by Ralph Moody
I got up with the first streaks of daylight, but Grandfather was already in the kitchen when I went downstairs. Smoke was pouring from the stove, and he was stirring Banner Oats into a kettle of water that wasn’t steaming. “Gorry sakes! Gorry sakes alive, Ralphie,” he sang out as I came through the doorway, “Tarnal nice having you to home again. I and you has got a heap of work to do afore the snow flies. I be fixing us a nice mess of victuals so’s to put a leg under us for the day. Ain’t nothing like a good mess of oatmeal porridge to hold a man’s ribs out. Thunderation! Guess I wa’n’t heeding what I was about.”
Grandfather had looked up at me as he spoke, but was still holding the tilted oatmeal package over the pot, and the premium saucer had slipped out. It hit the edge of the iron kettle, broke into a hundred pieces, and scattered over the stove, on the floor, and into the pot. “Ain’t that a tarnal shame,” he muttered as he picked pieces of china out of the oatmeal with his thumb and finger. “Nice pretty saucer like that all broke to smithereens. Well, what’s the odds? Likely as not there’ll be as pretty a one in the next box and I don’t cal’late it’s hurt the porridge none. What I don’t skim out will sink to the bottom. Did ever you eat porridge with maple syrup on it, Ralphie? Awful good. Fetched a pail of it down from the open chamber whilst Levi was here. It’s right there in the cellarway. Pass it here, and fetch up a piece of pork out the barrel. Pick a good fat piece. Fat pork goes good with oatmeal. I’ll set it a-frying whilst you do the chores. Leave the milking to the calves.”
“I don’t think they’re doing a very good job of it,” I said. “Don’t you think it would be better if I’d milk by hand and feed the calves? That pair of little twin steers is awfully skinny, and the brindle won’t let them touch her.”
Grandfather’s head jerked up. He looked at me crossly for half a minute, and I thought he was going to shout, “Don’t tell me!” but he didn’t. He looked back at the pot, stirred it a couple of minutes, and said, “Cal’late you might just as leave. Veal calves is fetching a good price off to Lewiston, and butter’s twenty-eight cents. Cal’late Millie’ll be a-coming home most any day now, and she makes awful nice butter.”
Before I’d much more than started on the chores, Grandfather called me to breakfast, and he was all in a dither when I went to the house. The kitchen was blue with the smoke of burned pork, and the smell of scorched oatmeal was so strong it made the air bitter. “Come eat your victuals, Ralphie! Come eat your victuals!” Grandfather snapped at me while I was washing my face and hands. “By fire, I got to get an early start! First calves in the market always fetches the high dollar! Ain’t no time for dawdling. Afore you went off to Boston, didn’t you tell me Millie was prob’ly ’twixt here and Lewiston, somewheres?”
I had to think a minute, and then I said, “I’m not sure, but maybe I did.”
“Why’d you tell me that?”
“Well, because she said that was where she was going.”
“What?” Grandfather shouted at me. “When did she tell you?”
“The day she left.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You was hatching it up betwixt you to go off and leave me.”
“No, sir,” I told him. “We didn’t hatch anything up. I don’t think she really had any idea at all of going when she said it. She was mad about the flies, and came out to the field right after you drove away that morning. That’s why I made her the screens. I didn’t see or say a word to her after . . . after the door got broken.”
Grandfather’s voice dropped right down, and he asked. “What did she say to you, Ralphie? What was her words?”
“Well, I don’t think I remember them all, but she said she wasn’t going to live with the cussed flies for another blessed day, and that she had two minds to one to go off to Lewiston and get a job in the mill.”
Grandfather was watching me like a fox watching a chipmunk. “What mill?” he asked.
“She didn’t say. Is there more than one?”
“Tarnal lot of ’em! Eat your victuals! Eat your victuals! Time flies! Hitch Old Nell to the spring wagon and fetch them three new calves.”
I didn’t bother about breakfast. Besides burning the oatmeal, Grandfather had forgotten to salt it, and there were at least forty flies drowned in the maple syrup. I harnessed Nell, tied the legs of each calf, and loaded it into the wagon. When I drove up from the sheep barn, Grandfather had on his best suit and was waiting for me. “Sot some pans out for you on the butt’ry table,” he told me. “Put the milk to rising in the cellar. I’m cal’lating on fetching Millie home with me whenst I come.” Then he climbed up onto the wagon seat and spanked Old Nell with the reins.
