“Just like a woman,” observed Pete Ginty.
Emily did not think he meant this to be a compliment, but she was flattered that he said woman instead of little girl.
“How are you going to do the tail?” he asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” confessed Emily wearily. “It’s supposed to soak fifteen minutes.”
Pete Ginty leaned his gun against the watering trough. “Here, give me that bucket,” he ordered, and there was nothing for Emily to do but hand it over. He held the bucket under Lady’s tail and lifted it so that the long hair floated in the water.
Emily was very grateful for this unexpected assistance, but her gratitude did not help her make conversation with the man who, she was certain, was going to make a good story out of this. Mama always said, “That Pete Ginty and his yarns!”
Even Pete Ginty could not hold up a bucket of water for fifteen minutes. He rested his arms several times, but when the fifteen minutes were up Lady’s tail was white.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Ginty,” said Emily. “I never could have done the tail alone.”
Pete Ginty was not polite enough to tell her she was welcome. He picked up his gun, snorted, “Women!” and stomped off.
Exhausted, Emily leaned against the watering trough to look at her work. Lady was now a white horse. Against the setting sun, late on a May afternoon, it seemed to Emily that Lady really was a beautiful white steed with a flowing mane and tail. She was now good enough for Muriel, and Emily could hardly wait to show her off. She did hope, however, that Muriel would not be so delighted with Lady that she would want to skip the trip to the cemetery. Emily longed for a ride in Uncle Ben’s Maxwell.
“My goodness, Emily!” exclaimed Mama, when Emily had led Lady into her stall and returned to the house. “Just look at you. Dirt from head to foot.” She went into the bathroom, which was just off the kitchen, and began to run water into the second bathtub in Yamhill County.
“But Mama,” said Emily, “I turned Lady into a beautiful snow-white steed.”
Mama smiled lovingly at Emily while the water splashed into the tub. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” she said.
“What does that mean?” asked Emily.
“It means that the beauty is in your mind,” answered Mama with a smile, “rather than in what you see.”
The funny things grown-ups said!
The next morning was a busy one. After breakfast Emily plucked the pin feathers out of the chickens Mama was going to fry for dinner. Then she helped gather lilacs to take to the cemetery to put on the graves of the pioneer ancestors. It was such a beautiful day for a trip out in the country, where the orchards in bloom would be as lovely as the bolts of veiling in Grandma’s millinery store.
When at last Mama had no more chores for her, Emily picked trailing vines of wild sweet peas that bloomed beside the privet hedge. How beautiful the soft green leaves and purply-red blossoms would look around the neck of a snow-white steed!
When Emily entered the barn Lady nickered softly. Emily patted her flank and persuaded her to back out of her stall to be admired in the sunlight by the door. Emily twined the sweet peas into a garland around her neck and stood back to admire Lady.
But in the morning sunlight, golden with dancing motes, Emily’s horse was no longer a steed. She was not even snow-white. She was an elderly plow horse, cleaner than most, with some ragged-looking pea vines around her neck. Emily wondered why she had ever seen Lady as anything else. She did not know when she had been so disappointed—not since that time at the State Fair when Daddy bought her a longed-for cone of spun sugar as fluffy and pink as a cloud in a sunset and when she bit into it, so certain that it would taste of heaven, it turned out to be a mouthful of nothing, sweet, sticky nothing. Now the morning sunlight had dissolved another dream. She should have said whoa to her imagination before it ran away with her.
Silently Emily led Lady back to her stall. Then she walked slowly back to the house. Mama was right. The beauty had not been in the horse at all. It had been in Emily’s mind. She had wanted Lady to be beautiful so much that for a little while she had actually seemed beautiful.
“Why, what’s the matter, Emily?” Mama looked concerned.
“Mama, today Lady is not a snow-white steed,” said Emily sadly. “She is just an extra-clean plow horse. I guess the beauty went out of my eye overnight.”
Mama smiled tenderly at Emily. “We all have to come down to earth sometime, Emily.”
“But I don’t want to disappoint Muriel,” said Emily.
“I wouldn’t worry about Muriel,” advised Mama.
