Texas Tomboy

by Lois Lenski

  Back at the windmill, Charlie and Bones picked the feathers off, while Mrs. Carter and Grace began to wash and dress the birds. As soon as a few were ready, Mrs. Carter went inside, got the grease hot on the stove and commenced frying. As more were brought in, she started a second skillet. Mrs. Duffy arrived and took over the dressing of the birds at the windmill, so Grace could come indoors and rest. Charlie made biscuits under Grace’s directions. The McClouds and Reeds came just as Mrs. Carter put the last of the birds in the skillets and began to make gravy. Dan and Moe Carter and the cowboys washed up on the back porch and welcomed the guests.

  The table was neatly spread with linen cloth, knives and forks. Pitchers of sweet milk and water stood at each end, and between them two large platters of fried birds and two large bowls of gravy. Everybody came in and took their places, adults first. The talking and laughter died down, as they all set to work eating birds with their fingers, a hand-to-mouth affair. Soon all had grease from ear to ear. They stopped eating birds only long enough to change off to biscuit and gravy.

  It was Charlie’s idea to pass the biscuits herself. It was she who insisted that Grace sit at the head of the table in the place of honor.

  “How you making out over at your place, Jake?” asked Dan Carter.

  “Fine, fine,” said Jake.

  “Got enough to eat?”

  “Oh, there’s always cottontails and doves when there’s nothin’ else,” laughed Jake.

  The children sat at the second table, Mike and Salvador and the three little Duffy girls, and two McClouds, along with Bones and Charlie. Charlie had had to control her appetite while waiting on table for the adults. Now she fell to, and nothing tasted as good as fried birds, unless it was the biscuits and gravy. The children ate and ate. They ate until they were so full they couldn’t hold another bite.

  Then they ran out in the yard and started a game of Hide-and-Seek. Screaming at the top of their lungs, the children tore madly back and forth around the house. Ringo chased after them, barking as loud as he could.

  While the women washed up, the men moved out on the porch. They talked of the recent disaster, the loss of the cows. Dan Carter turned to Gus Owens and Bud Whitaker. It was an unpleasant duty to tell them their services were no longer needed.

  “This is going to be hard on you, boys,” he said. “I haven’t been able to pay you for some time, and now I’m dead broke. Rich in nothin’ but promises. And I can’t exactly say I need you, with no cows on the place.”

  “You need me, all right,” said Bud. “I want to get all them fences fixed and a few new ones built.”

  “You just can’t get along without me,” said Gus. “I got all them broken windmills to put in order. With no cows to interrupt me, I can git it done maybe.”

  “Well, boys, if that’s how you feel…” Dan Carter could not finish the sentence, he was so touched by their loyalty.

  “When we get going again,” said Moe Carter, “Dan’ll need you bad.”

  “They say the drouths run in seven-year cycles,” said Sam Reed. “It’ll soon be time for a few years of rain.”

  “This gives us a chance to let the pastures lie idle,” said Dan, “so the grass will start growing again.”

  “Why don’t you run a few sheep?”

  It was a radical suggestion, and it came in a low voice from Jake Duffy, hunkered down against a porch post.

  Nobody spoke for a minute. That age-old prejudice against sheep could still be felt in the air, but its power was dying out, as proved by the fact that not a single man sputtered or became angry.

  “I’ve been studying about that,” said Dan Carter.

  “Seems you got to run a few sheep to pay for the upkeep on your cows,” chuckled Moe Carter.

  The men laughed.

  “I never thought cows and sheep could run in the same pasture,” said Sam Reed, “until I tried it.”

  “You running sheep?” cried Dan Carter in astonishment.

  “Well,” said Sam, in an apologetic tone, “they been kinda creepin’ up on me, a few more each year.” He gave some figures on costs and profits that made the men whistle. “The sheep eat the weeds and the cattle the grass, to the benefit of both,” he concluded.

  “Might be worth tryin’,” said Moe Carter.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Dan.

  “I brung you three woollies for a starter,” said Jake Duffy.

  “You, Jake?” cried Dan. How could the Duffys be generous when they had nothing to give?

  “Sure,” said Jake. “Me and my family woulda died or moved out long ago, if it hadn’t been for our little flock.”

  “You never had more’n a dozen, did you?” asked Dan.

