Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley

by Marguerite Henry

  The blacksmith made almost the same comment. “Appears she ain’t worn shoes in a devil of a time. Yet she ain’t skittish. Most always when feet has been neglected, I got to give the lip a good twist to tone down the kickin’. Do you want I should shoe her, front and back?”

  “Yes, four new shoes,” Mr. Moore said, proud of his new mare. But Molly wondered if Lady had any spunk at all!

  Freddy Westover came over to watch the shoeing. Smokestack trotted up a few minutes later, taking a spot right beside Molly. He sniffed at the pieces of hoof lying on the ground—they were too tempting to resist.

  “She’s o-l-d,” Freddy stretched out the word. “She’ll end up a flea-bitten gray.”

  “I like grays,” Molly snapped. Suddenly she felt old, too. Freddy had that effect on her. He could always make her feel stupid.

  “She’ll probably end up a roan,” Mr. Moore said with authority. “And I wager she won’t flinch at anything. What Molly and I care about is performance, not color.”

  Freddy left before the end of the shoeing. When all four of Lady Sue’s hooves had bright new shoes, Molly’s father paid the blacksmith. Then, bridling the mare, he swung his leg over her back and settled into position. He clucked and jiggled the reins.

  Like a barn swallow in flight, Lady Sue wheeled and with a soaring motion was up, up, and away. Mr. Moore looked excited—like a little kid. Molly stared after them, pleased with her father’s happiness but even more astounded at Lady’s eagerness. Pops gave a commanding whoa—and Lady willingly stopped. He walked over to Molly and, almost bowing, he handed the reins to her. For the first time, Molly felt a flutter of excitement.

  Do I want to ride her bareback? Molly thought. I’ll stick to bareback, since Pops already rides her without a saddle and she is fine like that. Pops is much bigger than I am! She might behave differently with my weight.

  Molly led Lady Sue easily to the fence. The horse stood very still while Molly climbed the rails and mounted. Lady didn’t even move as Molly settled onto her back. And who should show up at that very moment but Freddy on Strolling Joe. Lady was immediately aware of them. She let out a whinny as if to say “I’M HERE NOW.”

  Freddy sneered. “Molly! Does the old mare know how to walk?”

  Molly clicked to Lady, and instead of a walk she broke into a trot! It took Strolling Joe’s fastest walk to catch up with her. Freddy’s expression was kindled with surprise, and while Molly held fast to Lady’s mane, she suddenly felt a burst of pride at being her owner!

  CHAPTER 6

  I RIDE HER EASY

  November

  Dear Diary,

  Gosh, in only a month, Lady Sue’s looking so much better. Maybe it’s her winter coat coming in. But she doesn’t look as skinny as when we first brought her home. Although she’s not my Dream Horse, she’s more fun than I expected.

  Last night at supper, Mom, who shies away from horses as if they were dinosaurs, admitted that even she could see a change in Lady.

  “I’m so proud of you and Daddy,” she said. “It’s one thing to buy a fine horse to begin with, but to take an aged mare and restore her to a kind of elegance . . . well, that must be what your manual calls horsemanship.”

  You know, Diary, I think Mom’s right. Old horses need almost as much care as foals. I mean, it doesn’t take anything for Freddy to make Strolling Joe look good. That horse is only four years old and just looks good naturally. But with Lady . . . the sunken places above her eyes are becoming less noticeable and she’s starting to look more filled out. Even distinguished.

  Besides, today when Strolling Joe was doing his fastest running walk, Lady, at her fastest trot, easily kept pace with him.

  Pops rides Lady only on Sundays. All week I have her for my very own. Day after day, we move through autumn stillness or whirling winds. And when it rains, I spend the afternoon in the shed, reading aloud to her from My Friend Flicka or one of our equitation books.

  Mostly, though, she prefers the rain-sloshed pasture to my stories. She dashes out and lets the raindrops trickle down her back.

  It’s like the manual says, “Horses have got to live their own lives. Only rarely do they share their inner feelings.”

