by Janette Oke
“Are shiny red lunch pails necessary fer learnin’?” Clark asked.
“Not fer learnin’—fer lookin’ nice,” Missie answered, her voice determined.
At least she’s honest, thought Marty wryly.
“We’ll see,” said her pa.
“Thet’s what Mama said,” Missie objected.
“Ya have a wise mama,” Clark told her with a grin.
Missie wrinkled her nose but said no more, no doubt figuring she’d best not press it further—for the moment.
The days fell into a routine. Gradually the two little boys accepted the fact of the girls’ absence and adjusted their play to include each other.
The girls settled into a pattern of learning. Missie, quick and eager, was soon leading her class, even without the help of Willie LaHaye, she was proud to note to her mother. Clae, too, had taken to school and surprised and delighted both the teacher and the Davises with her ability. She loved books and would have spent all her time with her nose buried in one or another of them had she been allowed to do so. Only Nandry seemed to drag her feet each morning at the thought of another day spent in school. Marty noticed it and wished there was some way she could help the girl. She knew most of the beginners in the school were much younger than Nandry and this in itself would be a discouragement to her. Marty endeavored to encourage without nagging at her.
Missie was the little busybody who furnished the household with all the news. One day she came home giggling, and Clae joined in.
“Guess what?” Missie announced. “When Mr. Whittle wants to yell loud, his voice goes from way down deep to a funny squeak.” Missie demonstrated as she said the words.
Marty hid her smile, attempting to support an attitude of teacher respect.
“The big boys like to make ’im yell so it happens,” Missie continued. “It sounds so funny, Mama, an’ then he gits real red like an’ growls real low—like this.” Missie’s six-year-old growl was rather comical.
“I hope ya don’t laugh at yer teacher,” Marty cautioned as solemnly as she could.
Missie looked sheepish, but then she raised her head to say, “Bet you’d laugh, too, but I jest laughed a little bit.”
Missie also had frequent reports on “thet Willie LaHaye.”
Willie LaHaye had dipped her hair ribbon in an inkwell.
Willie LaHaye had chased her with a dead mouse.
Willie LaHaye had put a grasshopper in her lunch box.
An’ Willie LaHaye had carved her initials with his on a tree by the crik an’ she’d scratched ’em out.
An’ furthermore, she hated thet Willie LaHaye, an’ she bet God didn’t even care.
Thet dumb ole Willie LaHaye.
Thirteen
Somethin’ New
When Clark made his next Saturday trip to town, Marty was glad there was no good reason for her to go along. She might have enjoyed the outing, being sure now that the girls were quite capable of watching over the others while she was gone. But going to town meant having to meet up with Mrs. McDonald. The woman never failed to get Marty in an emotional corner. Marty declared she’d rather face a bear or an Indian.
Actually, Marty had come across very few Indians since she had come west. Those she had seen or met in town or along the road seemed friendly enough. Most of the Indians in their area had moved on up into the hill country or had settled on a reserve set apart for them. Some wondered how they managed to survive, but most of the community told each other “an Indian is an Indian,” and the prevailing opinion was that Indians were able to survive on very little. As long as the Indians were no threat to their well-being, the settlers were content to let them ride the hills hunting for meat and tanning necessary hides. On the other hand, they felt neither responsibility for nor obligation to the welfare of the Indians in the area. Marty was a bit uncomfortable with the general attitude but didn’t quite know what to do about it.
As for the bear—Marty was glad she had never had reason to concern herself with one of those. Like the Indian, the animals were content to remain in their native hills, away from the smell and the guns of the settlers. Occasionally a neighbor lad felt he must venture into the hills and return with a bearskin to place on the cabin floor or hang above the fireplace. This was a symbol of the conquering hunter rather than a necessity.
Even when gazing at a huge fur hide in a neighboring home, the head still carrying the fierce beady eyes and the long yellow teeth, Marty was sure the bear was preferable to facing Mrs. McDonald. So Marty avoided town when she could, somewhat ashamed of herself for doing so, yet content in her weakness.