  “Ten was the most, but they saved us—the cash wool crop,” said Jake.

  In the silence that followed, the creak and rattle of the windmills could be heard.

  “Listen! The wind’s blowing!” said Dan Carter. “The windmills are starting again.”

  Charlie came running up on the porch, took her father’s hand and cried excitedly: “The windmills are flying! They’re filling the tanks with water. A couple more days like this and the tanks will catch up and overflow.”

  Dan Carter stood up and put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “Too bad there are no cows to drink it, hon,” he said. “My! It’s good to hear the wind. It’s company for me. I sure do miss it in the still season.”

  Mrs. Reed came out and sat down. “The wind gets on my nerves,” she said. “I often think if it wasn’t for the wind, women could be happier on the ranch.”

  “Oh, in twenty more years, you’ll git used to it,” said Gus lightly.

  “Course, sometimes we git a little too much,” drawled Bud. “Why it’ll take your hair off out here on this porch most any old time, in the blowin’ season.”

  “Did you hear about Old Man Drake’s hat?” asked Jake. “He hauls freight out through Grosset Flats, where it’s flat as a pancake and nary a bush a-growin’, so he never has to buy a hat. He holds up his hand and when one goes by, he grabs it. Sometimes it fits and sometimes it don’t, but Old Man Drake—he don’t care. He puts it on and wears it.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Why, one night last spring,” said Bud, “when we was sleepin’ in this fancy bathroom here, I heard one door bangin’ in the wind and I couldn’t tell which one it was, so I got up and shut ’em all. Sounded just like tommy-knockers all over the place. Anything gets on my nerves it’s tommy-knockers. I got to pile some big rocks against all the doors in the house, now that the blowin’ season’s here again.”

  They talked about how terrible the wind was, but they all knew that it was a precious thing, prized almost as much as water.

  Charlie ran out in the yard. “Look, Papa, the sky! Come, Mama. Come, everybody, look. That big cloud is full of rain.”

  They all came out and looked. Papa said, “Hon, I think you’re right.” Then he added softly, “If it comes now, before the middle of September, it will make the winter grasses grow.”

  The clouds looked blacker and were coming closer. The wind pressed hard on the eardrums, and the long heavy stillness was ended.

  “It’s a promise—a promise of rain!” cried Jake Duffy.

  “At last it is coming,” said the others. The Duffys, McClouds and Reeds said hasty farewells and started for their homes.

  Nobody at Triangle Ranch went to bed. They all stood out in the yard and waited. When it came, a gentle shower at first, they held up their faces and let it rain on them.

  Rain, rain, the good, the beautiful healing rain. Oh, how cool it was! Oh, how wet, how clean, how refreshing! Bones and Charlie ran in the rain as if possessed. They kicked up their heels and waved their hands for joy. Ringo barked and pranced—he was happy too. Then the children ran indoors and out again, Charlie dressed in her new bathing suit and Bones in his cotton underwear.

  “I want to roll in it, I want to drink it!” cried Charlie.

  “I want t
o splash in it, I want to soak in it!” sang Bones.

  They ran and leaped and shouted and sang. The rain was a glorious thing that brought happiness to all. Everybody was wild about the rain. A frenzy shook the ranch. The cowboys stood out in the rain and got their clothes soaked to the skin. The horses frisked in the pasture and the calves rushed about, tails high in the air.

  It was late in the evening when the rain began and it kept on all night. In the morning it was still raining. The dust was laid, the air was fresh and cool. When it slackened, nobody could stay indoors. Papa and Uncle Moe and the children took off their shoes and stockings and went out. They did the chores and started for a walk, but the rain came again and sent them back.

  “The drouth is broken! the drouth is broken!” Dan Carter kept saying again and again. He could not get used to the wonder of his words.

  “If we could only have kept the cows,” lamented Uncle Moe.

  “No, it’s better we let them go,” said Dan. “If this drouth has taught me anything, it’s this. West Texas is a semi-arid land, and we must expect periodic dry spells. We must rotate the pastures and give the grass a chance to grow, especially in the dry years. I see my mistake.”

  “Guess we been runnin’ too many cows,” said Moe, “but how the heck can we pay expenses with half as many?”

  “There’s always sheep,” said Dan.

  The men laughed. Life would go on, but with changed goals.

