by Kate Seredy
Father laid his hand on Dick’s arm. “I know how you feel, Son. But this news is not just something that concerns Andy alone. It’s really wonderful news, too wonderful to just shout over the back fence. What do you say if we all go over there and have a sort of family conference?”
Gran, without a word, picked up the pie and wrapped it in a clean napkin. “Let’s go. This pie is big enough for eight,” she remarked, heading for the door.
The Van Keurans were just finishing their supper. If they were surprised at the whole Preston family descending on them, they didn’t show it. Mrs. Van Keuran bustled to set more cups and plates on the table, almost before the words of greeting were out of her mouth. Her eyes lighted on the pie in Gran’s hand and a pleased smile fought its way through the harsh lines on her face. “Now, that’s what I call real sociable . . . you must’ve guessed that I ain’t had time to fix dessert. We’ll have a real visit now.”
When Gran unwrapped the pie, Andy’s aloof face broke into a smile. “Real pretty, ain’t it,” he said, gazing at the pattern Gran had worked into the crust. “Stars and flowers all gold and brown like the fall of year.”
He looked up at Gran, found her friendly eyes on him and smiled a little apologetic smile. “But it b’longs on a red plate instead of the blue.”
“Andrew Van Keuran,” his grandmother’s sharp voice was disapproval itself, “where’s your manners? Don’t pay him no heed, folks, he’s full of notions . . . a real trial to me, he is.”
Andy’s face clouded over and he slumped back in his chair. Gran cocked her head to one side and examined her handiwork. “Seems to me Andy is right,” she said seriously. “Red plate’. . . yes, I’ll remember it next time. It would look twice as pretty.”
“No diff’rence what victuals look like,” Mrs. Van Keuran grumbled, standing by the table as stiff as a poker. “We don’t hold with fancy notions. Pretty! Hmph,” she sniffed, “that’s all I hear from that boy. Like his father he is, always a’hankerin’ for something pretty. No good ever come of that . . . no good ever will.”
She unbent long enough to help Gran pass the plates around and pour coffee. Mother began to tell about her trip; Mr. Van Keuran and Father were discussing the question whether the corn that Mike had started to plant for the Prestons, was going to get enough growing time before frost. Andy ate his pie silently. He had shown a moment of pleasure when he first saw Dick, but after the scolding, he seemed to withdraw into a shell. Janet sat close to him. She bent low over her plate and whispered: “I was so afraid that you had run away, Andy. We were looking for you last night.” Dick, sitting on the other side of Andy, frowned with annoyance. Andy gave Janet a quick stare, but his voice was quiet and low:
“I ain’t ever run from nothin’ and nobody. ‘T take a heap of chasin’ to make me run away from Gramp.”
Dick, unable to hold the good news any longer, whispered:
“We brought you a surprise, Andy. I told you that you ‘were something special. You’ll be rich now and do as you please. Honest.”
The clear blue eyes flickered across his face and hid themselves again under sunbleached lashes. Andy went on eating doggedly, almost making a business of eating. Dick sighed with impatience, looking from Father to Mother pleadingly. Mother sent a barely perceptible wink and a smile toward him. She was saying:
“While I was in New York, I met a man who knows a lot about painting and drawing. I . . . I happened to have some pictures with me, pictures of puppies, calves, squirrels and little baby rabbits. This man wants to buy them, and many more of them, for twenty-five dollars a piece. Just imagine. Little drawings that a boy who loves pretty things, has drawn in his spare time . . . with a stub of a pencil, on sheets of paper hardly worth ten cents.”
There was a queer silence in the room, Mr. Van Keuran had stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and it seemed to Dick that he had stopped breathing too. Andy’s face froze into immobility; a chunk of pie unchewed in his mouth. They were both looking at Mother, but her eyes were on Mrs. Van Keuran. She said in a soft and kind voice:
“I would be the happiest woman on earth if that boy were mine, but he isn’t. He is yours to be proud of, Mrs. Van Keuran. He has a gift from God that only a very few are blessed with, he can see beauty around him in every little humble thing and he can make others happy by putting it on paper, so we can see beauty through his eyes too. You see, most of us are just people . . . nice, hard working, everyday people; whatever we do, so many others like us can do equally well. But this boy was born to give us joy; with his gift he can make our lives richer, giving us the sweetness and happiness we all need. You should be very proud of him—both of you.”
