlie, I think I see a place."

Blondie followed her up a small embankment where a group of conifers afforded them some shade.

Queenie flopped down on the trunk of a fallen tree. Holding her parasol in one hand she cooled her face with an ornate lace fan with the other.

"Sit down beside me, girlie," she invited with a smile, petting the tree to her left with a gloved hand. "You look so pretty in that dress!"

The boy blushed and spreading his skirts sat down beside her. Queenie reached over and touched her companion's forehead.

"My, you are warm ..." she started to say.

"Warm? You sound surprized! Do you know how many layers of underskirts I'm wearing?" her companion interrupted plaintively. "Actually, I'm persp --"

One look at Queenie's face was enough to stop the boy in mid- sentence.

"Such an unlady-like thing to say, girlie!" she chided him gently. "How many times have I told you: men perspire but women ..."

"Glow," a chastised Blondie finished for her.

"I forgive you, girlie," Queenie continued with a smile. "In this heat a woman can forget herself."

Her companion said nothing.

"You know, girlie," Queenie said, "to live on the prairie you've got to be tough. The summers are long, hot and oppressive and the winters are long, cold and severe -- last winter there was snow flakes the size of my hand. My favorite seasons are spring and fall but they're too short out here. The prairie is a hard place: it's really a place for men -- a woman doesn't really belong here at all. And for those of us that do live her the prairie is a real lonesome place because there is so few of us. We're so isolated from other women. We need other people for company but men can go for days, even weeks, without needing to talk to another soul."

Queenie fanned herself some more.

"Know something, girlie?"

"What?" Blondie replied, startled.

"To survive on the prairie a woman has got to be as tough as a man," Queenie continued. "She's got to be like a man. That sounds like a contradiction but in my opinion she's got to be like a man. The prairie does that to you. Make sense to you?"

Blondie shrugged his shoulders.

"You get to be tough and self-sufficient. Though I'm from the east coast I've been out here for fifteen years now and I reckon that's what prairie life has done to me," Queenie went on. "But don't get me wrong: when I said that to survive on the prairie a woman has to be like a man I meant on the outside. On the inside I'm still very much a woman. I have feminine feelings -- for instance, I'd love to have children -- and I think like a woman. I like to express my femininity in the way I dress and the way I look."

She took hold of the boy's hands in her own.

"It's even harder for a girl on the prairie," she said softly. The boy tried to free his hands but she wouldn't let him. "Prairie girls can get easily confused by conflicting signals; they grow up learning from their mothers and other womenfolk that they are girls and that one day they will grow up to be women. But they soon get to learn that to survive out here on the prairie they have to be tough like a boy. When I say tough I mean only on the outside, like a veneer -- on the inside their hearts, feelings and thoughts tell them that they are feminine. That sense of confusion is heightened by the onset of puberty -- by the fact that slowly their bodies are becoming more woman-like and that soon they will bear children."

Queenie took the boy's two hands in her left hand and reaching over grasped his left elbow. Slowly, she drew his elbow towards her so that they sat, knees touching, facing each other. He offered no resistance when she once again took his hands in hers and held them in her lap.

"I know you weren't born on the prairie, girlie," she said. "But I reckon that living in the orphanage was like growing up on the prairie. To survive you had to be tough -- all the more difficult because of your small size. Home and Dutchie have told me that there wasn't a tougher little nipper than you in the whole orphanage!"

She paused.

"Only thing though, girlie: some people saw through you. They knew you from the day you came to the orphanage. I'm talking of people like Mrs. Mellon and Agnes -- you remember, Agnes the nurse?" Queenie continued.

The boy slowly nodded his head.

"They saw through you, girlie, through that tough outer skin, that veneer," Queenie continued. Then, she added softly: "They saw through that ... facade."

"What facade? What do you mean?" her companion blurted out.

"The facade you put on to hide your life before you came to the orphanage!" Queenie replied.

She saw her companion's lip tremble but he said nothing.

"This is hard on you, isn't it, girlie? Your past catching up on you," she murmured sympathetically. "It was your big sister who started it, wasn't it?"

Blondie didn't reply.

"Mrs. Mellon said she was a real beauty who loved pretty clothes, but she was frustrated being the eldest of four boys and not having any sister to enjoy!" Queenie said. "So when you came along -- as a baby, you were weak and undersized for your sex -- she resolved to make a sister out of you. Of course, she couldn't do that without your mother's knowledge and approval with whom she had a very close relationship. Having provided your father with four male heirs, your mother concluded that she had made her contribution and turned a blind eye. Being both the youngest and physically small for your age, you were picked on unmercifully by your four elder brothers. Your sister offered to protect you from your heartless brothers. Her protection, though, came with a price: you had to become her little sister! Once she had you in a dress and looking pretty, she made you feel safe! But, best of all, she made you feel cherished and appreciated -- and beautiful!"

