Judy's Journey

by Lois Lenski

  “Keep back!” said Judy. “Don’t scrooge so. Can’t you see he’s fainted? He’s gotta have air.”

  She looked over the crowd of children. “Here, you!” she said, choosing a little colored girl with a sober face and a kerchief tied round-her head. “Take this straw hat and fan him gently.” The girl dropped on her knees and began to fan. Judy bathed the boy’s forehead and soon he opened his eyes again.

  “Keep on fanning,” said Judy to the girl.

  She washed the cut out carefully and disinfected it. She snipped off adhesive and bandage just as she had seen Miss Burnette do. Then she bandaged the boy’s head. When she finished, he got up, saying, “I’m O. K. now,” and walked away.

  Judy turned to his mother. “If he’ll come to the water tank every day at noon,” she said, “I’ll dress it for him and …” Suddenly she gasped in astonishment. “Why, you’re the woman who …” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Yes,” said the woman, shamefaced. “I told you-uns to git outa here when you first came. I said you was takin’ our job away from us. But if you hadn’t come, my boy … well, no tellin’ what——”

  “Oh, it’s not a very bad cut, and I think the swelling will soon go down,” said Judy.

  “I couldn’t a fixed it,” said the woman, “and there’s no nurse or doctor in our town.” Mama came up just then. “This your girl? She fixed my boy’s head good.”

  Mama smiled. “Judy wants to be a nurse when she grows up. The nurse at her school in Florida gave her that outfit. She likes to use it.”

  “I didn’t mean it about the crop endin’ so soon,” said the woman. “Course the beans is about played out, but I knew there was potatoes comin’ along. You can pick potatoes with us. I should a told you there was plenty work for all.”

  “That’s all right,” said Mama. “If I’d a been in your place, I’d a felt the same way.”

  They went back to the field.

  “See, Judy,” said Mama, “when you’re kind to people, instead of sassing them back, you make friends.”

  “Yes ma’m,” said Judy.

  The bean crop ended soon as the woman said it would. The workers moved on into a large potato field and the Drummonds went along. The number of workers increased, but the potato field was so large it was scarcely noticeable.

  The workers stooped over the rows of dead vines and gathered up the potatoes which had been loosened from the earth. They put them in baskets which they moved ahead as they picked. It was hard work and dirty work. It meant crawling on hands and knees in the dirt all day long. The Drummonds continued to pick, but every night Papa talked about starting on again. He was never contented to stay very long in one place. With a little bean and potato money in his pocket, he was anxious to drive on to pastures new.

  “Call the young uns,” said Mama one day. “We’ll start packin’ up. I need Judy to help.”

  It was raining and the people had been laid off at noon, but there was not a child to be seen around the shacks or packing sheds. Papa crossed the railroad siding, and hearing a murmur of voices, stopped to listen.

  The voices were coming from inside one of the box-cars. Cautiously he peered round the corner. The floor had been swept clean of potato dirt and scrubbed with water. There inside stood Judy, the old Geography in one hand and a long stick in the other.

  “If you young uns don’t sit still, we can’t have no school,” she scolded.

  Then Papa saw them—two rows of colored children sitting on old upturned half-bushel bean baskets. Joe Bob and Cora Jane were there too.

  “What do you say when I come in?” asked Judy.

  “Good morning, Teacher,” they cried in chorus.

  “What does the book say on the front?” asked Judy.

  “‘A New World Lies Before Us,’” answered Joe Bob promptly.

  “What state are we in, Lily Belle?”

  “Dunno,” giggled a tall thin girl in the back row.

  “Will you remember if I tell you?” asked Judy.

  “Dunno,” giggled Lily Belle.

  “South Carolina,” said Judy.

  “South Ca’lina,” echoed Lily Belle.

  “What are the products of South Carolina?” demanded Judy.

  Nobody answered. Even Joe Bob didn’t know.

  “We doan know,” said little Willie Davis. “You jest ’bliged to tell us, Teacher.”

  “But how should I know?” said Judy. “I don’t live in South Carolina. I was born in Alabama and I been livin’ in Florida.”

  “We come from Florida too,” said several of the children.