She smiled at the old people, then, because neither of them made a sound or move, she glanced a little helplessly at Father. But before he could say anything, Mrs. Van Keuran found her voice. It sounded weak and a little hoarse:
“Twenty-five dollars for a no ‘count scribble the like Andy . you ain’t talkin’ about ANDY? This boy?”
“Yes, we are,” Father said with a smile. “The same boy who is going to lose a mouthful of pie if he doesn’t swallow it quick!”
Andy did, with a loud gulp. Then he looked Father straight in the eye, his own a clear blue blaze. “You . . . ain’t foolin’, Mr. Preston? You . . . no, I guess you wouldn’t. Gramp, you heard what they said,” he suddenly cried, flushing a deep red, “Gramp . . . say something!”
Old Mr. Van Keuran drew a deep breath. His first smile was for Andy, a proud, tender, beautiful smile, coming straight from his heart. It left Andy and shone on Dick and Janet for a moment, saying “Thank you,” without words. Then he rose from his chair and went to stand beside his wife. He rested a hand on her shoulder, holding the other out to Father. His voice held only the smallest hint of tremor as he said with great, quiet dignity:
“We are that grateful to you folks, just that grateful that I ain’t trying to find the words to tell you. We don’t know how to go about doin’ the right thing for Andy; you say what to do and we’ll do it. Both of us,” he added, his hand tightening on Mrs. Van Keuran’s shoulder.
“All that money for no ‘count scribblin’s . . . and I . . . how many I burned,” she mumbled, still dazed and unbelieving.
“It ain’t the money I’m a’thinkin’ about.” Mr. Van Keuran was looking at Mother. “It’s the words you brought into this house . . . that Andy is blessed with a gift from God. You, sayin’ about people thelike of us, bein’ just people and Andy a one chosen—why? Nobody has a way of knowin’ why. It is the same as when I plant a field of corn of the same seed, all alike. Then, comes time for the corn to be ripenin’ into ears, and I go from row to row, most of it is just corn like the seed it come from. But then, why, nobody has a way of knowin’, there’s a stalk that had grown tall as young trees grow and on it will be ears that bear no likeness to the seed I planted. Then I know—THAT is the stalk to guard against all harm, them are the ears to nurse and the seed of them are the seeds to save. I know, and come rain, wind, hail, or early frost I find a way to save them. That is what I say about Andy—I’ll find a way to make him ripen and grow.”
“Both of you will, I’m sure of that,” Father said. “Andy will have to work hard and study . . .”
“You ain’t a’goin’ to take Andy away from me!” It was Mrs. Van Keuran speaking, but it didn’t sound like her at all. Dick had been watching her face while Mr. Van Keuran was speaking and saw the queer change come over it gradually. Somehow he had to think of a spring day in Central Park, when he was watching the lake’s frozen surface while the warm spring sun had its way with it. That was fun to watch, the cracking of that cold, hard crust, the little rivulets of water, freed from prison, were gay and sparkling with life. Something like that was going on on this cold, harsh face, but it wasn’t fun. He averted his eyes and caught Father’s glance. He was answering Mrs. Van Keuran.
“Nobody could take Andy away from you, Mrs. Van Keuran. He belongs here. Only now, I
think it would be best for our young ones to get off by themselves. There must be new puppies out there that Dick and Janet haven’t seen yet. Feel like showing them off, Andy?”
The new voice of Mrs. Van Keuran spoke again “Go on, boy, you ain’t had much fun today.”
Andy’s face flushed and slowly broke into a grin. “Yes’m . . . Yes, Granma.”
He started toward the door, hesitated, then turned and smiled at Mother. “Mrs. Preston, I . . . I’m much obliged I’m sure.” His words came in a rush, then he bolted through the door. Mother rose and caught Dick before he, too, disappeared. “There is a big package in the car with Andy’s name on it. Pencils and papers and . . . stuff,” she whispered, giving him a wink. “Stay away as long as you can, Dicky, there’s going to be a . . . spring thaw here.”
Dick grinned. “Yes’m. I saw it coming.” For another moment he stood there, then gave Mother a quick hug. “Gee, Mom, you’re swell!”