But Emily did worry about Muriel, her city cousin who knew all about horses from reading Black Beauty and who wrote letters on stationery instead of tablet paper.
At last the sound of Uncle Ben’s automobile was heard coming down the road to the farm, and Emily ran out to greet her city relatives. She kissed Uncle Ben and Aunt Irene and said shyly, “Hello, Muriel.” Muriel looked so grand with her curls, each one a long tube of shining hair.
“Hello, Emily.” Muriel jumped down from the running board. “Did you get my letter?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “We are going to have a library here in Pitchfork and maybe we will have Black Beauty too.”
“It’s such a good book,” said Muriel with a sigh. “It’s the best book I ever read. The horse tells the story of his life.”
“A horse talks?” Emily was incredulous. What kind of a book was this Black Beauty?
“Oh, yes!” said Muriel. “All the horses talk. They tell each other all their troubles.”
Emily simply could not imagine what this book was like. The way Muriel spoke, the horses sounded as chatty as the ladies of Pitchfork.
Mama came running out to greet the city relatives. “You certainly picked a beautiful day,” she said, when another round of kisses had been exchanged, “but you must be tired after driving all the way out from Portland.”
“Mama,” whispered Muriel to her mother.
Aunt Irene smiled. “Muriel wants to know if she can go horseback riding. She has been dying to and I hope she gets it out of her system.”
“Of course, dear,” Mama said to Muriel, who looked embarrassed by her mother’s remark. “Emily, take Muriel for a ride on Lady.”
Emily was grateful to Mama for not saying she had Cloroxed Lady. “Come on, Muriel,” she said, still shy in the presence of her city relatives. She wished she had taken the sweet-pea vines off Lady’s neck. By this time they must be wilted, and would look more ridiculous than ever. “Suppose you wait here,” she suggested, when they came to the watering trough. “I’ll bring Lady out.” She ran into the barn, where she discovered Lady had nibbled at the pea vines until only a few blossoms were left on the floor of the stall. As she led Lady down the ramp from the barn she was about to say apologetically, “She’s just an old plow horse,” when she happened to glance at Muriel’s face.
“A white horse!” exclaimed Muriel, her face alight with admiration. “That’s even better than a black horse.”
Well! Emily was encouraged. Why bother to tell Muriel that Lady was just an old plow horse? Mama was right. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder. There it was, shining out of Muriel’s eye as plain as plain could be.
Lady tossed her head and whinnied. Looking frightened, Muriel drew back, encouraging Emily even more. Muriel not only couldn’t tell a plow horse when she saw one, she was also scared of it. “Easy there, girl,” Emily said to Lady, with mounting confidence. “Muriel, if you just climb up on the edge of the watering trough you can mount Lady.”
“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t the horse have a saddle?” Muriel asked.
“I never use one,” answered Emily and noted that her cousin was impressed. Her spirits rose even higher as she persuaded Lady to stand beside the watering trough. “Climb on,” she said to her cousin.
“It—it won’t run away or anything?” Muriel asked timidly. “In Black Beauty horses sometimes ran aw
ay.”
“I don’t think so,” answered Emily truthfully.
“Well—here goes.” Muriel grasped Lady’s mane and threw her leg over the horse’s broad back. Her bloomers showed, but it did not matter. There were no boys around. “I—I didn’t know a horse was so slippery.”
Emily began to lead Lady around the barnyard. The horse plodded patiently along, but Muriel kept both hands tightly clutched on the mane. She managed to look both delighted and terrified at the same time.
Lady switched her tail and flicked Muriel’s leg.
“Emily!” cried Muriel in fright.
“It’s all right,” Emily assured her. “She’s just brushing off a fly.”
Around and around the barnyard they went. Muriel began to gain confidence. She sat up straighter and her knuckles were no longer white from her tight grip on the mane. “You don’t think the horse will get tired, do you?” she asked.
“No.” Emily did not tell her cousin that Lady was used to pulling a plow for hours at a time.
“In Black Beauty some of the masters were terribly cruel to horses,” said Muriel. “I wouldn’t want to be cruel to a horse.”
