“Mama, what’s a silver tea?” asked Emily, thinking that it sounded very special, like a golden wedding.
“A way of raising money,” answered Mama. “We will put a plate on the tea table, and everyone who can will leave a silver coin on it to help the library.”
Silver coins could mean silver dollars or it could mean ten-cent pieces. Emily hoped for silver dollars, lots of them, because someday Mama hoped Pitchfork would have a real library in a room by itself, with an encyclopedia and open shelves full of books.
Emily could hardly wait for Saturday to come. During the week the stationmaster at the depot telephoned Mama to say that a crate of books had arrived from the state library. Mama had Grandpa pick up the crate in his Ford and deliver it to the Commercial Clubrooms. And wouldn’t you know? That was the week the tomatoes were ripe and Mama was so busy canning tomatoes and selling tomatoes to other ladies who wanted to can them that she did not have time to go uptown and open that crate. Emily could hardly stand it, she was so anxious to find out if the state library had sent Black Beauty, that book about the chatty horses she was so curious to read. Or maybe—terrible thought—the state library in Salem, capital of Oregon, was so big and so grand it would not bother to send books to boys and girls. Maybe it had more important things to do.
Finally Saturday actually did arrive and Mama decided they had so much to do to get ready for the tea they would just stack the dinner dishes in the sink. Mama put on her best gray silk dress, and Emily wore the scratchy yellow organdy that Grandma had made for her. The only thing in the world that scratched as much as an organdy dress was a slide in a straw stack, but today Emily did not care if the organdy did scratch. She wanted to look her best for the silver tea. Mama gave her ten cents to tie in the corner of her handkerchief until she could drop it on the plate on the tea table.
When Emily and her mother climbed the steep stairs to the Commercial Clubrooms they found the members of the Ladies’ Civic Club flying around getting ready for the tea. The table was already set with someone’s best white linen tablecloth and a glass basket of pink cosmos had been placed in the center. Cookies and tiny sandwiches were laid out on plates. The table really did look very pretty even though the room smelled of stale cigar smoke and was furnished with cuspidors and leather chairs with the stuffing coming out. In one corner, over by the old china closets someone had loaned to be used as bookcases, was the crate from the state library.
“Mama,” whispered Emily. “When are you going to open the crate?”
“Now Emily,” said Mama firmly, “just remember that no one is to take books until after I give my talk. And remember, too, that you are the librarian’s daughter. You can choose just one book. It would not look right for you to take more.”
“Just one, Mama?”
“Just one.”
One book was better than no books, thought Emily, and next week she could change it. Just let that one book be Black Beauty was all she hoped.
“Let’s open some windows and air this place out,” said Mrs. Archer.
People began to climb the stairs to the clubrooms. Soon the room was abloom with some of Grandma’s prettiest hats, although not all the ladies wore hats. Many farm women who were in town to do their week’s shopping wore cotton housedresses and no hats at all. Arlene Twitchell, the prettiest girl in town, arrived with some music in her hand, and Mrs. Warty Thompson opened the piano.
“Mama, she isn’t going to sing, is she?” whispered Emily, who was anxious to get on with the opening of the library and knew that Arlene never stopped with one song.
“Shh. Yes,” answered Mama.
Then someone discovered that no one had brought any sugar cubes, and Emily was sent off to Grandpa’s store to fetch some. By the time she returned, folding chairs had been set up and Mama had unpacked the crate and set the state books on the shelves. Emily edged over toward the china cupboards.
Mama fumbled in her handbag and brought out a fifty-cent piece. “Here, Emily,” she whispered. “Put this on that empty plate along with your dime. If people see some silver on the plate, they will be more apt to donate to the library.”
After Emily did as she was told, Mrs. Warty Thompson sat down at the piano and Arlene Twitchell began to sing. She sang Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life and I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles. Emily was careful to clap just hard enough to be polite but not hard enough to encourage her to sing a third song. Arlene did look so pretty with her dark curly hair and her white dotted Swiss dress.
“My, just look at the work her mother put on that dress,” Emily heard someone whisper.
“It’s no wonder she is spoiled,” was the whispered answer. “I feel sorry for the man who marries her.”
Emily could not help thinking how pleasant it would be to have curly hair and be spoiled. Then Mrs. George Thompson played Humoresque on the violin. Everybody in town had heard Mrs. Thompson play Humoresque dozens of times, but a violin solo did make the tea seem more stylish. Besides, everybody in town liked Mrs. George Thompson. No one had ever heard her say an unkind word about anybody.
More people kept coming, including some of the men of the town, who said they wanted to have a look at this library. They stayed to eat and joke about the tiny sandwiches. And then—oh, dear—who should arrive but Fong Quock! Emily hoped he would not notice her in the crowd. She squeezed toward the back of the room, where he would not see her.
Mama gave a little talk about how she hoped someday the library could have a room of its own with open shelves (instead of somebody’s old china closets, thought Emily) and what a valuable thing an encyclopedia would be for the town. It occurred to Emily that even though her hair was not curly and she could never hope to grow up to be the prettiest girl in town, she was still one of the most important girls in Pitchfork. She was the daughter of the librarian, the niece of the mayor, and the only girl in town who could go behind the counters in Grandpa’s store. She was also the girl who had licked the stamp that carried Mama’s letter to the state library.
