The Jumping-Off Place

by Marian Hurd McNeely

  Becky’s quick brain revolved the woman’s words. That was the way this new country had attracted Uncle Jim; that was the way it had affected her. There was a call of the prairie, sure enough. It had drawn her, just as it had drawn Uncle Jim, and the Mister. She wondered if the prairie woman was right — if these green promises would never be realized; if the springtime face that the prairie showed — the life, the sparkle, the color — was only a mask to lure the unwary.

  “I suppose it is lonely in the winter.”

  “It’s just like lookin’ at an empty cupboard,” said Mrs. Kenniker. “There ain’t nothin’ there. You look out your window as soon as snow flies, and you see just miles of nothin’. And that prairie wind keeps agoin’ and agoin’ all the time. You know it’s the wind and nothin’ but the wind, and you say to yourself that you ain’t agoin’ to give in to it. But it keeps at you till it finally gits you.”

  Becky looked her sympathy.

  “I ain’t acarin’ about me,” went on Mrs. Kenniker. “I’m usen to it, now. But Marietta’s stuck out here where she ain’t gittin’ no schoolin’. She ought to be fillin’ her head up, because she ain’t never goin’ to be able to use her arms ’n her legs. And she’s awful smart about books; she reads everything she lays hands on.”

  The child had drawn her chair close to the bookcase, and was looking at the shelves with hungry eyes. “You got a lot of books.” She looked at her mother eagerly. “I’m going to ask her if she knows.” She indicated Becky.

  “Yes, do,” urged Mrs. Kenniker.

  “Have you got a book called ‘Little Women’?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Becky. “I did have it, but it isn’t out here with us. It was worn to rags, and we left it in Platteville when we came away.”

  Marietta looked her disappointment. “Did you read it?”

  “Oh, many times. I loved it when I was your age.”

  “I started it once,” said Marietta. “The doctor’s little girl had it when I was at the hospital in Sioux City, and she let me take it. I read up to the place where Beth falls in the skating pond. Then I got too sick to read, and when I was able to sit up again she had gone away, and taken the book with her. That was two years ago, and I never knew how it turned out. I’ve ast and ast everybody I’ve seen. Can’t you tell me what came after that? I was just crazy about that book!”

  And Becky told her, struggling to remember the details, of Amy’s painting experiences, of Jo’s attempts at writing, of Beth’s final illness, of the coming together of Laurie and Amy, of Jo’s romance. And as she saw the hunger in the child’s eyes, and the eagerness with which she followed the story, she realized what prairie living meant to the people that could never get away from it. It was a prison. There seemed no verge to its boundless sweeps, the sky that bent over it was its only limit, but it was a prison just the same. Her heart overflowed with pity for the mother and the little girl, and she pressed “Polly Oliver’s Problem” and “Greek Heroes” into Marietta’s hands at parting, with an offer to lend her more books later.

  Mrs. Kenniker looked her gratitude. “We got something good on this trip, if it wasn’t a horse,” she said, as she took up her reins and started off.

  BECKY got the food ready for the Linville supper, then sat down on the back step of the house to await her family. The wind had dropped, as it always did about sundown, the air was cooler, and the prairie looked subdued and peaceful. A striped gopher ran out of his hole and approached almost to the girl’s feet. A mourning dove called out its plaintive, haunting note. The sunshine lay like a warm smile on the ground, and the air was still and sweet. It was hard to believe, in the face of that quiet and serenity, that the prairie could ever betray her.

  She heard the wagon coming while it was still far off, and saw Bronx’s tawny figure dashing down the trail to meet it. The children were singing, and Job and Methus were trotting along at a lively pace. It was too bad that the family were returning from that direction, so that her improvements could not burst upon them unannounced, but she would not let them miss anything. “Drive around the house,” she called as they approached.

  “What for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The wagon jolted around the house, the three passengers looking eagerly over the side. One by one they took in the changes, the new flower beds, the new walk, and — wonder of all — the new trees.

  “You have made a day of it!” said Dick.

  “Glad I wasn’t here to be made to carry those stones!” commented Phil.