Since school had begun, Marty always looked forward to Saturdays. It gave her a chance to catch up on many extra jobs because the girls kept the little boys out from under her feet.
And this time she had particular tasks because tomorrow would be a special Sunday. The new schoolteacher was coming to share the Sunday dinner with them. Marty was both anticipating the visit and dismayed by it. What was this odd-looking man really like? Missie brought home both positive and negative reports—one moment praising him, the next critical of some unusual conduct, and the next breaking into uncontrollable giggles over what she considered silly deportment.
Marty had set her freshly baked pies on the shelf to cool and was carefully cleaning two young roosters when Clark drove into the yard.
As usual, his return brought the children running to meet him. Marty, watching from the window, saw Clark climb slowly and carefully down from the wagon. At first Marty was concerned, wondering if Clark had somehow been injured or was not feeling well, but he straightened up and walked normally as he headed for the house, the youngsters in tow. Marty noticed that he carried something inside his jacket—there was a bulge there and he seemed to be carefully guarding it as he walked. The children had spied it, too, and they clamored to see what he was carrying, but Clark just grinned and motioned them on to the house.
Now, what’s he up to? mused Marty, shaking her head as she watched the little parade come in the door.
“What is it, Pa?”
“Whatcha got, huh?”
“Show us, Pa!”
Clark finally pulled back his jacket, and a tawny curly head poked out. Sharp little eyes blinked at the sudden light, and the commotion around him brought a joyful wiggle to the little body. Shrieks filled the air, and each of the children pleaded to be the first to hold the little cocker spaniel.
“We start with the littlest first,” said Clark, handing the squirming bundle to Arnie. Arnie giggled as he held the puppy close. It was the first time Arnie ever had a face-wash from a puppy’s warm tongue. He laughed out loud.
Little boys and puppies belong together, thought Marty. Arnie must have thought so, too, for he was most reluctant to pass the puppy on to Clare.
As the children enthused over the new pup, Marty found opportunity to speak to Clark.
“Where’d ya git ’im?”
“The smithie’s dog had a litter. Jest big enough now to wean. This one looks like the pick o’ the pack to me.”
“Sure is a bright one.”
“Yeah, an’ look at the eyes, the head—looks like a smart ’un.”
The children finally agreed to put the puppy down so they could watch it waddle and prance across the kitchen floor.
“Look at ’im! Look at ’im!” they cried, giggling and clapping at his silly antics.
“Well,” said Clark, “let’s take ’im out an’ see what Ole Bob thinks of ’im.”
Ole Bob was truly becoming old. His legs were stiff and unaccommodating, his eyes were getting dim and his movements slow. Clark and Marty had realized that Bob’s days were numbered, but perhaps with care, he could be with them for a while yet.
The family followed Clare carrying the puppy out to the doghouse. Bob came out slowly, stretching his stiff muscles, and wagged a greeting to them all.
As the puppy was placed on the ground, Bob lowered his head slowly and sniffed. He didn’t seem
impressed, but he wasn’t put off by the new arrival, either. The puppy, upon catching sight of one of his kind, went wild with excitement, bouncing and bobbing around on unsteady feet like a funny wind-up toy whose spring would not run down. Ole Bob put up with this ridiculous display for a few moments, then walked away and lay down. The puppy toddled after him and began to tug at his long, fluffy tail. Bob chose to ignore him as the children shrieked their delight.
Eventually the puppy was left with Ole Bob. Clark and the boys went to put away the team and unload the wagon. The girls, after filling the puppy’s little tummy with warm milk, returned to the chores they had been assigned. The family needed to decide on a name for the new dog. This would be discussed and settled at the supper table.
Marty went in to finish washing the chickens and wipe off the cupboard top so Clark and the boys could place the groceries there for her to put away.
As she went through the bags and boxes, she suddenly stopped, a pail marked LARD hanging from her hand. “What’s this?” she asked. “I didn’t have lard on my list, did I? And you got three pails of it. I got lard stacked up high from our last butcherin’.”