Emily could hardly keep from giggling. A walk around the barnyard cruel to Lady! She began to wonder if Muriel would never get tired. She did not want to miss the ride out to the cemetery in Uncle Ben’s Maxwell.
Around and around they went. It must be almost time for the rest of the family to leave. Muriel looked as if she planned to stick to that horse forever.
“Would you like to go faster?” Emily asked suddenly.
“Oh yes,” agreed Muriel confidently.
“Giddyap!” cried Emily, and pulling on the rope, began to run.
Obediently Lady broke into a heavy trot. Muriel began to bounce. Lady’s broad back was slippery and Muriel bounced to one side and then to the other. “You’re going—too—fast.” The words were jarred out of her.
Emily pretended not to hear. Clomp, clomp, clomp went Lady’s big hoofs. Slap, slap, slap went Muriel. Her curls were bouncing up and down like springs.
“Heh-heh-help!” said Muriel breathlessly.
“Whoa!” cried Emily, and slowed to a walk.
“Girls!” called Aunt Irene from the back porch. “We’re going now. Do you want to come along?”
“We’re coming,” called Emily, because Muriel was too out of breath to answer. She led Lady back to the watering trough and helped Muriel dismount. “You do want to go, don’t you, Muriel?” she asked.
Muriel nodded, and Emily led Lady through the gate into the pasture, where she removed her halter and gave her a farewell pat.
“Shouldn’t you put a cloth over her?” asked Muriel, who had caught her breath.
“A cloth?” Emily was puzzled. “What for?”
“Well, in Black Beauty whenever a horse had a lot of exercise the groom put a cloth over its back,” Muriel explained. She added dreamily, “Sometimes the groom even gave the horse some nice warm mash.”
Emily did not like to bring her cousin down to earth by telling her that Lady had not had any real exercise. “It’s such a warm sunny day Lady doesn’t need a cloth,” she said tactfully, “and she likes nice juicy grass better than mash.”
This satisfied Muriel. “You can ride some more when we come back,” offered Emily, as the cousins ran off to join their parents. “I’ll lead you again.”
“Oh, would you?” exclaimed Muriel gratefully.
“Did you have a nice ride?” asked Aunt Irene, when the girls reached the automobile.
“Oh, Mama, it was just wonderful!” said Muriel. “Just think, I have really ridden a horse. A beautiful white horse!”
Mama and Emily exchanged a little smile. They both knew where the beauty was. Then Emily climbed up into the back seat of Uncle Ben’s Maxwell and sat down on the shiny leather cushion. She admired the little vases for flowers and the plaid auto robe hanging on the back of the front seat. She gave a little bounce and discovered that the cushion was springy, which pleased her very much. The road out to the cemetery was good and bumpy.
4
Grandpa and The Tin Lizzie
Grandpa’s mind was made up. He was going to buy an automobile! Yes, Grandpa said, times were changing. Horse-and-buggy days were at an end. He wanted to keep up with the times and so he was going to buy a Ford, a Model T Ford.
Emily thought this was terribly exciting—Grandpa keeping up with the times in a new automobile. She had always thought Grandpa was pretty old-fashioned even if he did not wear a beard. Why, he still called electricity “juice.” “Switch off the light,” he would say. “We don’t want to waste the juice.” But now Grandpa was going to change his ways, and Emily was going to be closely related to an automobile. When the boys and girls at school bragged about their families’ automobiles, Emily had always said proudly, “We don’t have an automobile. We have a tractor.”
It seemed as if everyone had a different opinion about Grandpa’s buying an automobile. Grandma could not see why he wanted such a contraption. My land, a person could walk any place he wanted to go in Pitchfork and when was he going to find time to drive, with the store open until all hours? Mama said she did hope he wouldn’t do anything reckless at his age. Daddy just laughed and said let him have his fun.
Grandpa’s customers joshed him about his plans to buy an automobile. Every morning the old men who came in to sit around the store, while they waited for Uncle Avery to sort the morning mail, asked, “Well, Will, have you bought that Tin Lizzie yet?”
