Stormy, Misty's Foal

by Marguerite Henry

  For the next few days, in school and out, they thought up names and just as quickly discarded them. None seemed right. Either they were too long, or when you called them out across the marsh they sounded puny. It wasn’t like naming just any colt.

  For three days they struggled. Then on Wednesday almost at dusk Mr. Conant, the postmaster himself, arrived at Pony Ranch with a whole bag of mail for the Beebes. When Grandma spied him striding across the yard, she quickly set an extra place at the table and sent Maureen to the door.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Conant,” Maureen said politely, but her eyes were on the mailbag.

  “How do you do, Maureen and Mrs. Beebe?”

  “How-do, Mr. Conant. I declare,” Grandma chuckled, “you look jes’ like Santa Claus with that leather pouch ye’re carry in’. Let me hang it on a peg whilst you set down. Mr. Beebe and Paul will be in right soon. Now then,” she beamed, “do stay to supper. We got us a fine turtle stew with black-eyed peas, and light bread, and some of my beach-plum preserves.”

  “I’d be very honored to stay!” Mr. Conant replied. “My wife has taken her mother to Salisbury for over night, and while she has no doubt prepared some tasty treat for me, what is food without good talk to digest it?”

  Grandma looked pleased. “That’s what I allus tell Clarence, only I don’t say it so elegant.”

  Maureen was still eyeing the mailbag, her curiosity at the bursting point.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Mr. Conant smiled broadly. He reached into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope bearing a bright red Special Delivery sticker. “It’s for you and Paul,” he said, handing it to Maureen. “Since it’s marked Special, I decided to bring all of your mail along, instead of letting it wait until tomorrow.” Pointing to the mailbag, he added, “It’s the biggest batch of mail ever to come to Chincoteague for one family in one day.”

  There was a clatter and a stamping in the back hall as Grandpa and Paul came in. “Why, if ’tain’t Mr. Conant,” Grandpa said, putting out his hand. “I’m as pleased to see ye as a dog with two tails!”

  “Look, Paul!” Maureen cried. “A letter, Special Delivery! For us!”

  Paul took the news with outward calm, but his eyes strained to see the postmark and his fingers itched to snatch the letter and run off, like Skipper with a bone.

  “You children put that letter with the others and wash up now,” Grandma scolded gently as she stirred the stew. “Turtles is hard to come by, and I ain’t minded to let our vittles get ruint. Besides,” she said, “if it’s good news, it’ll keep, and if it’s bad, time enough to read it after we’ve et. Everyone, please to sit. You here, Mr. Postmaster.”

  In spite of company, supper that night was, as Grandpa put it, “a lick and a gallop.” Everyone was in a fever of excitement to start opening the letters. But first the table had to be cleared, and the crumbs swept clean. Then Grandma spread out a fresh checkered cloth to protect the top. “We allus use the kitchen table for everything,” she explained to Mr. Conant, “fer readin’ and writin’, fer splintin’ broken bird legs—whatever ’tis needs doin’.” She nodded now in the direction of the mail pouch.

  The postmaster took down the bag and dumped the letters onto the table. With the hand of an expert he stacked them in neat piles, placing the Special Delivery on top.

  “It’s like Christmas!” Maureen gasped.

  “It’s bigger than Christmas,” Paul said.

  “Who they for?” Grandpa wanted to know.

  “Some are for you, Mr. Beebe, and some for Paul and Maureen.”

  Wait-a-Minute jumped on the table and began upsetting the piles. Paul swept her off with his arm. “You tend to your kittens,” he said not unkindly. “We got important business!” He took out his pocketknife. “I’ll do the slitting,” he announced.

  “I’ll do the pullin’ out and unfoldin’,” Grandpa offered.

  “You read them to us, Grandma,” Maureen said. “You make everything sound like a storybook.”

  Grandma blushed. “Mr. Conant’s got the edification. I’d be right shy readin’ in front of him.”

  “Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Beebe. I agree with Maureen. Many a Sunday I’ve gone by your class and heard you reading from the Bible. I feel complimented you let me stay and be part of the family.”