Mama finished her talk and the library of Pitchfork, Oregon, was open for business!
Tea was served and Emily was torn between getting a peek at the books and staying where she could keep an eye on the plate of silver. It turned out she had no choice. Mama asked her to pass the cream and sugar on a little tray.
“Why can’t June do it?” whispered Emily, who had seen her cousin in the crowd.
“She might spill the cream,” answered Mama.
“Did they send Black Beauty?” whispered Emily, as she picked up the tray with the sugar bowl and cream pitcher.
“Not this time. Now don’t worry. I’ll save you a book if it looks as if they will all be taken.” Mama went to take up her duties as librarian.
Pleased to be trusted with the cream pitcher, Emily circulated through the crowd. “Cream and sugar?” she asked politely, of anyone holding a cup of tea.
“Why, hello, Emily. How nice you look,” the ladies would say. Not how pretty—how nice. “Yes, I would like a lump of sugar for my tea.”
Out of the corner of her eye Emily could see her cousin June. The elastic in one of her bloomer legs was loose, and she was leaning over the tea table eating cookies and watching the plate for pieces of silver. Plink. Plink. It sounded as if dimes were being dropped. Emily did not hear any plunks that would mean someone had given a whole dollar. Plank. That sounded like a quarter. Plink. Plank. A dime and a quarter. Every little bit helped.
Then Mrs. George Thompson served Fong Quock a cup of tea.
Oh dear, thought Emily. Now she would have to go offer him cream and sugar. She hesitated, wondering if by some lucky chance he might have forgotten about Plince.
“Emily,” said Mrs. Thompson, “perhaps Mr. Quock would like some cream and sugar.”
There was nothing for Emily to do but offer it to him. “Cream and sugar?” she asked, her eyes on the floor.
“No, fank you,” said Fong Quock. “Missy leave Plince home today?”
June must have had her fill of cookies, because she wandered over to the china closets to look over the books. Tray in hand, Emily stepped lightly over a cuspidor and made her way to the library corner. She was not going to have June beat her to the books if she could help it.
“Oh, there’s Emily with the cream and sugar,” said a lady. “You are just the girl I have been looking for.”
Dutifully Emily held out her tray while the lady helped herself to three lumps of sugar.
“My, but you do look nice in your yellow organdy,” said the lady. “Just like a little buttercup.”
Emily did not feel like a little buttercup. Her organdy dress scratched around the neck and arms and she was filled with impatience. Then plunk. Emily’s sharp ears caught the sound of someone’s dropping a whole big dollar on the plate on the table. It was—of all people—Fong Quock! The ladies near the tea table exchanged surprised glances while the old man, smiling and nodding, made his way to the stairs. Emily stared after him in astonishment. A whole silver dollar!
There were two more plunks on the plate that afternoon. Mr. Archer, the president of the bank downstairs, left a dollar, and Grandma managed to get away from the store long enough to drink a cup of tea and leave another dollar.
Three whole silver dollars, but Fong Quock’s dollar was the one everybody talked about, and talk they did. “Well now, wasn’t that nice of him, especially when he can read very little English himself?” “Imagine, the old fellow’s taking the trouble to come up here and give a dollar to the library—I wonder if he is lonely since he sold his confectionery store.” “I have always heard that the Chinese are scholarly people and it must be true.” “And my dear, did you see it? The dollar was actually tarnished, he has had it so long. I’ll bet he still has the first dollar he ever earned.” “Not now he hasn’t, because he just gave it to the library.” This last remark brought forth kindly laughter.
By this time everyone seemed to be well supplied with cream and sugar, so Emily set her tray on the tea table and slipped around the edge of the room to the library corner. “Mama, did you save me a book?” she asked.
“There are still books left to choose from,” answered Mama.
And there were! Just think of it, real library books right here in Pitchfork, Oregon. The Dutch Twins, The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck—what a tiny book that was! Emily had not known they made such little books. The Curly-haired Hen, English Fairy Tales. But no Black Beauty. Oh well, perhaps another time. Emily chose English Fairy Tales because it was the thickest, and Mama wrote her name on a little card that she removed from a pocket in the book. Emily now had a library book to read. She could hardly wait to write to her cousin Muriel in Portland.
Emily had settled down in a slippery leather armchair to begin her book, when something made her glance toward the top of the stairs. A strange boy about Emily’s age stood in the doorway. He was wearing clean faded overalls and his hair must have been cut with a pair of dull scissors by his father. He looked uncertainly at the ladies’ hats and the tea table and turned to leave.
“Won’t you come in?” asked Mama, with a smile.
The boy was glad to have someone welcome him. Shyly he approached Mama’s table. “Ma’am, is it all right if I get some books for my family?” he asked.
Mama smiled at the boy. “I don’t believe I have seen you in Pitchfork before. Do you live in the country?”