  But Joan went to the little aspen tree, looked up into its shaking, shining leaves and said nothing.

  They were delighted with the living-room, and did not hesitate to say so. The victrola and the books were welcomed with shrieks of joy, and even the green gingham dress came in for its share of approval. Becky felt conscience-stricken as she saw their pleasure. “I’ve been so busy homesteading that I’ve let the home-making go,” she thought to herself. “I must change that; I’ve got to keep up both ends.”

  “Needn’t think you’re the only one that’s been planning improvements,” said Dick, coming from the barn with his arms full. “Just cast your eye over this.” He laid down on the door step a pile of green-and-white striped canvas, with an occasional rod of metal sticking through.

  “It looks like an awning,” said Becky.

  “Good guess,” replied her brother. “That’s just what it is. Mr. Cleaver has had a new window cut in his land office at Winner, and the window’s too big for the old awning. I offered to buy it to keep that south sun out of our window, but he wouldn’t take anything for it. He said the awning would take the wear and tear off the castor beans; they wouldn’t have to grow so fast to shade you, and that it was no good to him. He put it into my wagon box before I could refuse it. I’ll get it up tomorrow.”

  “Bet it’s the only awning on the Rosebud Reservation,” exulted Phil.

  “Seems like Platteville here tonight,” said Joan. “I wish Uncle Jim could see it.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE ENEMY ATTACKS

  WHEN BECKY had been packing the toys Uncle Jim had advised her not to take too many. “All the books the children own,” he had said. “Joan’s doll, a baseball and bat, and some board games for the long, winter evenings.”

  “But what will they do in the summer time?” she had asked.

  “Don’t worry about that; the prairie itself is a pastime. If I know my kids — and I think I do — they’ll never be bored a minute. When they get time to play they’ll do it without toys. The land itself is a background for any pretend in the world.”

  And Becky learned that he was right. The hard work in which the children had to share made playtime more attractive than it had ever before been to them, and when the weeding, the chores and the dishes were done they never asked: “What shall we do?”

  For there were so many things calling to be done. The creek-bed was a place of eternal fascination. Where it ran swift and deep between narrow banks there were snail shells and queer water-hyacinths and bright-colored pebbles. Where it widened into broad pools there were blunt-nosed suckers and frogs and turtles. A black-and-white-nosed badger lived in a hole near the creek’s edge, and tortoises as big as the bottom of a dish pan lumbered along its banks. On the big stone hill snakes lay about and sunned themselves on the flat rocks. The fact that the children were forbidden to go there alone only added extra fascination to the place. They dared not disobey, but they never passed by without throwing a stone up the hill in the hope of dislodging a yellow-and-brown bull snake or a diamond-backed rattler from his sun porch.

  There was always the prairie dog town to visit, where Bronx lived in perpetual hope of catching one of the scolding little beasts. They invariably waited, while he ran barking madly up to them; then at the last moment disappeared suddenly into their homes, with a last defiant yap. There was not the slightest chance of his getting one, but he never gave up the hope, and each time started after them with his ori
ginal spirit and zest. The excitement of the chase was always at hand, for when there were not prairie dogs there were chipmunks, everywhere, cotton-tails showing their white backs ahead of you, and an occasional jack rabbit that always took to the hills when pursued. His hind legs were so long that a dog had no chance with him in a race, for he ran faster on a slope than on the level. “There goes an ole jack, back-legging himself up the hill,” Joan used to say.

  The long slough grass was a delightful place to wander, for after the meadow lilies and the buffalo peas were gone, wild larkspur and golden coreopsis made splashes of color on its surface. As you walked through it, giant grasshoppers jumped ahead of you in clouds, and now and then a meadow-lark, who waited until you were almost upon her, darted up from her nest on the ground.