  For a moment the slitting of the envelopes and the crackle of paper were the only sounds in the room. Then Grandma picked up the Special Delivery letter, took a deep breath, and in her best Sunday voice began:

  “Dear Paul and Maureen,

  I am sorry the storm came. But I am glad Misty had a baby. Was I surprised!

  I hope some day I can visit your island or maybe even live there. I hope to go to Pony Penning Day and maybe buy a pony.

  I hope you don’t mind if I send you a name for Misty’s baby. I think ‘Windy’ would be nice.”

  “By ginger!” Grandpa exclaimed. “That’s uncommon purty. Let’s have another, Idy.”

  Mr. Conant took pencil and paper out of his pocket and wrote down Windy with a checkmark after it.

  “This one is to Misty herself,” Grandma went on. “Why, it’s a regular baby card, and it says, Congratulations to you and the new little bundle of joy.”

  “Turn it over, Grandma, there’s a note on the back,” Maureen said.

  “So there is! Listen:

  “Dear little Misty,

  I’ve heard so much about you I feel like I know you. I love horses and I was worried about you during the storm. You have a wonderful master and mistress to bring you into the kitchen.

  You should name your filly ‘Misty’s Little Storm Cloud.’

  Isn’t that beautiful, folks?”

  Grandpa looked inquiringly at the children. “To my notion,” he hesitated, “it’d be too long a handle fer such a little mite—even if we was to boil it down some.”

  Maureen was impatient. “More, Grandma. More!”

  “Here’s one from a fifth-grader up to Glassboro, New Jersey:

  “I am a boy ten and a half years old. This is not a very long letter, but I like the name ‘Windy’ for Misty’s colt.”

  Mr. Conant made a second checkmark after Windy. “Two for Windy,” he announced.

  “Doggone, if this ain’t jes’ like an election,” Grandpa said. “Vote countin’ and all.”

  Grandma broke out in smiles. “This one’s mostly questions:

  “Dear Paul and Maureen,

  How are you? I am fine. I read in the paper that Misty is safe.

  How do you pronounce your island’s name?

  If I should come to your island, would you show me how to eat oysters?

  How are your Grandpa and Grandma? I think you are one of the greatest families in the U.S.A.

  P.S. Do you think you’ll have a Pony Penning this year?”

  “See?” Maureen said. “Folks are asking already, but I just won’t answer this one until later. Go on, Grandma.”

  “Here’s one from a lady teacher:

  “We read in the paper that Misty had a filly and also that 145 ponies died. My heart just sinks.

  One of my pupils said that colts have such twinkly legs he thought ‘Sand Piper’ would be a good name for Misty’s baby.”

  “Hmmm,” Paul said approvingly. “See what I mean, Maureen? Sand Piper would honor her granddaddy, the Pied Piper.”

  Mr. Conant wrote down the name with one checkmark and a star beside it.

  “If she was a horse-colt instead of a mare-colt,” Maureen said, “I’d like it fine. But we got to think about when she’s grown up.”

  Mr. Conant erased the star.

  Grandma pursed her lips as she read the next letter to herself.

  “Land sakes, Idy, I’ll be a bushy-whiskered old man by the time ye make that one out.”

  “Oh, it’s easy to make out,” she replied. “The writing’s beautiful. It’s to you, Clarence.” She held it up for all to see. Then she cleared her throat:

  “Dear Sir:

  I cut
a picture from the state paper yesterday of Misty’s filly, born Sunday, March 11th. The caption said she was foaled at an animal hospital, but I am hoping that someone in your town can give me more information about her. Is she healthy? And is she for sale?”

  There was a stunned silence. Grandpa’s face went red and the cords of his neck bulged.

  Mr. Conant looked at him in alarm. “Mr. Beebe,” he said, “I know the answer to that one. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to do the replying.”

  Grandpa didn’t trust himself to speak. He managed a nod of thanks.

  “Grandma, try another!” Maureen urged. “Here’s a real short one,” Grandma said cheerily, “and it says:

  “If I owned Misty, I would name her colt ‘Stormy’.”