Queenie paused to see if Blondie would say anything but he remained silent.

"She transformed you into such a sweet and winsome little sister that it wasn't long before your mother put her inhibitions behind her and she too became involved!" Queenie continued. "And with your father being away in the navy they had a free hand! Catching the fever at the age of three gave your sister the pretext to move you into her room so she could nurse you. The only thing, girlie, was this wasn't a temporary move, this was for good -- you never moved back in with your brothers again!"

"The two most powerful women in your life, girlie, dressing you up as a girl! They made you feel special and wanted! And you loved every minute of it! You were the center of their attention and you loved it! You adored feeling pretty! You were captivated by the beautiful clothes they dressed you in! They taught you everything about being a girl -- and you soaked it up like a sponge!" Queenie went on. "And being the 'new' girl in your family, your brothers dared not touch you for fear of bringing the wrath of your mother and sister on top of them! You were safe! But you knew you were only secure as long as your mother and sister treated you as a girl. You had to constantly reassure them that not only did you like dressing as a girl but you wanted to be like one as well! And that, girlie, was how you lived the first seven years -- the most important seven years -- of your life!"

Queenie squeezed Blondie's hands.

"Then, one by one, your family was struck down by the plague," she went on. "You were heart-broken and going to the orphanage nearly destroyed you. Suddenly, you had to put all your past behind you and to survive the orphanage you had to be Mr. Tough Guy! But deep inside you, buried deep in your innermost core, were those feminine qualities, waiting for a moment -- any moment -- to reveal themselves!"

"That's ... that's not true!" Blondie whispered hoarsely. Queenie saw tear drops rolling down his cheeks.

"Yes, girlie, it is true!" Queenie asserted quietly and firmly. "Only some last vestige of misplaced masculine pride is preventing you from revealing your true feelings! You're not in the orphanage now! Leave your tough little guy act behind, girlie! It's artificial, a sham -- I've seen through it! You're here with me, girlie! I want you to be the real you! I want the little girl --"

"Nooooooo!" Blondie wept, his face in his hands.

"Listen to me, girlie! You were raised as a girl -- and you loved every moment of it! I want the little girl in you to return! To feel pretty and dainty! Embrace your feminine nature, girlie, stop running from it! Accept it and enjoy it!" Queenie said gently. "You can't change your fate any more than a river can change its path, girlie: it's your destiny!"

Blondie shook his head.

Queenie sighed.

"If I can't convince you now, then maybe you'll listen to your body," she said cryptically.

++++++++++++++++

"Girlie! What brings you here?"

Oh Dutchie -- you gave me such a fright!" Blondie gasped, his hands automatically clasping his bosom.

"Where's Queenie? How come she's let you out on your own?" Dutchie demanded.

"Shssssshhhhh! She's in the kitchen. Don't talk so loud -- she might hear us -- she'd give me a scolding if she caught me talking to you!" Blondie whispered.

"Why doesn't she allow you to talk to us?" Dutchie asked, perplexed. "You haven't said a word to me or Homer in months!"

The younger boy's pale face colored with embarrassment. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Come on, Blondie!" Dutchie pressed. "You must know a reason!"

"She ... " the younger boy started but didn't finish.

"Why, for pete's sake, Blondie, why?" Dutchie exploded impatiently.

"She says ... she says I've nothing to learn from men," Blondie answered in a low voice.

"You've nothing to learn from men?!" Dutchie repeated incredulously.

Fighting back tears, Blondie nodded.

"What have you learnt from her? How to look like a woman? How to wear a dress?" Dutchie demanded, his voice rising in anger. "How to be a woman ... is that it, Blondie?"

Blondie made no reply but his expressive, limpid and kohl- rimmed eyes silently implored Dutchie not to continue.

From her hiding place which allowed her to see and hear everything that went on in the barn Queenie grinned. 'You could cut the silence in there with a knife!' she gleefully said to herself.

'You've got two ways in which you can react, girlie,' she thought. 'Firstly, you can pretend you're still Mr. Tough Guy underneath your feminine finery or, secondly, you can respond in the way that corresponds with the way you look and with the way I've taught you.' Her intuition told her that Blondie would follow the latter course.