Emily was on pins and needles for fear Grandpa might change his mind about keeping up with the times, but at last the great day came. Mama and Emily went uptown to help Grandma mind the store while Grandpa took the new auto stage to McMinnville to buy the Model T Ford.
Emily practiced trying to shake open a paper bag with a flourish and a snap, the way Grandpa did, so that people would look at her with admiration and say, “The way that girl snaps paper bags!” While she tried and tried, Grandma fussed and worried and declared it was foolishness for Grandpa to drive back from McMinnville in that contraption when he had never driven before. Late in the afternoon Mama kept going out on the porch and peering down Main Street in the direction of McMinnville. Emily could not see what they were worried about. What was there to driving an automobile besides starting, stopping and, in a pinch, backing up? Old George A. Barbee had explained it all to Grandpa before he left that morning. There was nothing to it except sometimes on a steep hill it was necessary to turn around and back up the hill so the gasoline could run down into the engine.
“Mercy!” Grandma would exclaim, going out to peer down Main Street. “I hope he hasn’t hit a cow the way old George A. did that time.”
It was Emily, tired of trying to shake open paper bags, who went out to sit on the front steps and saw Grandpa driving down the road as nice as you please. “He’s coming!” she shouted. “He’s coming!”
Mama, Grandma, and all the customers rushed out to the sidewalk to watch Grandpa’s arrival. There he came, down the road and across the bridge and up Main Street. Beaming and triumphant, he drew up in front of his store. “Whoa!” he cried as he stopped his new automobile.
“William, you made it!” exclaimed Grandma in relief.
“Of course I made it,” answered Grandpa, climbing over the door on the driver’s side, which was not made to be opened.
Everyone clustered around to inspect and admire Grandpa’s new black touring car. Old George A. Barbee was there to open the hood and inspect the engine. Old George A., as everyone in Pitchfork called him, was the town’s authority on Fords, because he had been the first to own one.
Emily was a little disappointed because the Ford did not have a vase for flowers on the dashboard, but it did have a number of features that made up for it—the little brass radiator ornament, and the red, white, and blue cans for extra water, gas, and oil that were mounted on the running board. Because Emily was related to the car, she felt fre
e to climb into the front seat and bounce up and down on the black leather cushion.
“Come along, Emily,” said Mama. “It’s time to go home and fix supper.”
“Mama!” protested Emily. “I want to go for a ride.”
“Not today,” said Mama firmly. “Come along.”
“I’ll drive you home,” offered Grandpa.
“No, thank you,” answered Mama. “There are too many customers for Mother to handle alone. Come along, Emily.”
Bitterly disappointed, Emily climbed out of the car. “But Mama,” protested Emily, as they turned off the cement sidewalk onto the boardwalk. “I’ve been waiting all day to ride in Grandpa’s Model T.”
“Now, Emily,” said Mama firmly. “You are not to set foot in that automobile for a good long time. I just don’t trust your grandfather’s driving.”
“Mama!” wailed Emily.
And so, as the days went by, Emily’s mother made up excuses to keep Emily out of her grandfather’s automobile, and Emily watched wistfully as he rattled around town, keeping up with the times.
Grandpa was not the only person keeping up with the times. The Ladies’ Civic Club had found space for a library in a corner of the Commercial Clubrooms upstairs over the Pitchfork State Bank. Two ladies loaned old china closets, with glass doors that could be locked, to be used for book shelves. Mama was appointed librarian. Now all they needed was books.
Mama wrote a letter which was published on the front page of the Pitchfork Report. She asked anyone who had a book to give to the library to leave it in a box in Grandpa’s store. She also asked anyone about to subscribe to the Country Gentleman at one dollar a year to telephone her. If the library could get five subscriptions, it would receive five new books absolutely free. The seventy-five books loaned by the state library would arrive any day now.
Then one Sunday, when the store was closed and no one had banged on the door to get Grandpa to open up, Grandpa and Grandma drove over to the farm in the new Ford. Grandma was wearing her good serge suit and her best hat. She had a resigned door-die look on her gentle face.
Emily's Runaway Imagination Page 4