  Paul’s eyes met Maureen’s and held. Then he leaped up from his chair, stood on his head, and cried, “Ya-hoo!” In an instant he was right side up again. He shouted the name, “STORMY!” Then he whispered it very softly, “Stormy.”

  Maureen clapped her hands. “Why, it sounds good both ways!”

  Promptly Mr. Conant wrote it down. “I’ll give this one two stars,” he said.

  And still there were more letters and more names—Gale Winds and Rip Tide and Sea Wings and Ocean Mist and Misty’s Shadow and Mini Mist and Foggy and Cloudy—until at last they were down to one letter.

  Grandpa loosened his suspenders, yawning and stretching. “Out with that last one, Idy. Sandman’s workin’ on me, both barrels.”

  Grandma’s face lighted with pleasure. “Why, it’s signed by a whole bunch of school children over to Reistertown, Maryland.” She adjusted her spectacles and began:

  “Our class read the book about Misty. Now we are reading about the awful storm that flooded your island. We are glad Misty was not drowned. As soon as we heard the news about her colt, we decided to write you. We think you should name her ‘Stormy’ because she was born in a storm. Would you like that? We would. We had a secret ballot, and ‘Stormy’ won first place with twenty votes.”

  Paul drew in his breath. “That does it!” he said. “Remember, Maureen? Sometimes they name ’em for markings, sometimes for ancestors, and the third way is for natural phenom . . . happenings of Nature.”

  “Like the storm?”

  “Exactly.” Paul got up from the table and spoke now in great seriousness. “Mr. Conant, how many votes do we have for Stormy?”

  “Twenty-two, Paul.”

  “All those in favor of Stormy please say Aye.”

  The Ayes were loud and clear.

  Maureen heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Paul, now we can fill in the announcements.”

  Chapter 23

  DRESS REHEARSAL

  IT WAS unanimous! The Town Council, the Firemen, the Ladies’ Auxiliary, Preacher Britton, and of course the Postmaster—everyone approved the name Stormy. Stormy, they said, was the one good thing to come out of the storm.

  News of the Misty Disaster Fund swept the Eastern Shore. Theater owners all up and down the coast wanted to present the famous ponies on their mission of mercy.

  Now that Paul and Maureen had agreed to a tryout, they entered into the project with enthusiasm. “It’s got to be good!” Paul kept repeating. “If children are going to spend their allowance money, they’re entitled to a real show.”

  “Why, Paul, the movie of Misty is a beautiful show,” Maureen said in a hurt tone.

  “Sure it is. But lots of folks have seen it. What they want now is to see Misty herself and little Stormy. Even the Mayor says so.”

  The performance in the big city of Richmond was scheduled for a week from Saturday. That left only ten days to do a million things, big and little.

  They scrubbed Misty’s stepstool and gave it a fresh coat of paint, bright blue. And the moment it was dry, and a dozen times each day, they made her step up on it and shake hands vigorously, just for practice. Often while she shook hands, Stormy nursed her.

  “Makes Misty seem ambi-dextrous,” Paul said.

  Grandpa chortled. “Reckon you could call it that. I swan, the way that gal shakes hands on the slightest excuse it looks like she’s campaignin’.”

  “She is!” Maureen said. “She’s campaigning for the Misty Disaster Fund.”

  “Maureen, you go get my nippers,” Grandpa ordered. “I better trim them hoofs. She’s shakin’ hands so high she’s liable to plant her hoofograph on some little younker’s head.”

  As for Stormy, working on her was pure joy. Every night after school Paul and Maureen curried and combed her, not to make her less fuzzy, but to get her used to something besides Misty’s tongue. And gradually they halter-broke her. Of course, there wasn’t a halter anywhere on the island—or even in Horntown or Pocomoke—tiny enough to fit. Paul had to make one out of wickie rope, just as he had done for Misty when she was a baby. And after a little urging Grandma gave up her favorite piece of chest flannel to wrap around the noseband of the halter.

  “Just feel of it now, Grandma,” Paul exclaimed. “It’s as soft as the lamb’s wool they use for racehorse colts.”

  “Don’t need to feel it. I know,” Grandma said drily.