Perplexed, Marty picked up her list and glanced over it to see what she might have ordered that Clark had read as “lard.”
“No,” he answered evenly, “ya didn’t have lard on the list.”
“Then why . . . ?” Marty left the question hanging.
Clark was looking a mite sheepish. “They’re red, ain’t they—an’ shiny—an’ they have a handle—an’ white letters?”
Then it dawned. Missie’s pail. Red and shiny with white letters—LARD.
“Now, I ain’t sayin’ thet Missie should have thet jest ’cause she asked fer it,” Clark hurried to explain. “No reason fer her to be thinkin’ thet she’ll always git what she’s wantin’ jest by askin’, but iffen ya think it won’t hurt none fer her to have it—like this once, then it’ll be there. An’—well, I could hardly git her one an’ not the other two—now, could I?”
“No, I s’pose not.”
Clark turned to leave the kitchen. “Ya can decide,” he said again as he left.
Marty turned back to the three red, shiny pails. Three pails of lard, and she already with more lard than they could use, and another fall butchering coming up soon. What would she ever do with it all?
“Ya ole softy,” she murmured, but she was forced to swallow over the lump in her throat. The thought of the happy faces and Missie’s glowing eyes when she passed them their lunches on Monday morning made it difficult to wait.
The chores had been done and the Saturday-night bathwater put on the stove to heat in the big copper boiler when the family gathered around for the evening meal.
“I thought iffen somethin’ happens to Ole Bob, it’ll make it less painful like iffen they have a new pup to fill their minds,” Clark confided in Marty as she dished up the potatoes. She nodded.
Clark moved on to the table and saw to the seating of his family.
“Know what, Ma?” said Clare. “I stopped to see the puppy, an’ it’s all curled up sleepin’ with Ole Bob. Does Ole Bob think he’s the puppy’s mama?”
Marty smiled. “No, I doubt Ole Bob is thet dumb, but as long as the puppy doesn’t torment ’im too much chewin’ an’ chasin’, Ole Bob’ll be content to let ’im share his bed.”
“He’s so nice,” enthused Missie. “I wish he could share my bed.”
“Oh no,” said Marty firmly. “Animals belong outside, not in.”
“Miss Puss—” Missie began. Marty’s eyebrows went up as she waited for Missie to confess that the kitty occasionally did climb into bed with her. But Missie must have thought better of it.
“Well,” said Clark, “thought of any good names yet?”
“I think we should call ’im Cougar,” said Clare.
“Cougar, fer a dog?” Missie sounded unimpressed.
“Thet’s the color he is,” argued Clare.
“I like King or Prince or somethin’ like thet,” said Missie.
“Fer a little puppy?” Clare was just as incredulous.
“He’ll grow,” Missie said defiantly.
“What about you, sport?” Clark asked Arnie. Arnie pushed in a big spoonful of potatoes and gravy with the help of his free hand. He shifted them around, swallowed some of the bite, and then answered, “Ole Bob.”
“But what ya want to call the new puppy?”
“Ole Bob.”
“But Ole Bob is the name of—Ole Bob,” Clark finished lamely.
“I know,” said Arnie. “I like it.”
“Ya want Ole Bob an’ Ole Bob,” repeated Clare, obviously thinking only he was really capable of understanding and interpreting young Arnie’s desires.
“Yeah,” said Arnie, nodding his head. “Now we got . . .” Two rather potatoey fingers struggled to stand upright with the rest remaining tucked in. “Now we got two Ole Bobs.”
The family laughed, but they all finally agreed that the new puppy would carry the name of Ole Bob, as well.
“He’ll grow,” said Missie sagely.
“Yeah, an’ he’ll git old someday, too,” said Clare. “’Sides, when we call ’em, we’ll jest hafta say one name an’ they’ll both come.”
Clark smiled. “Save ourselves a heap o’ time and trouble thet way, won’t we?”
Arnie grinned. “Now we gots a little Ole Bob an’ a big Ole Bob.”