  Down on the edge of the creek the children had built a small “homestead” of their own, and it was here that they played oftenest during the hot summer days. Together they had cleared a space on which they placed the tiny farm buildings that they had made out of old boxes. It was a complete claim outfit: with house, barn, shed, several wagons, a hay-cart and, most wonderful of all, a windmill that went round and round in the breeze that never failed. Their little farm was the delight of their hearts, and there was no limit to the games that could be played, with it as a background. The doll and the baseball were untouched, and Becky, while she bemoaned the clay on the overalls, rejoiced at the sunburn on the faces and the flesh that grew on the thin legs.

  The young Linvilles had helped Becky “get the wash out” in the early morning, and had just started to play in their little settlement when the Wubber children arrived.

  The three oldest had walked over the burning prairie trail, wheeling the baby, Twinkle, in a home-made wagon.

  “Pa and Ma is hoin’ the corn,” announced Autumn, joyfully. “She said we could stay till we fit.”

  They lifted Twinkle out of the conveyance, and set her upon the ground. A single garment of blue calico hung about the baby limply.

  “Ain’t you afraid of ants on her?” inquired Joan maternally.

  “She’s used to bites,” said Crystal. “They’s flies on her all the time.”

  The baby sat stolidly staring at them with her round blue eyes. There were tangles in her duck-tails of sunburned hair and traces of molasses about her mouth, but to Joan, hungry for the Platteville babies to mother, she was a welcome visitor. She cuddled her up beside her while they all played “claim.” Presently Autumn offered to show Phil a place where ground cherries grew, and the two wandered off over the prairie together. Then “claim” became “house,” and Joan assumed maternal charge of a family of three.

  “I’ll tell you what, le’s wash the baby,” she suggested.

  “What for? We ain’t goin’ no wheres.”

  “’Cause she’s so dirty; she’d be real nicelooking if she had that crust off of her.”

  “I’m afraid she’d take cold.”

  “Oh, no she won’t. It’s too hot to take cold. We’ll wash her right in the crick; the water’s warm. I’ll wash all of you.”

  “No, you won’t,” said the elder sister with decision. “Ma says the dust sticks to us worse if we get too clean. But we can wash Twinkle, if you want to; she won’t care.”

  “I’m going to dress her up, too,” announced Joan. “I don’t think she ought to go around so skin-out, even on the prairie.”

  “Have youse got more clothes in the house?” inquired Crystal, with awe.

  “We got some.”

  “Gee, you must be awful rich!”

  “We ain’t rich, but we ain’t starving “But you got carpets in your house.”

  “Those old rugs!” said Joan with scorn. “We had nicer things in Platteville. We just brought our for-common out here. And if you think our house is nice you ought to see some of the others back home.”

  “What did they have?”

  “Oh, carpets that your feet sink into. And grand pianos and chandeliers. An’ fountains in the yard and silver name plates on the door.”

  Crystal sighed. “Ain’t it queer how some folks have things and some folks ain’t got any! I should think God’d divide ’em up.”

  “I asked Uncle Jim about that, once. He said that God proba’ly intended folks to do that, but that there wasn’t many of them that had ever learned division. They got as far as multiplication, and then stopped. Now I’ll go in and get the things for Twinkle, and don’t you girls unpin her till I come back. She’s my child, we’re per-tending, and I want the fun of taking off her dress. Pertend I was afraid to trust you with her.”

  “The Wubbers are here,” she called to Becky as she went in the front door. Becky was in the kitchen, and the partition between the rooms hid Joan’s half-guilty face.

  “That’s nice; I’m glad you have some one to play with. Don’t hold that baby on your lap; she’s too dirty.”

  “No, I won’t. May I have a little soap to wash her face?”

  “Of course. But don’t get it into her eyes.”

  Joan hurried out of the door, and Becky, sprinkling clothes at the kitchen table, smiled a little grimly to herself. “Prairie dirt is a little too much for even Joan,” she thought. “I could never have let her play with those Wubbers six months ago, but I’m getting more charitable since I’m a homesteader myself. Easy enough to keep clean when you can get water by turning a faucet; but well to pail, pail to kettle, and kettle to wash tub is another story. I don’t wonder Mrs. Wubber lies back on the job. It’s Fate that her children should all be blondes.”