23
The Colt and I Become Friends
THERE had been a big piece of corned beef in one of the packages Uncle Levi gave me to bring down to the farm. The first thing I did after Grandfather drove away was to fry myself four eggs, and put the corned beef on to boil. While I was finishing the chores and taking the cows to pasture, it boiled dry and burned black on the bottom. Before I left for the high field, I scraped some of the black off the meat and filled the kettle with water. Then I crammed the stove full of hard wood and closed the dampers, so it would keep cooking most of the forenoon.
The yella colt fought me again that morning when I harnessed him, and he raised Cain during the first hour in the field. He got a leg outside one of the traces after I thought he was all settled down. Without thinking, I stepped forward to make him put his foot back in, and he kicked quicker than a flash of lightning. His hoof spanked sharply on my thigh, just above my knee. If I’d been a few inches closer, it might have broken my leg. I grabbed up the line ends to beat him with them, but stopped myself. It wouldn’t have done any good, and would only have made him hate me worse. Instead, I kept him working hard all the rest of the morning, with only rest enough to keep from hurting his wind.
I’d thought I would have some corned beef for my dinner, but I didn’t. The fire had burned out when I went to the house at noon, and the beef was as tough as whang leather. The water around it looked like strong black coffee, and was as bitter as walnut husks. I drained it off, put on fresh water, then built up the fire and fried myself four more eggs.
The colt worked pretty well during the afternoon. I didn’t have to wire his ears together once, but he was sulky, and kept his head turned just enough that he could keep an eye on me all the time. Except for the couple of times I ran to the house to put more wood on the fire, I kept him working hard. By the time Annie came for her cows, he was plodding as steadily as Old Nell would have, and I let him stand in his traces when I went to the brow of the hill to wave to her.
I didn’t go down to the valley, but Annie called up to me, “Are you sure there isn’t anything I could do to help you around the house? Couldn’t I make the beds and help out with the cooking?”
I wanted to say yes, but I remembered how crabby Grandfather had been when he thought I’d gone into his room, so I called back, “I’ve got a big piece of corned beef on cooking for supper, and the beds only take a few minutes, so I guess we’ll be all right, but thank you anyway.”
I went back to the yella colt, started him for the barn, and went for our cows. Without the calves to bother them, they were waiting at the pasture bars, and lowed for their milking when they saw me coming. Grandfather hadn’t come home when I had the barn chores finished, the milk put away in the cellar, and the potatoes on to boil. The corned beef was fairly tender by then, so I pushed the pot onto the back of the stove and went out to wait for him. He hadn’t taken Old Bess with him that morning, and it was a bright starlight evening, so I blew out the lamp, and Bess and I sat on the doorstone, waiting.
I must have been more tired than I realized. I didn’t wake up till Old Bess raised her head quickly from my lap. There was the slow clump of a horse’s feet coming up the driveway, and the squeak, now and then, of wagon wheels. When I got up, Nell was coming slowly past the side of the house. Her head was hanging low
and, against the light of the sky, I could see Grandfather’s outline on the wagon seat. His head was low, too, and he was hunched over enough that I thought he was asleep. I called, “Hi, Grandfather!” to wake him, but he didn’t answer. As I ran to the wagon, he raised his head slowly, and said, “Couldn’t find a trace of her no place. Ralphie, your old grampa’s all tuckered out.”
“I’ve got some good supper cooked,” I told him. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten. I’ll take care of Old Nell while you get washed up. There’s hot water on the stove.”
“Gorry, I be a little weary,” was all he said as he climbed down over the wheel and sort of stumbled toward the doorway.
I had just pulled the harness off Nell when Grandfather called me angrily from the house. “What in time and tarnation you been up to whilst I been gone?” he shouted, as I came out of the barn. “What’s all them eggshells a-doing in the swill pail? What did you ruin the meat for?”