  “Likely it tells in the book,” suggested the little girl who had fanned the fainting boy in the field.

  Judy looked at her gratefully. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Coreena May Dickson,” said the girl.

  Judy leafed quickly through the Geography and found the Southern States. “It tells about North Carolina and Texas and Tennessee, but I don’t see nary word about South Carolina.” She closed the book with a bang. “Well, sometimes you got to know more than the book,” she said. “Now, let’s us think. What do they grow right here in Charleston County?”

  “Beans,” answered a boy.

  “POTATOES! TATERS!” shouted the others.

  “Cabbage and cucumbers and lima beans and squash over on the island in summer time,” said Lily Belle.

  “Oysters—us shuck oysters,” announced a boy.

  “Us ketch fish and eat fish and have fish fries!”

  “Us ketches fish in Four Holes Swamp,” said Willie Davis.

  “You does?” cried Lily Belle. “Don’t you know there’s ha’nts in that-ere swamp?”

  “Ha’nts!” snapped Judy. “Do you-all believe in ha’nts?”

  “Yes ma’m,” chorused the local children. “Us got our doors and windows painted blue to keep the ha’nts out.”

  “You’re plumb silly,” said Judy. “Old Aunt Rilla back home on Plumtree Creek in Alabama used to try to scare us with stories of ha’nts, but my Teacher in school there told me there ain’t no ha’nts at all!”

  “Your Teacher done tole you dat?” demanded Willie Davis, wide-eyed.

  “She shore did,” answered Judy.

  “Then it must be true,” said the boy, “iffen two Teachers say so.”

  All this time Papa had been listening. As he slipped quietly away, Judy announced recess and the children started a game. He could hear their clear voices happily singing:

  “Here comes a girl from Baltimo’

  Balti-mo’

  Balti-mo’

  Here comes a girl from Balti-mo’,

  Show us your new dress!

  “Bet you can’t do that boo-gie

  Boo-gie

  Boo-gie

  Bet you can’t do that boo-gie

  Show us your new dress!”

  Papa went back and told Mama about the box-car school. As he talked he remembered Madame Rosie in Bean Town and recalled the fortune-teller’s words.

  “She took a fancy to Judy somehow,” said Papa. “She told me to feed my young uns up and put ’em in school. Just seems like I’m no good if I can’t git me a steady job so that gal can go to school regular. It makes me plumb discouraged to have them kids crawlin’ on their knees and pickin’ potatoes out of the dirt.”

  “The next crop’ll be better,” said Mama, “and one of these days we’ll git to New Jersey.”

  All the colored children, including Lily Belle and Coreena May, waved goodbye when the Drummonds drove off.

  “Lily Belle won’t remember what state she lives in,” mourned Judy, “and all those young uns will keep on believin’ in ha’nts …”

  “They won’t forget what you told ’em, honey,” said Papa.

  “What gits ripe next?” asked Joe Bob, after South Carolina had been left behind and they had come into North. Carolina. “Watermelons? I’m so hot and thirsty I could eat a big un all by myself.”

  “Too early i
n the season, son,” said Papa. “Strawberries will be next, I reckon. Now that it’s May, they ought to be just ripe, ready to fall off in the baskets. We’ll stop and see.”

  But they weren’t.

  When they came into the strawberry area around Wilmington, they stopped to make inquiries. It was late afternoon and a man was fixing his truck by the side of the road.

  “You folks berry-pickers?” asked the man.

  “Yes,” said Papa, “if we can find a grower to hire us.”

  “They won’t hire you,” said the man. “Better keep on goin’.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Papa.

  “Berries not ripe yet,” replied the man. “Season’s late on account of cold weather. A man told me they won’t be ripe for three more weeks.”

  “Three more weeks?” gasped Mama. “What’ll we live on—for three weeks? Oh, we shoulda stayed in potatoes, instead of goin’ on a wild-goose chase like this—always hopin’ the next crop’ll be better.”

  “Shall we wait three weeks or keep goin’ to find that next crop?” asked Papa. “We ain’t got enough money to git us to Jersey.”

  “The grower I talked to told me he could get along with local colored people,” said the man.