She congratulated herself on the new dress she had purchased for Blondie. It simply radiated femininity; rose-colored in a mixture of silk and cotton voile, its exquisitely embroidered bodice hinted at a developing bust-line. Beside the large and muscular Dutchie, the dress made Blondie look elegant and petite.

Back inside the barn it was Dutchie who eventually broke the silence.

"It's not raining in here, is it?" he said curtly, looking at Blondie's head.

"Uh ... !?!" Blondie gasped in bewilderment. Then, realizing what Dutchie was referring to, his slender hands rose and carefully lifted off the shawl covering his hair. The boy subconsciously tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear. He noticed Dutchie glaring at the shawl in his hand.

"My hair is so long now: if it gets wet, it takes ages to dry!" Blondie smiled apologetically. Then seeing that Dutchie still had a glare on his faced added with a pout: "Anyway, Queenie made me!"

"Does she really make you wear dresses all the time?" Dutchie blurted out.

Blondie, his cheeks reddening, was about to make a reply when a movement caught his attention.

"Oh look -- a foal! It's so pretty!" he cooed, lifting his skirts and going over to the animal lying in the straw.

"You poor creature, you're shivering!" Blondie exclaimed, kneeling down. "Is she frightened of me, Dutchie?"

"I guess she's never seen a boy in a dress before" Dutchie commented acidly.

Blondie flinched but said nothing.

"How old is she?" he asked, gently stroking the foal with his hand.

"She's three days old," Dutchie replied.

"Where's her mother?"

"Out back yonder -- she doesn't want to know," Dutchie said. "That's why I'm looking after her."

"The poor thing!" Blondie cooed sympathetically. Then, he gave a squeal of delight: "Look, Dutchie, she's licking my ring! She thinks it's food! Isn't it pretty, darling, look at the way it sparkles in the light!"

There was a silence before Dutchie spoke.

"Does Queenie still keep you tied up?" he asked. "Me and Homer saw you once with your hands tied behind your back."

"You saw me like that? When?" Blondie asked, surprized.

"Oh, I don't remember when exactly ... it was a long time ago, we saw you through your bedroom window."

"That was a long time ago," Blondie agreed.

"So she doesn't tie you up any more?"

"No, not now ..." Blondie responded slowly. "I guess she knows I won't ..."

"Escape?" Dutchie finished.

Blondie nodded.

"Why not, girlie, I mean, Blondie? Why couldn't you escape?" Dutchie pressed.

Blondie sighed and stood up to face Dutchie. He shook some straws from his dress.

"Look at me," the youngster said. "What do you see?"

Dutchie looked confused.

"I see you ..." he replied slowly.

Blondie shook his head impatiently.

"I've changed, Dutchie, I'm no longer the person you knew," the slightly built youngster said. "Queenie's changed me -- look at me again, Dutchie, and tell me what you really see!"

"I see a boy in ... in a dress ... " Dutchie began slowly and then stopped.

"Go on," Blondie prompted.

"That's all," Dutchie said weakly.

"That's all? Oh, Dutchie, there's much more -- much more!" Blondie exclaimed with feeling. "Look at my hair: it's braided. You know who braided it this morning? I did! Yes, Dutchie, I braided it (I did it in ten minutes -- it used to take me half an hour!). Yesterday I had pony-tails, I did them too! I can do every thing a girl can do with her hair!"

Dutchie said nothing.

"Do you know what happened to me yesterday?" Blondie went on. "I finished my first ever embroidery frame without any help from Queenie!"

Dutchie shook his head in silent astonishment.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Dutchie: do you know what gave me my biggest thrill lately?"

Dutchie shook his head again. He saw Blondie suck in a deep breath of air.

"See this dress I'm wearing?" Blondie asked.

Dutchie nodded: "Yeah, what about it?"

"I got it two weeks ago -- " Blondie started.

"What about it?" Dutchie repeated.

"Oh, Dutchie, don't you notice anything?" Blondie asked in exasperation. Seeing the blank look on his companion's face he went on with a sigh: "You wouldn't notice these things but a woman would."

"Notice what?" Dutchie snorted.

"First of all, it's a new dress and it's all the fashion on the east coast --" Blondie began.

"And that gave you your biggest thrill? That it's fashionable on the east coast?" Dutchie asked in wonderment.

"No, ... well, maybe a little bit," Blondie conceded. "No, Dutchie, my biggest thrill was that it was my first dress!"