CHAPTER XI
LESSONS IN PERSPECTIVE
MR. VAN KEURAN’S huge cattle truck stood at the loading platform of the freight-station in Bloomingburg. He and Father were coming out of the freight office; Father bringing a fistful of papers and a smile that was brighter than the brilliant August sunshine. Mr. Van Keuran didn’t have any papers but the smile on his face matched Father’s.
“They’re here all right; in good health and none the worse for the trip,” Father shouted to Mother and the children who were waiting outside. “Forty head of Aberdeen Angus . . . boy, oh boy, what a day! Red letter day in the Preston calendar . . . hey! Jake, do you know what day this is?”
Mr. Van Keuran looked puzzled. “Calc’late ‘bout the twenty-second of August . . .”
Father slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s it! Exactly two months ago, on June 22nd, a carful of city slickers stumbled into a broken-down farm, next door to you. Remember them, Jake?”
Mr. Van Keuran pushed his hat way back on his forehead. “Hmm. Seem to recall something like it,” he said with a grin. “The young feller and his family who got chased by a dragon on Fox Hill huh? Well, they ain’t around any more,” his eyes twinkled from Father to Mother and the children. “Seems to me they left, sudden like. We got good farmin’ folks for neighbors now. Good friends, too.” He pulled his hat down again and hitched up his pants. “Now, we got to start loadin’ that cattle, John . . . take three trips to cart them home.”
He turned toward his truck, then stopped, cocking his head to one side. “Just look at her a’standin’ on the slope there! Never knowed that truck to stay put before. Them new brakes sure make a difference. That was smart work, John; you’re a handy man with tools.”
“How does the new license feel in your pocket?” Father asked. “Burnin’ a hole clear through it, that’s how. I’m just spoilin’ for one of them smarty pants policemen to stop me now. Feel right smart, passin’ that there test. Well, come on, feller, let ‘er go,” he shouted to the man waiting by the cattle car full of bellowing young steers.
Soon the truck was full and they started for home. Mother and the children had their own car and drove to do the week’s shopping first. The men had unloaded the cattle and were gone for the second load when Mother drove into the yard. It was late afternoon when they closed the pasture gate after the last of their herd. The whole family stood by the gate, watching the steers scatter and begin to feed. They were beautiful coal black young animals; the first herd of its kind in the valley. Gran’s eyes were shining. She sighed a few times but didn’t speak. Her glance fell on the large, white, new poster tacked onto the gate. With a finger she touched it. “Member of Orange County Farm Bureau, John Ward Preston,” she read slowly, then smiled up at Father.
His eyes were on the contentedly grazing herd, then traveled up toward the mountains and slowly around the valley. He didn’t speak. Mother finally said, in a happy, breathless voice, “I’m so excited, I could turn cartwheels all over the place.” She poked Father in the ribs. “Do something! Sing or yell or crow . . . or stand on your head . . . don’t just stand there!”
Father shook his head a little and smiled. “I was very busy doing something just now. I was watching the last of my bridges burn behind me and,” he was laughing then, “not giving a hoot!”
Gran chuckled. “When you burn them, you burn them well, John. Any regrets?”
“What do you think, Mom?”
Gran’s expression was answer enough. He leaned against the gate and said: “Two little short months. We had planned to throw them away on . . . oh, golf, bridge, playing with push buttons in a jerry-built cottage. What we have done instead seems like a miracle. Haying done, corn growing, house clean and livable. We have running water; two cows, two calves, two horses, laying hens, a ‘valuable hound,’ and now a herd of cattle. We have friends like Mike, Linka, and the Van Keurans.” His eyes began to twinkle. “And we did it without a single push button; to me, that’s the miraculous part.”
“Isn’t that just like a man?” Mother laughed. “He would forget the two hundred and some odd jars of stuff we women have canned for him! Let me quote: ‘Molly dear, wouldn’t you like to spend the summer putting up preserves over a nice hot stove?’ Unquote. Well, Molly’s answer is, I LOVE it.”
Father winked at Gran. “There goes another trestle of that burning bridge, Mom; Molly just kicked it over. She loves it!’
“Look who’s coming,” Dick exclaimed. He waved his hand then, shouting: “Here we are, Mike!”