  Stormy accepted the halter with only a little head tossing. Occasionally as she was being led about, she turned to gaze at Skipper and the kid as much as to say: “Hey, you! Why can you two run free?”

  For answer they blatted and barked and dared her to join in the fun. But Misty wouldn’t let her. When they came too close, she leaped at them, lashing out with her forefeet, head low, teeth bared. They quickly got the message, scattered in panic, and stayed away for hours.

  • • •

  As Saturday approached, everything was ready except the old truck. How ugly and drab it seemed for a movie star and her filly! It needed paint and polish and a new floor and a new top. But there was no money and no time to do anything about it.

  Then late on Friday, just before darkness closed in, Mr. Hancock arrived looking pleased as a boy. He took a long bundle from his car and with a proud flourish unrolled two enormous pieces of canvas. On each he had painted a life-size picture of Misty and Stormy. “To cover the sides of your truck,” he said proudly. “I want the folks in Richmond to know that us Chincoteaguers do things up right.”

  Now even the truck was resplendent and gay!

  By six o’clock the next morning, chores were done and Grandpa and the children were loading up the truck. Grandma and Skipper, Nanny and the kid were clustered about, watching, as Misty walked up the ramp in eager anticipation. She could smell the sweet hay aboard and the juicy slices of a Delicious apple tucked here and there. Little Stormy skittered along after her, with Paul and Maureen on either side, arms spread-eagled to keep her from falling off.

  “I feel so left-behind,” Grandma said, folding and unfolding her hands in her apron. “Like a . . . well, like a colt that’s bein’ weaned.”

  Grandpa was about to break into laughter, but when he saw Grandma’s woebegone face, he came over to her, his voice full of tenderness. “Tide o’ life’s flowin’ normal again, eh, Idy? The goin’ out and the comin’ in.”

  “Sure, Grandma,” Maureen said, “and we’ll be home afore dark.”

  “And hungry as bears,” added Paul.

  Grandma blinked hard. “I reckon the storm’s brought us so close I hate to lose sight o’ ye, even for a day.” Big tears began running down her face.

  “Idy!” Grandpa bellowed. “You come with us. Call up them Auxiliary ladies and tell ’em you can’t sew on the children’s band uniforms today. What if the old ones did float out to sea? Tell the kids to play in their birthday suits! Tell ’em anything. Tell ’em we can’t load and unload the ponies without your help.”

  Suddenly the tension was gone. Grandma wiped her tears with a corner of her apron and began laughing at the thought of her lifting the ponies. “Now be off with you. I can’t stand out here all day. I got a pile of work to do.”

  But as the truck swung out of the drive, she didn’t go into the house. Her
eyes followed it to the road, as she continued wrapping and unwrapping her arms in her apron. Then suddenly she took off the apron and waved good-bye.

  Paul turned and waved back. He could see Grandma growing smaller and farther away, standing in front of the sign that said “Misty’s Meadow.” And even while he was feeling sorry for her, having to do up the dishes and go to the Ladies’ Auxiliary and all, his mind raced ahead to Richmond. In sudden panic he wondered, Would there be anyone at the theater at all? Maybe the day was too nice, and children would be shooting marbles and flying kites and playing baseball, and they had seen the movie anyway.

  Chapter 24

  STORMY’S DEBUT

  IN RICHMOND, a hundred and twenty miles away, children of all ages were waking up, springing out of bed, aware that this morning held a delicious sense of adventure and wonder. They dressed more quickly than usual and fretted at grown-ups who dilly-dallied over breakfast. They wanted to be sure of getting to the theater on time.

  A few of the children could boast of having seen real actors making personal appearances, and some had even seen animal actors like Trigger and Lassie. But no one ever had seen the live heroes of a story that had really and truly happened. It was almost too exciting to think about.

  The employees of the Byrd Theater, too, felt an enthusiasm they could not define. By nine o’clock the manager arrived, just out of the barber chair. He was followed closely by the projectionist, who disappeared into his cubicle under the ceiling. Then came the cashier, the popcorn-maker, and the ticket-taker, followed by the musicians with their cellos and piccolos and kettledrums.

  And last of all, the ushers and the doorman in bright blue uniforms with gold braid and buttons.