  All of our lives have changed . . . because of Lady. Mom is really in business now! She’s making twice as many jellies and jams as before. And Lady is pulling a cart full of tart-smelling currants and sweet red raspberries, and strawberry rhubarb preserves, apricots with almonds, blue plum, ginger marmalade, rose-geranium jelly, spiced grape jelly, and blueberry jam.

  Mom’s even become adventurous; she’s made a new blend using five different fruits. This was the end result of two weeks of experimenting. Pops and I got used to seeing everything but the kitchen sink simmering away on the stove. Acorns, nasturtium leaves, sassafras roots (that I had to dig up), and dandelion stems boiling away and sending their particular smells into the steamy kitchen. Only one new jam came of these long days of experimenting. Now orders come in daily for it. Mom calls it “Fabulous Five Fruit Medley.” I think helping with the household expenses makes Mom feel happier about everything.

  Pops has changed, too. He even looks younger. He went to a new doctor who gave him pills that put an end to his sneezing and wheezing. Often when he rides Lady bareback, people ask him if he used to be a trainer, or a jockey. He breaks into a big grin and his face gets red.

  I ride Lady Sue after school to keep her in shape. I ride her easy, thinking about her age. But she never pulls toward home even when we get close. She passes by our drive as if she’s just getting warmed up and wants to go on.

  At bedtime, I don’t hear worried voices talking about me anymore. The light under Mom and Pops’s bedroom door goes out earlier, letting me write in my diary until I’m ready for sleep. I don’t even toss and turn. We’re all too tired and happy, thanks to Lady Sue!

  CHAPTER 7

  NO TIME TO LOSE

  Most of the neighbor kids ate lunch at the school cafeteria, but Molly hurried home every day to feed and water Lady Sue. Mrs. Moore was pleased to have Molly at home, even though it was Lady who claimed most of Molly’s attention. Only after the mare’s pail of water had been freshened and the measure of oats poured into her manger was Molly ready to wash up at the kitchen sink and sit down to her own bowl of soup and a peanut butter sandwich.

  Mrs. Moore usually remained standing at the door after Molly left again for school. It was a relief that Molly had grown to accept Lady Sue. “There are times,” Mrs. Moore thought aloud, “when all’s right with Molly, then all’s right with my world!”

  She turned back to the kitchen, singing a hymn in her Sunday voice. She did up the dishes and put them away, still humming. Then she picked up a magazine from the sideboard and went upstairs to her bedroom to read. A whole blessed hour of peace!

  Before getting comfortable in her recliner, she lowered the window shade against the blinding sunlight streaming onto her magazine. In one glance she saw Lady in the pasture thrashing and rolling from side to side. The magazine dropped to the floor. For a second the mare lay still, but her body seemed bloated as if it might explode.

  Colic! The word froze, unspoken in Mrs. Moore’s mind.

  Panic. What to do? Nothing must happen to the mare now, just when Molly had grown to love her.

  There was no mistaking the mare’s symptoms. Words of advice said themselves, right out of the manual. “When you suspect colic, call your vet at once. No time to lose.”

  Mrs. Moore wished Pops were home. He’d know what to do. And wouldn’t waste time. There was no use her trying to help Lady Sue—she didn’t know anything about horses. She had to get Doc Winquist. Now!

  Nervous fingers dialed the phone.

  Click. Click. Click. So many numbers. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  And the canned words. “Please check with your operator for the correct number. The number you have dialed is not in service at this time.”

  Mrs. Moore hung up and dialed “0.”

>   “Operator, please dial for me. Our mare needs a vet immediately. She may have the colic.”

  The clicks sounded foreboding. Strange.

  Then Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

  “Sorry, ma’am, the line’s busy.”

  What now? I’ll have to go get Doc Winquist! He’s got to save Molly’s mare.

  The white Chevy is with Pops. The only thing I have is the old pickup, which seems to run only when it wants to. There! It coughed a bit. Hurray! It started.

  Through mud holes, onto hard roads Mrs. Moore steered the rattling truck, blowing her horn before even crossing the iron bridge and crunching into Doc Winquist’s yard. She slammed on the brakes, sending chickens and geese flapping.

  Mrs. Winquist hurried outside. “Florence Moore!” she exclaimed. “What brings you out this way in such a hurry, honking and scaring my chickens?”