"Your first dress?" Dutchie asked, confused.

"Yes, Dutchie, this is my dress," Blondie answered quietly. "You see, up to now I've being wearing Queenie's hand-me- downs. They never really fitted me. Queenie got this dress specially for me. I know you won't understand, Dutchie, but it makes me feel like a new person ..."

From her hiding place Queenie could see the look of distaste on Dutchie's face. Pleased with the way Blondie had reacted so far she decided it was time to intervene. Her intuition told her that Blondie was ready for the second acid test of femininity she had planned. She called Blondie making it sound like she was calling from the kitchen.

"Dutchie, that's Queenie calling, I've got to go!" Blondie said to Dutchie in a panic.

"What did you come here for?" Dutchie asked quickly.

"She asked me to get a bag of potatoes," Blondie replied.

"They're over there," Dutchie said, pointing to the far corner of the barn behind him.

He stepped back to let Blondie pass. As he did so, Queenie saw him wrinkle his nose. 'Yes, Dutchie, I know what you're thinking,' she giggled to herself, 'he smells like one too!'

Blondie found the bag and tried to lift it.

Queenie chuckled to herself when she saw Blondie look around: there was a look of recognition on his face.

'Good for you, Blondie! Your feminine intuition has just told you that I've set you up! You've just realized two things -- One: a girl wouldn't be expected to lift a heavy sack of potatoes. Two: even if she had to, she certainly wouldn't be wearing her best dress!' she giggled to herself. 'Let's see how you get out of this situation! I've told you a thousand times: the number one rule for any girl in your predicament is to use your womanly charms to get a man to help you.'

She saw Blondie look at Dutchie.

"Dutchie, could you help me with this sack please?" he asked sweetly. "It's too heavy for me: I need someone big and strong like you."

Dutchie's mouth fell open in astonishment; then without a word he went over to where Blondie was standing and effortlessly lifted the sack over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Dutchie, you're such a gentleman!" Blondie smiled up at him in gratitude.

Dutchie grunted in embarrassment.

Seeing that it was still raining outside Blondie threw the shawl over his head and keeping his skirts lifted off the wet grass led the way back to the house.

++++++++++++++++

"I feel sick!" Blondie announced suddenly.

"What's the matter, girlie?" Queenie asked.

"My tummy feels like I've a cramp," Blondie complained.

"Maybe you'd like to lie down for a little while?" Queenie suggested sympathetically. "Come with me."

Surprized, Blondie nodded and followed the woman upstairs to his bedroom. She made him take off his ankle boots and lie on the bed. Dampening a cloth in a bowl of water she wiped his brow.

"You see if you can get some sleep," she said softly.

The boy looked at her with suspicion but then his eyes closed as he drifted off to sleep. The woman smiled: he plainly wasn't used to this caring treatment from her. She left the room and went downstairs.

Later in the evening she went up to the room. The room was bathed in moon-light and she saw that the boy was half awake.

"There's a full moon tonight," Queenie commented conversationally as she closed the curtains. The boy tried to sit up in bed.

"How are you now, girlie?" she asked.

"OK, --" he started. Then, he groaned in pain: "Something's not right ... my drawers feel damp ..."

"Let me have a look," Queenie said commandingly. She peered between his petticoats and then reached in to take off his drawers.

"Just a little bit of blood," she said calmly, showing him the soiled drawers.

"Blood!" the boy moaned in terror. "I'm going to die!"

"There's no need to worry, girlie, I'll put something on to soak anything more up," Queenie replied soothingly. "The first time is the worst. You'll be all right in a few days. In the meantime, get plenty of rest."

Queenie refused to answer any of his queries regarding the discharge of blood but assured him that it would pass.

The boy was excused from duties for the next two days. He stayed in bed and Queenie attended to him day and night. Gradually, his cramps disappeared and his appetite returned.

Four weeks went by and then the cramps re-appeared. Queenie gave him the same sympathetic treatment as before excusing him from work. She changed his soiled drawers regularly. At night-time she sat by his bedroom window doing her embroidery in the light of the moon. Queenie guessed he was too proud to ask her what was happening to him but she knew that he was scared.

As before and as Queenie had foretold, after two days he was well enough again to return to his duties.

One morning a week later they were getting ready to do the laundry. Queenie was an irritable mood that day and had given Blondie a number of verbal tongue lashes. She sent him up to her bedroom to collect clothes for the laundry knowing full well what he would see. They washed the clothes outside in the large wooden tub; Blondie made no comment when a red stain ran from her white drawers.