  For four days, the rain soaked the parched earth. A great deal of it ran off the hard surface of the ground and was carried away in creeks and draws. But the dry lakes and dirt tanks filled up with water, which soaked the shores and embankments, making a water supply which would last for a considerable period. It was the heaviest rain in three years.

  The days that followed were exciting. The sun came out, warm and welcome. A gentle breeze blew from the south, and the air was clean and cool.

  “There’s nothin’ better than a rain unless it’s the sunshine after the rain,” said Bud Whitaker.

  “Grundy Draw is up, big,” announced Gus, “and the dry lake is full.”

  So all the family went out to explore. The earth itself was glad and showed it in many ways. Not for years had Triangle Ranch looked so beautiful.

  In Little Pasture, a carpet of rain lilies had sprung up. The earth was covered with the white, star-shaped, fragrant flowers. It seemed a shame to step on them. Around the tank dumps wild flowers, unnoticed before, had opened to display a wealth of brilliant color. There were yellow gaillardias, purple verbenas and blue and purple thistles. Bugs, lizards, worms and all sorts of living creatures emerged from their hiding places to enjoy the softness and wetness of the soil. The shore of the dry lake was covered with millions of frogs, so thick on the ground they looked like flies. The tiny creatures set up an earsplitting chorus, screaming their gratitude for rain.

  In all the pastures, mushrooms sprang up around cow chips, wild moss turned green and one variety showed little pink blossoms. Weeds grew quickly and mesquite grass developed long runners. All the dry grasses showed a brighter green, and fallen grass seed took root and began to grow. The trees came to life again, sprouting tender new leaves which sparkled in the damp air.

  After the rain, nobody talked of moving to town. It was decided that the children would ride their horses back and forth to school. No one spoke of the loss of the cows. The rain had turned this defeat into a new opportunity. It had come in time to make grass grow before the winter freezes. The children’s pet stock was to be the nucleus of another cattle herd, and so the old hope was replaced by a new one. And this was a stronger hope, because every member of the family had a stake in it.

  But, meanwhile, the pastures must rest until the grass grew thick and lush again, strong enough to benefit by a judicious amount of grazing. A hard lesson had been learned—that man himself suffers most when his hand despoils the earth and robs it of its legitimate fruits.

  A new respect for Nature had been learned, a new kinship with sun and water and soil. Every one on the ranch felt closer to the earth, to the trees and the grass, to the animals and all living things. They had learned that while Nature is often beautiful and kind, her laws must be respected, for they are ruthless and inexorable as well. Man must accept these laws and adjust his way of living to them. Then only can he prosper.

  The days that followed the rain were happy ones, for most of the time was spent outdoors. Children and grownups waded and splashed in Grundy Draw—all but Mama, who said it wasn’t ladylike, and Grace, who had to be careful until she was quite strong again. Ringo swam, then dashed out on shore, shaking water in all directions. He chased and hunted, trying to round up pole-cats and cottontails.

  “Rain’s washed out all the water-gaps,” said Dan Carter. “We’ll have to come and mend them.”

  “No hurry about that,” laughed Gus. “There ain’t no cows to git out and run away.”

  “Been too dry to work,” laughed Bud, “and now it’s too wet.”

  Like the family, the cowboys were enjoying their holiday, a new freedom from the usual ranch routine.

  And then everybody had to go indoors again. For the sky darkened with heavy clouds, and more rain came down, a benediction on the thirsty land.

  That evening as they sat on the porch, Bud said, “Might be a good time to do a little plumbin’. Of course, a cowboy don’t like messin’ around with pipes and wrenches, and it ain’t much fun doin’ somethin’ you don’t know a hoot about. But there’s that pretty white bathtub been a-settin’ there all these months…”

  “Oh Bud!” cried Grace, clapping her hands. “Do you think you could?”

  “If that room’s ever gonna be a bathroom,” said Gus, “reckon we might as well git them pipes hooked up.”

  Mrs. Carter disliked the cowboys’ bad grammar as much as ever, but she was willing to ignore it, if she could get the bathroom fixed. “When we have running water in the house,” she said quietly, “it will feel just like living in town.”

  “Plenty water now,” said Bud, “and no stock to drink it up.”

  “Dog-gone-it!” mourned Gus. “S’pose we got to start takin’ baths!”