  “Our mare is down with the colic. Your line was busy, and I just couldn’t wait. Is Doc home?”

  “Sorry. Jensen’s show horse got tangled in barbed wire and Bill went to sew him up. He’s been gone near two hours, but maybe I can reach him by phone.”

  “Okay. Tell him I’ll pick him up. It’d be out of his way to come back home when we can take the shortcut to Sawdust Valley.”

  When Mrs. Moore arrived at the neighbor’s farm a few minutes later, Doc Winquist, black bag in hand, stood at the gate waiting for the pickup to grind to a stop.

  He opened the truck door and set his bag on the floor. All in one breath he said, “Now compose yourself, Florence, and tell me all the symptoms so I can be ready to go to work soon as we get there.”

  Her foot bearing down on the gas pedal, Mrs. Moore explained as the old pickup crow-hopped along. “Molly loves this gentle mare. And I saw her rolling and thrashing in the pasture.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “First time Molly’s had a horse of her own. And now, just when everything is getting so perfect, the mare could die.”

  “We’ll not let her die. Colic isn’t always a killer. It can be just a stomach ache. Has the mare been wormed regularly?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “Good! Has she been overeating?”

  “I don’t think so. But her barrel did look bloated.”

  “It could be a gas pocket. Horses can’t burp like people, so they get down and roll. Or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Or poor teeth sometimes cause indigestion. Oh, any number of things. Now I tell you what . . .”

  The whine of a police siren interrupted him.

  “Guess you’re speeding, Florence. Pull over and let me do the talking.”

  The officer got out of his car and slow-footed to the pickup. “Fire someplace?” he drawled.

  “Yes, Officer,” the doctor said. “A mare with colic must feel like she’s swallowed a firebomb. I’m Doc Winquist, the vet.”

  The officer pinched off his sarcasm. He nodded to Mrs. Moore and shook hands with the doctor.

  “I once lost a good saddlebred mare to the colic,” the officer said. “She had a twisted gut. Died because I couldn’t get a vet soon enough.”

  “Oh, Officer . . .”

  “Now, lady, don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions. My horse was getting on in years.”

  “So is our mare,” wailed Mrs. Moore.

  The officer stuffed his pencil and pad into his pocket. “We’re wastin’ time,” he said. “Follow me.”

  Siren screaming, the police car shot ahead to lead the way, as traffic melted into the distance.

  CHAPTER 8

  GOLDEN IN THE SUNLIGHT

  Molly’s school bus pulled into the Moores’ driveway just as the police car and the pickup roared ahead in a cloud of dust. Molly was first to leap out of the bus and run after them as they headed for the pasture.

  When Molly saw Doc Winquist, she felt sick. What could be wrong? Lady Sue was fine when I fed her before I left for school. But as Molly rounded the corner of the house, she had a full view of the pasture—there was Lady standing up, looking all golden in the sunlight.

  A flood of relief washed over Molly. She crawled through the fence with Doc Winquist and the officer close on her heels.

  Suddenly they came to a full stop. Lady was standing directly ahead. Her tail was shifted to one side—exposing a bubblelike white bag.

  Molly looked closer in terror. What was happening to her mare? Then she saw a tiny hoof stretching inside the white bag of her stomach.

  Doc Winquist laughed with relief. “Molly! Why didn’t you tell me your mare was in foal?”

  Both Molly and her mother gasped in unison. “But we didn’t know!” Molly’s brain whirled with unanswered questions. How could she not have known that Lady was in foal? Who was the sire? What did he look like?

  Molly and Mrs. Moore stepped back to give Doc Winquist plenty of room to help his patient. Lady Sue put her nose to the ground and started to lie down, then she stood up quickly and changed sides.

  “This is okay,” Doc Winquist assured them. “She’s positioning a safe birth for the foal. Looks like Lady’s done this before. That’s why you didn’t know. I’ll bet you thought she was just gaining weight. This often happens with brood mares—and some humans,” he added.

  In a quick moment, Lady made a complete turn to her other side while a long foreleg and a flattened nose escaped the bag.

  The head appeared as Doc Winquist gently stroked the sac away from the dark brown, furry foal. He continued to massage the sac away from the foal’s wet face.