Three weeks later Blondie's cramps returned. This time Queenie didn't allow him to go to bed despite his obvious discomfort. Instead she bought him up to his bedroom every few hours to change his drawers.

When Boss and the boys returned that evening they found Queenie had prepared their favorite meal. She even allowed Homer and Dutchie to have beer with their dinner -- something she had never allowed before. It wasn't long before the sound of shouting and drunken laughter filled the room. She and Blondie had their dinner quietly in the kitchen.

"I think they're finished inside now, girlie, bring in the dishes," Queenie told her assistant a little later.

Queenie watched as the boy gathered his skirts and check his appearance in the mirror as she had taught him before going hesitantly into the room where Boss and the boys were eating. Queenie noted with glee how they made fun of Blondie's pale and drawn appearance. Then winking to each other the men raised their empty beer mugs.

"More beer, girlie!" they teased him, pulling at the sleeves of his dress to grab his attention.

When Blondie returned to the kitchen Queenie noticed that he was close to tears.

"Why didn't you allow me to lie down today like the last time?" he complained bitterly.

"Because you don't see me lying down, do you?" she snapped.

"But you don't have ..." the boy started and then fell silent. Queenie smiled to herself: he had made the connection. She took Blondie by the arm and led him up to his bedroom. She sat the puzzled boy down on the bed.

"Look out the window," she told him.

"What's there to see? I can't see anything," he said, mystified. "It's dark outside. There's only the moon ..."

"Only the moon," Queenie repeated cryptically.

"That's it! I always get the cramps ... when there's a moon ..." Blondie said slowly, looking up at her.

Queenie said nothing.

"It's something about the moon that gives me the cramps!" Blondie cried.

Queenie smiled and shook her head.

"What is it then? Please tell me!" her younger companion pleaded, his voice suddenly trembling with emotion.

She sat down on the bed beside Blondie and held his arms in against his sides.

"It's not the moon, girlie," she said softly. "It's just your time of the month ..."

"My time of the month?!" Blondie bleated in terror. "What do you mean?"

"Your time of the month is now, girlie. Next week it will be my turn," Queenie replied enigmatically.

"You mean I'll have cramps every month?" Blondie cried in despair.

Queenie nodded.

"It's ... it's so ... so awful ..." the boy said wildly.

"Who said being a female was easy?" Queenie replied calmly.

The boy looked shocked. Queenie had trained him to verbally deny his gender; now she seemed to be suggesting something else ...

"Girlie, every female gets these cramps: they're your body's way of preparing you for womanhood -- " Queenie began.

"Agggggghhhhhhh! I don't believe it!" Blondie screamed hysterically.

Queenie shook the sobbing, quivering boy.

"Hush, girlie, and listen to me!" she urged.

Blondie's sobs eventually subsidised.

"You're a girl now -- the cramps you get prove that without a shadow of doubt!" Queenie continued. "Boss doesn't get them; nor does Homer or Dutchie. Just you and me, girlie."

Blondie opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.

"Men don't understand what a woman has to go through every month -- the pain, the discomfort, the misery. They don't know and even if they did they wouldn't care. Did Boss or Homer show any signs of caring earlier this evening for what you're going through?" she challenged. Then she added with a wry smile: "Or even Dutchie?"

Remembering his treatment at the dinner table, Blondie slowly shook his head.

"I do, girlie, I know what it's like," Queenie continued softly. "I can help you, girlie, but you must let me help you."

"How?" Blondie sniffed.

Queen spoke to her younger companion for over an hour.

"So, remember, girlie, the golden rule is ... ?" she asked in conclusion.

"Women must stick together," Blondie gulped.

"I think you can do better than that, girlie," she prompted gently.

There was a silence. Queenie raised her eye-brows expectantly.

"We ... we women must stick together," came the whispered reply.

++++++++++++++++

"I can't make it out," Dutchie said.

"Can't make what out?" Homer replied.

It was Sunday afternoon and they were lying on the river bank.

"You know, girlie, I mean, Blondie," Dutchie replied.

"What about girlie?" Homer returned.

"I dunno, something's changed ... between Blondie and Queenie," Dutchie said.

"Changed? Changed in what way?" Homer challenged. "I don't see any change. It's been the same for the last few months."

"Well, take a look at them up there," Dutchie said, nodding his head in the direction of the hill overlooking the river.

Homer turned around and looked.

"They're just talking, that's all," he said.