  “I used up my last cent to git us here,” said Papa. “Now there’s no gas in the jalopy and no money in my pocket.”

  “We’ll stay the night anyway,” said Mama, “and think what’s best to do.”

  “Do you know anything about this farmer?” Papa pointed to the farmhouse back at the end of the lane. “Do you reckon he’d let us camp here for the night?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know him. I’m just passin’ through. If he don’t want you here, he’ll run you off.” He climbed into the seat of his truck and drove away.

  Papa unloaded the tent while Judy milked the goat.

  “Missy’s not givin’ much milk, Mama,” said Judy. The little pail had only a cupful in it.

  “No wonder with all this chasin’ around,” said Mama. “If Lonnie can’t even have milk to drink, I don’t know what we’ll do. Go find a good place for Missy and stake her out for a while before dark.”

  Judy led the goat off to the edge of a leafy woods and staked her. The girl put her arms around the animal’s neck. “You can’t help it, can you, Missy?” she said. “Never gittin’ no goat-chop no more. How can you make milk without good food to eat?”

  Judy looked up and saw a girl about twelve years of age coming down the road with a basket of groceries. She went over to talk to her.

  “You been to the store?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  The girl smiled back. “Yes. Where you from?”

  “We come from Florida,” said Judy. “We spent our last cent for gas to git here.”

  “You have no money to buy food?” asked the girl.

  Judy tossed her head. “Don’t need none,” she said. “Reckon we got some flour and fixin’s left. My Papa’s gonna git a job up north where they pay good wages. Do you live near here?”

  “In that next house down the road there,” said the girl, pointing.

  Judy looked. It was a neat farmhouse with a yard and trees.

  “Do you go to school?” asked Judy.

  “Yes, we have good schools in North Carolina,” said the girl. “The bus goes right by our house and takes us into town. I’m in Seventh Grade, next year I’ll be in Eighth. What grade you in?”

  Judy turned away quickly without answering. She walked back to the tent, her shoulders hunched. Mama had put a batch of fried bread into the greasy skillet and propped it up over the smoky campfire. Mama sat on a box staring into the flames, holding sleeping Lonnie on her lap. Cora Jane was sitting on the ground.

  Judy kicked the empty water bucket with her foot, and it rolled over with a clatter.

  “Papa’ll never git no steady job,” she shouted. “He’ll never git ahead. He’ll never git us a farm and I know it! I’ll never git a chance to stay in one place and go to school! We’ll be on the go for the rest of our days!”

  “Hold your tongue, gal!” scolded Mama. “Don’t say things like that.”

  Just then Papa stepped into the firelight. He looked hard at Judy.

  “I heard you, honey,” he said. “You’re mighty right. Your Papa’s no good.” He went inside the tent.

  “Ain’t you ashamed o’ yourself, faultin’ your Papa when he can’t help it the berries ain’t ripe?” said Mama. “Take that water bucket and go back up the lane to that farmer’s house and git some water. Ask ’em if we can camp here tonight. Mind your manners and don’t sass ’em. Hurry with the water ’cause we’re thirsty and want to wash before we go to bed. Then bring the goat in and put her up for the night.”

  Judy took the bucket and stumbled off in the gathering dusk. When she came back with the water, it was dark. She had been gone a long time and she looked wild and disheveled.

  “That cross ole man said we could camp one night,” she said, “but I can’t find Missy anywhere. Her rope’s broke and …”

  “Git to bed,” said Mama. “You’re dog-tard. The goat won’t go far. We’ll find her in the morning.”

  Early the next day Judy went for another bucket of water. Before she got to the farmhouse she could hear Missy bleating. She ran to get there quickly and saw the goat firmly chained to a fence-post in the barnyard. The farmer came out when he saw Judy.

  “What d’you mean, mister, a-stealin’ our goat?” demanded the girl.

  The man laughed. “I’m a mind to butcher her,” he said. “Roast goat’s mighty tasty to eat.”

  Judy rushed up to the man with clenched fists. “You better not try it or I’ll …”

  “Want to know what that cussed ole goat of yours done?” asked the farmer.