  “Do all babies have such long ears when they’re born?” Molly asked.

  “Only if the baby is a mule, Molly. And this one is definitely a mule!”

  “A MULE!” Molly gasped in disbelief. What would the rest of her small brown body look like?

  In moments the beautiful form of the entire baby appeared, and there was no doubt that it was anything but perfect. “Oh, she’s precious and she’s mine!” Molly cried out.

  “Only one problem, Molly,” Doc Winquist said. “She is a he.”

  “I don’t care. He’s beautiful! He’s even more beautiful than my Dream Horse.”

  A crowd of kids from the school bus had gathered around to see the excitement. Doc Winquist was already in charge and the policeman stood with hands on his hips, whistling in amazement.

  “How’d you get a mule, Molly?” one of the kids asked.

  Freddy Westover closed in, howling in laughter. “You get a mule when the father is a jack—a donkey! Ha, ha! Molly’s got a mule.”

  Molly tried to gather her thoughts quickly. She didn’t want Freddy catching her off guard. “I know, Freddy. I’ve got eyes!” She watched the sun glistening on the baby’s wet coat. “Anyway, I’ve already got a name for him.”

  “What is it?” her mother and Freddy and all the kids from the school bus demanded, almost in the same breath. “What’s his name?”

  Molly took a deep breath to clear her confusion. “His name is . . .” Her voice stopped only a moment, then picked up with a determined look at Freddy. “His name is . . . Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley!”

  “But he’s brown because his coat is still wet from the birthing,” Mrs. Moore said.

  “I know, I know.” Molly ran her fingers over Lady Sue. “She’s wet, too. She had her baby all by herself.”

  Now a white Chevy curved into the yard and skidded to a stop at a respectful distance from the mare, who was nuzzling her baby, licking him from head to tail, identifying him forever as her own.

  When he came over and caught sight of the brand-new mule, Mr. Moore bellowed his happiness. “Molly! . . . we each have our own animal now! The baby mule with the handsome ears is all yours!”

  The school kids sighed in wonder and envy as they stumbled up the steps of the bus heading for home.

  CHAPTER 9

  LATE AFTERNOON OF THE NEWBORN

  It was almost dark before Sawdust Valley settled down to an evening of quiet—the school bus doors had squeezed s
hut, with the police car in the lead and Freddy Westover heading for home, throwing his last jibe to Molly.

  “Lemme know how much the auctioneer adds on to Lady Sue’s price for giving you a freebie mule.” With a grin, he mounted his bicycle, made a double salute to Molly’s mother and father, and winged his way homeward.

  Dr. Winquist led Lady Sue with her wobbling baby to the stable.

  “So,” he said, “you really didn’t suspect Lady Sue was in foal?”

  “We had no idea, Doc Winquist! I guess because Lady was so skinny when we got her, we thought the weight gain was just good food and care.”

  “He was a complete surprise. That’s what makes the little fellow all the more welcome,” said Mrs. Moore, “doesn’t it, Molly?”

  “Exactly!” Molly said. She was stroking Sunshine with her fingertips. The foal wriggled out of reach and out of step.

  Soon his feet felt the touch of fresh straw, and he fell to his knees with an audible sigh. The watchers grinned one to the other in shared envy. Even the mare sighed.

  Only Mr. Moore had a worry. “I wonder why the auctioneer didn’t tell us that Lady was in foal.”

  Doc Winquist answered, “Maybe he thought it would add a great deal to her cost. Or maybe it would kill the sale for people who don’t like mules, or double the price for people who do. Or maybe he just didn’t know.”

  “Still, we don’t have the jack’s history,” Mr. Moore said with a frown. “His owner might pop up and bother us for a great sum of money—if Brown Sunshine ever wins at a mule show in Nashville or out in California or right here in Columbia, Tennessee.”

  Mrs. Moore solved everything. “Let’s leave that for another day. Right now, Molly is ready to warm some bran mash that she made this morning for Lady Sue, and Doc Winquist is anxious to get a ride home after a long day. Pops is happy to drive him, as he has a string of questions to ask about caring for the baby mule.”