“I didn’t ruin the meat,” I said, as I went toward the house, “and those are just shells from the eggs I had for breakfast and dinner. There wasn’t anything else to eat.”
“Plenty pork in the barrel, wa’n’t there? Plenty potatoes in the bin. Don’t be so choosy ’bout your victuals; eggs is eighteen cents a dozen!” Then, without waiting for me to get to the house, he stamped off to his room and slammed the door.
While I’d been sleeping on the doorstone, the corned beef had burned and the burnt taste had cooked all the way through the piece. Hungry as I was, I couldn’t swallow any of it without gagging. The potatoes had boiled to a porridge of mush and skins. I strained out some of the best of it, ate it, drank some milk, and went to bed.
I expected Grandfather to be cross the next morning, but he wasn’t. When he called me, his voice seemed cheerful, and when I went down to the kitchen he had flour scattered all over the back pantry. “Whacking us up a nice mess of biscuits, Ralphie,” he called to me. “Ain’t nothing better of a morning than nice good hot biscuits and new honey. Got a busted comb out to the bee shop. I’ll pop these biscuits into the oven and fetch it whilst you’re at your chores. Come a-running whenst they’re hot.”
I came running when Grandfather hollered, but the biscuits weren’t the best. They were dead brown all over, as hard as rocks, and not over an inch high. “Curious, ain’t it?” Grandfather said, as he pulled them out of the oven. “Must be the tarnal saleratus was damp, or the milk wa’n’t sour enough. Curious! Oh, well, what’s the odds? I got to attend an auction over t’other side of Lisbon Village, but I’ll whack you up a nice mess of biscuits for your dinner afore I go. Now you run on and finish your chores whilst I cook us a kettle of porridge.”
The oatmeal wasn’t burned that morning, but it wasn’t half cooked either, and there were hard lumps in it. I ate a few mouthfuls, drank some milk, and took the cows to pasture. Grandfather was down at the beehives when I came back to harness the horses. I didn’t go down, but slipped into the kitchen through the woodshed. I couldn’t pick stones all forenoon without something more to eat. I boiled four eggs good and hard, put them into my pocket, and took the yella colt to the high field.
The colt balked only once all morning, but most of the time he kept watching me, and he laid his ears back whenever I went near him. I carried a stout stick on the stone rake, and I never went past his heels that I didn’t have it ready to swing at them. I almost hoped he would kick at me, so I’d be able to teach him a lesson he’d remember, but he didn’t lift a foot. After each trip across the field and back, I’d let the old horse rest a few minutes by the orchard wall. From there, I could see Grandfather at the beehives. He hadn’t changed a bit from the way he was doing things before he’d sent me home. As soon as the mailman came, he went to the box, into the house for a couple of minutes, and then drove away.
When the yella colt and I left the high field at noon, we had half of it raked. On the part we’d done since I’d come back, the stones lay in even rows across the ground, like gray stripes on a big piece of brown cloth. The raking hadn’t been very hard work for me, but it had been awfully hard for one horse. For the last hour of the morning, the colt plodded along with his head as low as the check rein would let it hang. At the barn, I took his harness off, wiped the sweat from his belly and legs, and gave him an extra quart of bran. I knew I had him worked down enough that he wouldn’t give me any more trouble, and I was a little ashamed of myself for fear I’d worked so old a horse too hard.
When I went into the kitchen, I found the second batch of biscuits Grandfather had baked on the back of the stove. They were still in the pan, were cold, and no higher than the first ones. The only difference was that these were white where the others had been brown, and the only reason they weren’t as hard was because they were half raw. I tried to eat one, but couldn’t, and there was nothing else in the house except oatmeal, raw potatoes, and salt pork. Grandfather had taken every last egg with him when he drove away. After I’d put potatoes on to boil, I went hunting hens’ nests. Altogether I found nine eggs, boiled them while the potatoes cooked, and hid them in the barn for a time when I’d need them. Then I fried pork, and sat down at the table. While I was eating, I got an idea how to save myself a lot of work in unloading the stones.