  “She ain’t done nothin’ …” began Judy. But she followed the man meekly.

  “See that garden patch?” said the man, pointing. “She et up my garden, that’s all. See them young peach trees I jest set out? She et ’em all up but the stumps. See that mock-orange bush o’ my wife’s? She et the top plumb off. Oh no, she ain’t done nothin’!”

  Judy could not believe her eyes. Her anger faded, and she began to be scared, wondering what the man would do.

  “We always keep her tied up,” she said in a low voice. “She broke her rope … she got hungry, I reckon, and had to find somethin’ to eat … Have you ever been hungry, mister?”

  The man’s wife came out and was standing beside him.

  “There ought to be a law agin you vagrants, roamin’ around, makin’ trouble for honest farmers,” the man went on.

  “Why don’t you stay home where you belong?” asked the woman.

  “Got no home!” said Judy defiantly. “Not till Papa gits a good job and a little piece of land .…” Then she remembered how Papa was always spending his last penny and would never get a farm, after all.

  “Well, what you gonna do about all this damage?” asked the woman.

  “Nothin’,” answered Judy. She walked swiftly away from the farmer and his wife down the lane. Then she looked back and called out: “We ain’t got a penny to pay you back. You can keep the goat for the damage she done. She’ll give two quarts of milk a day if you feed her grain. But if you eat her … she won’t taste good, ’cause she’s my pet.” Then she ran back to the tent as fast as she could go.

  “What kept you so long?” asked Mama. “We’re packin’ up. We want to git goin’.”

  “Goin?” gasped Judy. The word made her feel so unhappy inside, she just stood there. Three weeks to wait for the strawberries to ripen, and three weeks to pick them. Why, she could read the Fourth Reader clear through in six weeks. There were good schools in North Carolina, the girl who lived down the road had told her so. But they were moving on again.

  “We can’t go!” she screamed. “Papa ain’t got a penny to buy gas. He said so hisself.”

  “He traded my sewin’-machine to a man up in town last night and got ten
dollars for it,” said Mama quietly. “Where’s the goat?”

  Judy was too stunned to answer.

  “Where’s Missy?” asked Mama again. “Lonnie’s hungry for his milk. Go milk her.”

  “We ain’t got no goat,” said Judy dully. “I done gave her away.”

  CHAPTER XI

  Virginia

  IT WAS ALWAYS GOOD to be on the road again. Somehow, just getting into the jalopy and starting off always made the Drummonds feel they were leaving their troubles behind. It put them all in a holiday mood. Papa began to sing You Are My Sunshine and Joe Bob tried to whistle. Little Lonnie babbled happily.

  “We’ll go to Norfolk and take the ferry there,” said Papa. “Up through Delaware will be the shortest route to New Jersey. Hope our tires will hold out.”

  “Me-eh! Me-eh! Me-e-eh!”

  “Papa, I heard Missy,” cried Judy.

  “You couldn’t. She’s miles behind on that farm where you left her,” said Papa.

  “Me-eh! Me-e-e-eh!”

  “I hear her. She’s in that truck!” screamed Judy, pointing.

  Papa slowed down and a truck stopped beside the car. In it sat the farmer and his wife, and over the railing in the back appeared the goat’s head. The farmer opened the back of the truck and jerked the goat down.

  “Take your old goat!” he shouted. “She knocked me down and nearly killed me.”

  “We never want to see her again,” said the woman.

  Judy jumped out and put her arms around Missy’s neck. “So they don’t want you … Well, we do. Joe Bob, come help me.”

  In a few minutes the goat was back in the two-wheeled trailer and the jalopy started on.

  Route 17 was long and monotonous, running through forests of pine trees and crossing innumerable cypress swamps. It was on a long rickety bridge that Joe Bob saw the dog. He yelled so loudly that Papa stopped at once.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Joe Bob jumped out of the car and ran back without speaking.

  “What’s he after?” demanded Papa.

  “A dog,” said Mama, “and he’ll want to keep it.”

  Joe Bob came up to the car carrying a small puppy in his arms. It had soft silky brown hair and big brown eyes. The children bent over to stroke it.