  Out under the sun the adopted mother unpinned Twinkle from her one garment, found a shallow place in the creek, and set the baby in the water. Flattered at being the center of attention, she graciously permitted herself to be lathered and scrubbed. Beneath the veneer of dirt appeared fair, rosy cheeks and a clean skin.

  “I’m going to do her hair,” said Joan, enthusiastic over her charge’s changed appearance. “Shut your eyes, baby dear, and let Joan put the nice soap on your head.”

  But Twinkle had had enough of beauty parlors. The unaccustomed cleanliness disturbed her, and she wriggled her fat body away from the soap, and began to cry. Joan, fearful that the noise would bring Becky to the scene of action, was forced to stop.

  “Well, it’s better than it was, anyway. I got some of the dirt out; you can tell that by the black streams running down her. I’ll just have to leave the rest of the soap in; she’ll get it in her eyes if I rinse her.”

  She lifted the soft, baby flesh out of the water and seated Twinkle on the hot earth above the creek bed.

  “Look out,” warned Venus; “she might fall headwards back.”

  And that is just what Twinkle did. The edge of the bank crumbled with her weight, and she went down, head first. Joan and Crystal caught her, but not until her wet, soapy head had rolled through the wet, muddy earth.

  “Good thing the soap’s in it,” said Joan. “That’ll kinda eat up the dirt. Come, Twinkle, Joan’ll put you up on the nice rock. Wish we had a towel, but the sun’s so hot it’ll dry her quick.”

  The tender flesh had already begun to turn red in the sunshine. Joan pulled over the baby legs a pair of her own black sateen bloomers, put on a pair of Indian moccasins, and added the blouse of a khaki middy suit. The child looked like a picture from Hans Brinker. The wet hair began to dry, leaving a halo of stiff little wisps.

  “I ain’t just satisfied with her hair,” admitted Joan. “Maybe we could wash it again.”

  “No, she’ll never stand for that.”

  “Then I’m going to give her a dry shampoo to make it stand out fluffy. I’ll get some powder to rub on it if Becky lets me.”

  “Twinkle might blow up.”

  “Hoh, it’s talcum powder, not gun. Maybe I’d better not ask about the powder; Becky might say no. Starch’ll do just as well.”

  The victim received a liberal application of starch, which was thoroughly rubbed into her sticky head. Somehow it didn’t seem to make
her fluffy. But the hair was still wet; when it dried, the powder shampoo might be more effectual.

  “Le’s take her over an’ show your mother,” suggested Joan. “I’ll go part way with you. It’ll proba’ly ‘set’ on the way.”

  “We don’t haf to go yet,” objected Crystal. “We ain’t fit.”

  Joan was not anxious to have Becky or Dick see the result of her morning’s work. “Well, we might, any time,” she predicted. “You’d better go before we do. I’ll pull her across the draw for you. Don’t she look cute?”

  “She’s awful red.”

  The baby’s wrists and neck did look scarlet, much redder than she had been when she arrived; and when the children touched her she cringed away from them. She even cried a little when the wagon jolted.

  SPENT WITH HEAT AND PAIN AND THIRST AND LONELINESS

  “She acts sick,” said Crystal. “Maybe it’s the washing; she ain’t used to so much rubbing.”

  “I guess I’d better be going back,” said Joan, as they reached the draw. “I guess maybe your mother’s too busy hoeing to want me around.”

  “You better come on an’ tell ma that it was you that did it,” suggested Crystal.

  But the prospect did not sound inviting. “Some other day,” said Joan, and she turned and went back over the prairie, leaving the explanation to the Wubbers.

  “Where are your friends?” asked Dick, as she passed him in the potato field.

  “They hatto go,” answered Joan.

  THE potatoes were doing well. Their leaves were sturdy and green, and they had begun to bud. Back of the plot in which he was working the corn was high enough to show a ripple when the wind blew through it. The tomatoes were lusty, the cucumbers had sent out their first curly tendrils, and the melons had begun to vine. When Dick was called in to dinner he carried a surprise with him. “Guess what I’ve got!” he said to Becky, at the kitchen door.

  “Another snake?”