“No, ma’am. I live in Greenvale,” he answered. “We read about the library in the Pitchfork Report and I walked down the railroad track to see if we could get some books too.”
“Why, that’s at least four miles,” said Mama, “and four miles back again.”
The boy looked at the floor. “Yes ma’am.”
“Of course you may take books for your family,” said Mama. This boy wanted to read. That was enough for her. It made no difference where he lived.
Emily watched while the boy, oblivious to everyone else, selected his books with care. A book about wild animals. That must be for himself. The Tale of Jemima Puddleduck for a little brother or sister. Two grown-up books that must be for his mother and father. When Mama had written his name on the little cards, the boy pulled a clean white flour sack out of his hip pocket, unfolded it and carefully put the books inside. “I’ll take good care of them, ma’am, and bring them back next Saturday.”
“I hope you enjoy them,” said Mama, watching the boy as he slipped through the crowd and disappeared down the stairs. “Just think, that boy is willing to walk eight miles along a railroad track for books,” she remarked, and Emily thought that Mama looked both happy and sad at the same time.
Gradually the crowd drifted away, until at last only Emily and the members of the Ladies’ Civic Club were left. The ladies gathered around the table Mama was using for a desk to watch Mama count the pieces of silver that people had given to the library. Sixteen dollars and twenty cents. It seemed like a lot of money to Emily, but Mama looked disappointed. She sighed, and said, “The people in our town just don’t have much money to give to a library.”
The ladies of the Civic Club said they must not be discouraged. Next time they would try a whist party. They would have a real library yet. Look at the books that had circulated that afternoon. Why, a lady way out in the country had even sent a note by a neighbor, asking for a nice cheerful book. And that boy who asked for a book on forestry, and the man who wanted a book on Oregon history…. Didn’t this show that the people of Pitchfork really wanted a library?
“And the boy with the white flour sack,” Emily whispered to Mama. “Don’t forget him.”
“Especially the boy with the white flour sack,” agreed Mama. “For that boy we must get a library started.”
And me, thought Emily. I still want Black Beauty. She picked up Fong Quock’s tarnished silver dollar. “Mama, do you suppose this really is the first dollar he ever earned?”
Mama laughed. “Oh Emily, that is just an expression. You know how people talk. I am sure it isn’t his first dollar because he has been supporting his family in China all these years.”
Emily was astonished. She had thought all along that Fong Quock was a bachelor like Pete Ginty. “Then what was he doing here in Pitchfork?” she asked.
“He came to Oregon to seek his fortune,” said Mama, locking up the china closets even though they were almost empty of books. “Many Chinese did in the old days and somehow he found his way to Pitchfork and stayed. I can’t say I blame him. It is a beautiful spot, even if the pioneers did name it Pitchfork.”
To seek his fortune! Like Dick Whittington in one of the readers at school. “Do you think he found his fortune?” Emily asked doubtfully, because Pitchfork seemed to her an unlikely place to seek one’s fortune. There were no streets paved with gold and no Lord Mayor, just Main Street paved in concrete, and Uncle Avery at the post office.
“I don’t know,” answered Mama, gathering up her handbag and the book she had chosen for herself. “Perhaps he did. He owns his little house and until he sold it not long ago he had a prosperous little business. At least he has been able to send money back to China all these years. Fortune means different things to different people, you know.”
Emily hugged her book and thought this over as she and Mama descended the stairs to the sidewalk. Mama was right, she decided. Fortune did mean different things to different people. And to Emily right now, fortune meant not streets paved with gold or money to send to China. It meant the people of Pitchfork having enough money to give some to the library. Enough for real book shelves and an encyclopedia and some left over for Black Beauty.
6
The Scary Night
A library made a difference. Emily read her book of English fairy tales every minute she could f
ind. She even sneaked the flashlight upstairs and read under the covers until Mama caught her at it. Fortunately there was a full moon and after Mama went downstairs again to read her own book, Emily was able to lean out the window and read by moonlight until she finished her chapter. The dove that turned into a handsome young man, the girl who had to bring water from the well in a sieve, the old woman whose pig would not go over the stile—Emily loved every word. Best of all she enjoyed scary stories, the tales of giants and ogres and the one about the fair young woman with the golden arm who turned into a ghost. That was a spooky story. There had never been any scary, spooky stories in any of Emily’s readers.
The book Mama was reading was a book of poetry and that made a difference, too, because now Mama went about her work reciting instead of singing. Mama would recite,
“I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn.”
Emily could just picture Mama as a little girl waking up in the morning in a house back East. But Emily’s favorite poem was a different one.
“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,”
Mama would say in a spooky voice as she fried the potatoes.
“While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”
The way Mama said it gave Emily a shivery feeling between her shoulder blades. It was the scariest thing Emily had ever heard and she enjoyed every word of it, although she did not entirely understand it. The poem was about a raven that kept saying, or rather quothing, “Nevermore.” “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore,’” was the way many of the stanzas ended.
“Say the spooky poem again, Mama,” she would ask, and then shiver deliciously as Mama recited,
Emily's Runaway Imagination Page 6