"Well, that's a change, that's a big change!" Dutchie observed. "In the beginning you'd never see them talking -- or even sitting together. Blondie used to have to stand up all the time or sit alone on a rug. Homer, look! They're laughing!"

"Maybe you're right, Dutchie. Queenie does seem in better form these days. We've had beer at dinner for the last two nights!" Homer replied with a grin on his face. He leant back on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. "I don't care what those two dames do together so long as I get a beer for dinner!"

"All you think of is beer, you nit-picker!" Dutchie exclaimed. He continued to look up in the direction of the hill.

"Oh yeah! How come you always get more beer than I do then?" Homer challenged.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm on about. Girlie always gives you more beer than I get!" Homer observed sourly.

"Hogwash! You're imagining it, Homer!" Dutchie scoffed.

"Yes, she does, I've seen her; she's always favoring you!" Homer charged.

Dutchie just laughed and shook his head.

"She gives you more meat too!" Homer added angrily.

"You're losing your brains, Homer, or what's left of them!" Dutchie retorted. Then, he got up and stripped off his trousers: "I could do with a swim. Last one to the far side is the loser!"

++++++++++++++++

It was just after noon and even though it was late fall it was still very hot.

They were sitting on a bench beneath a sycamore tree whose leafy branches shaded them from the burning rays of the sun.

"If I could, I'd spend all day brushing my hair!"

Queenie looked up from her sewing and smiled at her companion. She watched as Blondie's arm rose and fell in smooth even strokes.

"A woman can never take too much care of her hair," she observed. "You've such beautiful hair -- it really pleases me how well you look after it!"

Blondie gave a light, tinkling laugh: "You're so kind, Queenie! But I know that look in your eyes -- it's time to do my chores now ... right?!"

Queenie nodded with a smile and watched her younger companion gather the blonde shoulder-length hair and deftly twist it into a bun, securing it with a pin. Then Blondie picked up a shirt from a wicker basket at their feet.

"Two holes in one day!" Blondie exclaimed in exasperation, reaching for needle and thread. "How does Dutchie do it?"

"I bet he didn't even notice!" Queenie chuckled. "Men prefer not to notice these things -- nor do they care! They'd sooner dress in rags then mend their clothes. That's why they need us women!" she added.

They sewed in silence for a little while.

"Blondie?"

"Yes?"

"Have you thought any more about what we were talking this morning?"

"Yes, ... a bit."

"Am I right?"

"Queenie ... I ... I don't believe I fancy Dutchie ... honest I don't!"

Queenie said nothing; Dutchie's little stammer would have passed unnoticed but for the tell-tale blush.

Queenie, sensing Blondie's discomfiture at her direct line of questioning, decided to change tactics.

She bent down and rummaged in the wicker basket. "There's just this little tear in Homer's trousers, Blondie, and we're done for today. I'll finish off Dutchie's shirt for you if you do Homer's. Will you --?"

"No, I want to finish this! Homer's trousers can wait!" Blondie interrupted petulantly. "Dutchie's shirt is more important ..."

Queenie put down her sewing.

"Blondie," she began gently, "we've agreed never to keep anything from each other ... you can tell me ... maybe I can help?"

++++++++++++++++

"Queenie, are you finished yet? How do I look?" Blondie asked, shivering with giddy excitement.

"Blondie, will you keep still while I fix your hem?" Queenie replied. She stood up as Blondie struck a pose in front of the mirror.

"That new dress really looks pretty on you!" she smiled. "Do a twirl for me."

Blondie, standing on tip toes, pirouetted around, making the long skirt flare out in tandem.

"Blondie, pretend I'm Dutchie: show me how you grab my attention!" Queenie called.

With both hands Blondie lifted the cerise-colored skirt a few inches off the ground to reveal white lace-trimmed petticoats underneath. Then, moving towards her, starting with the right hand and alternating with the left, Blondie ruffed the skirt against the petticoats making a distinctive swishing noise.

Queenie smiled: it was one of the oldest feminine flirting tricks in the book -- instead of simultaneously holding up your skirts and petticoats as you walked you just held up your skirt giving men a glimpse of your petticoats and stockinged ankle underneath.

"More ... more beer, Dutchie ...?" Blondie cooed demurely, eye-lashes fluttering.

Queenie kissed Blondie on the cheek. Impulsively, they hugged each other.

"Queenie, what will I do then?" Blondie giggled, eyes shining bright with excitement.

"What will you do then?" Queenie mused. Then, she burst out laughing: "You tighten the noose and you rein him in ...!"