As it happened, big Ole Bob did not remain with them for long. As Clark had hoped, the loss of the old dog was much easier for the children to accept with the growing young pup running and nipping at their heels.
Fourteen
Tommie’s Friend
Before it seemed possible, the school year was coming to a close and it was time for the summer break. Some of the older boys had left school early in order to help with spring planting. The rest stayed in class until June. Missie celebrated completion of first grade by bringing home bouquets of flowers and red ripe strawberries in the beloved red pail that had, over the winter months, lost a little of its shine.
Summer was full of work in the garden and enjoyment of its produce. Marty often looked around her as she and the children gathered its bounty and thanked the Lord for His blessings. Missie, Clae, and Nandry now used their pails when picking beans and corn and tomatoes. And summer, of course, was expecially busy for Clark as he and neighbors helped one another with their harvests.
Then it was fall again, with the excitement of school preparations. Poor Clare was still a year short of school age and grumbled about having to “stay home with the little kids.” Marty wasn’t exactly sure who all he was referring to, since there was just Arnie, but at least he didn’t complain about it for very long.
Clae and Missie both were anxious to return to class. Clae had spent the summer poring over books that Mr. Whittle had supplied and was closing the gap to where she should have been. Mr. Whittle was pleased and told her so.
Missie delighted in learning, and she loved to read to Arnie and Clare whenever she could get them to sit still for a bit.
Only Nandry remained out of sorts about the whole idea of schooling. She didn’t say much on the subject until school opening was just days away.
“I’m not goin’ back,” she declared, her tone boding no argument, “—not with all those little kids.”
Clark and Marty discussed it privately and finally decided that, as much as they were reluctant to do so, they would allow her to drop out.
“We’ll jest have to concentrate on the homemaking an’ the baby carin’,” said Marty. “Nandry has the makin’s of a good wife an’ mother. Maybe thet’s plenty. An’ at least now she can read and write some. And I can work more with her on the schoolin’ here at home.”
Clark nodded in agreement. At fifteen, Nandry seemed quite capable of caring for a home. Some area young man was bound to welcome her eventually as his helpmate.
It was easier this time to watch Missie heading out the door that Mond
ay morning. And actually it was easier to manage the boys because Nandry was there to provide supervision. Marty was very pleased to see the rather withdrawn young girl beginning to blossom in an atmosphere of love and nurture.
Marty also welcomed Nandry’s extra pair of hands because of the fact that in only two months the Davis family would increase again. With little direction, Nandry assumed the lion’s share of the youngsters’ care, taking them with her to feed the chickens, putting Arnie down for his naps—Clare having declared himself too big for such “baby stuff”—and in general assisting with the household duties. Marty greatly appreciated her help and often told her so.
Marty was sitting in the coolness of the cabin with a pile of mending one afternoon when she heard an approaching horse. She laid aside the sock she was darning and went to the window.
“Why, it’s Tommie,” she said over her shoulder to Nandry, who was rolling out a piecrust. “I wonder what’s bringin’ him out our way.” She moved quickly to the door.
“Tommie,” Marty called to him, “do come in. We haven’t seen ya fer jest ages.”
He came into the kitchen and nodded toward Nandry, who flushed and dropped her eyes back to her work.
“How’re yer folks?” Marty wanted to know.
“Fine, we all are fine. Thet little Lizzie be growin’ like a weed.”
“Isn’t she a sweetheart?” Marty said. The last time she had seen little Elizabeth Anne, she was practicing her newly learned skill of walking. The tottering steps were awarded with lots of praise, hugs, and kisses by doting grandparents and her young aunts and uncles.
Marty recalled with a pang that little Rett Marshall still was unable to sit properly alone. She took a long breath and turned her attention back to Tommie. “I hear ya got yer own land.”
“Yep,” he said proudly. “Even got a small cabin on it. Not very big, but it should make do fer a while.”
“Farmed it yet?”
“Nope. I take over come spring.”
Could young Tom be showing interest in their Nandry? Her thoughts were interrupted by Tom’s voice.