They could hear Mike’s delight over the cattle before he reached them. He came in the surprisingly rapid, ungainly half-trot of a man who has been covering rough ground all his life and always in a hurry. He almost fell on the last step and started to pound Father’s shoulder. “Mist’ John, oh Mist’ John, you now real farmer guy, huh? Like Mike, real farmer guy wit’ cattle. But w’at’s matter wit’ cattle? All black hair like bear and it no cow . . . it all boy cattle! Ma’be you got fool, huh?”
“No, Mike, this is beef cattle for meat. You know, we keep them, make them fat, then sell them to big butchers.”
A big sunny grin spread over Mike’s face. “Aaah! Aaah, me know! One,” he held up a finger, “you no spend money on much cow-feed. Good. Two, you sell in spring, make much money. Good. Three, you buy cow with money, many cow to make milk, huh?”
“That’s the idea, Mike,” Father nodded. “In the Farm Bureau . . .”
Mike wouldn’t let him finish. “He tell you, Mist’ Davies? He come test soil? Oh, smart man, he, Mist’ Davies, he tell you good alla time. Farm B’ro, good t’ing for farmer. Me, Mike, long time go to Farm B’ro.” His eyes fell on the new sign and he simply rocked with delight. “T’at paper say you farmer, huh? T’en, Mist’ John, you no more Mist’r to Mike. You just John. Okay?”
They shook hands on their new status as fellow-farmers. Then Mike was all business.
“W’at Mist’ Davies say to do? Lime, plow, put in new seed?”
“That’s right. The south fields near your land, Mike . . .”
“Mike know. He tell same to Mike. Same land you know, John, fence make no diff’rence to land. Good. Monday we plow. We take fence away. Me plant, you plant. We work like team. Mike plow for John, John buy seed for Mike. Okay?”
Father shook his head. “No, it isn’t. You are doing too much for us. The little seed you need, does not pay for the lot of plowing.”
“Pay! No talk pay to Mike! Seed cost plenty money. Work no cost money. Me strong, big arm, big back . . .”
“Big heart,” Gran said, smiling at him. Mike just grinned. “Litt’ woman talk big. T’is no place for woman. Go fix supper, no talk man business.”
Gran and Mother looked at each other, then Mother took Janet’s hand. “Come, litt’ woman. We fix good supper for farmer John.”
Dick pulled on Mike’s sleeve. “Will you let me plow? Am I strong enough now?” He had asked Mike several times in the past weeks, but Mike consistently refused. Now he frowned again.
“L
ook, Deck, you wait. Ma’be in one year, ma’be in two year. Now, NO.”
“Oh Dad, ask him to let me try . . . please. I can try, can’t I?”
“Well, if Dick wants to try . . .”
‘NO,” was the stubborn answer from an unusually serious Mike. “He no plow. He no ready for plow.” Both Dick and Father looked unconvinced, so he got ready for a speech, hands, eyebrows, face working. “Look. W’en I got litt’ horse, I no try make him pull heavy wagon. Try one, two time ma’be, and litt’ horse grow crooked like t’is,” Mike’s hands described a bent, crooked line. “Deek got litt’ young bone like litt’ horse. We no want Deek crooked like t’is; huh? Plenty time for plow. Now, NO.”
“Well, Son, NO it is,” Father said, and smiled at Mike. “Am I big enough to plow?”
“Aaah. Me make you plow! Me, Mike yell, come, lazy John, you plow now, Mike, he sleep. Okay?” Roaring with laughter over his joke, he started up the hill, then yelled back: “You got salt-lick for cattle?” Satisfied with Father’s nod, he ambled rapidly toward his home.
“Disappointed?” Father asked on the way back to the house. Dick pondered. “Well, maybe, a little. But, it’s funny, Dad, when Mike explains something, you sort of KNOW that he is right. He is different from everybody else; the way he talks, all over, you know, not only with words, he is awfully funny but . . . not the kind of funny I want to laugh at. He can’t read or write, but everything he says makes sense. He IS right, isn’t he?”
“Right as rain,” Father agreed. “You know why, Dick? He is so close to Nature every moment that he has become part of it. He is as honest as Nature itself; and as big and clean and as simple. He has grown, with roots deep in the soil, as naturally as that tree. He can’t be wrong, he doesn’t know HOW to be wrong—God bless him. You know what I mean, Dick?”