When I went back to the high field, I took along a heavy piece of chain with a hook on it, and the ropes and pulleys from the horsefork. After I’d hauled the first drag load of stones close to the orchard wall, I climbed over and fastened one of the pulleys to the trunk of an apple tree. It happened to be an August Sweet tree. The apples were just beginning to turn yellow, and I was still hungry, so I ate one. It was sweet and good. Before I went back to the field, I filled my pockets with apples. The yella colt either smelled them or saw me chewing. He turned his head toward me and nickered softly.
In all my life I’d never been around any horse long without loving him, but I’d almost hated the yella colt right from the first day. If I hadn’t been ashamed of myself for working him too hard, I would probably have remembered his kicking me, and would still have been peeved at him when he nickered. Instead, I thumped one of the apples on a stone to crack it, then held the pieces up on my palm for the old horse to eat. He picked them off carefully with his lips, and stood rubbing his nose against me as he ate them. Then I cracked another apple and fed it to him. As he chewed, I scratched his forehead, and said, “You haven’t had any barns burn, or fields go back to the wilderness, have you? What makes you so crabby? Did your mother spoil you when you were little, or have you got horse malaria? They say people grow alike from living together. Is that what ails you? I’ll bet, if you’d been my colt from the day you were born, you’d never have grown up to be so ornery.”
I fed the colt four apples, and ate two myself, before I went back to the tackle. All the time I was fussing with him, he kept rubbing his nose against me and nickering quietly. Of course, I knew he was only asking for more apple, but it almost sounded as if he were trying to answer me. With the last piece of the fourth apple, I told him, “I’ll be friends if you will, and I won’t tie your ears together again until I know for sure that you don’t want to be friends any more.”
I wasn’t too positive the tackle idea would work. With one pulley fastened to a tree trunk in the orchard, I brought the doubled ropes across the top of the stonewall, hitched the chain to the pulley on the opposite end, and slipped the hook under the far edge of the stone drag. If a horse could pull hard enough, I thought the drag would skid sideways till it was against the wall, then turn up on its side and dump the load. If everything went right, it would save nearly half my work. I’d planned to give the yella colt a little slack on the tote rope, then rush him hard into the pull. For some reason, I didn’t want to do it that way after I’d fed him the apples. I wanted to see if he’d do it for me on a pull that he wasn’t sure he could make. Not very many balky horses will stay with a pull if they think it’s too much for them.
When everything was ready, I hooked the old horse’
s singletree to the tote rope, led him forward till the rope lifted off the ground, and stopped him. Then I looped the reins over his hame knob, went back, and leaned against the wall. I didn’t make a sound until he’d turned his head to see where I was and what I was doing. I wanted him to know I wasn’t near enough to hit him, and that I didn’t have hold of the reins. As his head turned toward me, I clucked—just twice, about two seconds apart. The yella colt stepped forward, leaned a little into the collar, and felt the load with his shoulders. He didn’t slack off, but turned his head again, as if he were trying to tell me it was too heavy. I didn’t move, but clucked twice more. On the second cluck, the knots of muscle began raising along his haunches and thighs. He crouched a little, and his hind hoofs sank deeper into the soft ground. Inch by inch, the heavily loaded stone drag began to skid sideways. The edge met the wall, and slowly, slowly, the far side began to lift from the ground. When I looked back at the yella colt, his neck was bowed, every sinew in his legs was taut as a harp string, and his ears were pointed straight forward. I could hardly wait for the drag to tip clear up and spill its load. My fists were clenched, and my own muscles pulled till they ached. Before the rumble of stones faded, I called, “Whoa,” to him, and ran to his head. I wasn’t even ashamed that tears were running down my face as I told him I’d never fight him again, and that he was always going to be my horse.
24
A Thousand Things to Show Me
UNTIL Saturday evening, I didn’t see much of Grandfather. Every morning, he was up before daylight, drove away by sunup, and didn’t come home until after dark. He never told me where he was going, but, from what he took with him and what he brought home, I knew he was going to Lewiston every day, and to whatever auctions he could find. Before the end of the week, he had taken away every egg the hens laid, all the frying chickens, Clara Belle’s calf, and the new spotted one; and had brought home a big, ugly, Holstein bull and two more cows. He brought the last cow just after I’d finished milking Friday night, but was so tired that he didn’t go to the barn when I put her in the tie-up.