  “I’d rather go swimming,” said Charlie, who had lived in her bathing suit ever since the rain.

  “We’ll go to Christoval,” said her father, “just as soon as the river goes down a little.”

  “And camp for a week?” asked Charlie.

  “Sure, sugar,” said Papa.

  THE END

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  Lois Lenski was born in Springfield, Ohio, on October 14, 1893. The fourth of five children of a Lutheran minister and a schoolteacher, she was raised in the rural town of Anna, Ohio, west of Springfield, where her father was the pastor. Many of the children’s books she wrote and illustrated take place in small, closely knit communities all over the country that are similar to Lenski’s hometown.

  After graduating from high school in 1911, Lenski moved with her family to Columbus, where her father joined the faculty at Capital University. Because Capital did not yet allow women to enroll, she attended college at Ohio State University. Lenski took courses in education, planning to become a teacher like her mother, but also studied art, and was especially interested in drawing. In 1915, with a bachelor’s degree and a teaching certificate, she decided to pursue a career in art, and moved to New York City to take classes at the Art Students League of New York.

  In an illustration class at the League, Lenski met a muralist named Arthur Covey. She assisted him in painting several murals, and also supported herself by taking on parttime jobs drawing fashion advertisements and lettering greeting cards. In October 1920, she left New York to continue her studies in Italy and London, where the publisher John Lane hired her to illustrate children’s books. When she returned to New York in 1921, she married Covey and became stepmother to his two children, Margaret and Laird.

  Early in her career, Lenski dedicated herself to book illustr
ation. When a publisher suggested that she try writing her own stories, she drew upon the happy memories of her childhood. Her first authored book, Skipping Village (1927), is set in a town that closely resembles Anna at the start of the twentieth century. A Little Girl of 1900 (1928) soon followed, also clearly based on Lenski’s early life in rural Ohio.

  In 1929, Lenski’s son, Stephen, was born, and the family moved to a farmhouse called Greenacres in Harwinton, Connecticut, which they would call home for the next three decades. Lenski continued to illustrate other authors’ books, including the original version of The Little Engine That Could (1930) by Watty Piper, and the popular Betsy-Tacy series (1940–55) by Maud Hart Lovelace. Lenski also wrote the Mr. Small series (1934–62), ten books based on Stephen’s antics as a toddler.

  The house at Greenacres had been built in 1790 and it became another source of inspiration, as Lenski liked to imagine the everyday lives of the people who had previously lived in her home. In Phebe Fairchild, Her Book (1936), for instance, a young girl is sent to live with her father’s family on their farm in northwestern Connecticut in 1830‚ when Greenacres would have been forty years old. For its rich and detailed depiction of family life in rural New England, the book was awarded the Newbery Honor.

  Other historical novels followed—including A-Going to the Westward (1937), set in central Ohio; Bound Girl of Cobble Hill (1938); Ocean-Born Mary (1939); Blueberry Corners (1940); and Puritan Adventure (1944)—all set in New England; and Indian Captive (1941), a carefully researched retelling of the true story of Mary Jemison, a Pennsylvania girl captured by a raiding Native American tribe, for which Lenski won a second Newbery Honor.

  By 1941, Lenski’s stepdaughter, Margaret, had married and started her own family, and Margaret’s son, David, spent a great deal of time with his grandparents at the farm. Lenski’s Davy series of seven picture books (1941–61) was largely based on David’s visits to Connecticut as a child.

  During this period, Lenski experienced bouts of illness, brought on by the harsh Connecticut winters. The family began to spend winters in Florida, where she “saw the real America for the first time,” as she wrote in her autobiography. Noting how few books described the daily life of children in different parts of the country, she began writing the Regional America series, starting with Bayou Suzette (1943). The seventeen books in this series depict children’s lives in every region of the United States, from New England to the Pacific Northwest, in rural and urban settings. Lenski traveled to each region that she would later feature in her books, spending three to six weeks in each locale. She collected stories from children and adults in each area, documenting their dialect, learning about their way of life, and otherwise getting to know the people that would become the characters in her books. The second book in the series, Strawberry Girl, won the Newbery Medal in 1946. The Roundabout America series (1952–66), intended for younger readers, was based on the same theme of daily life all over the country. Lenski was unparalleled in the diversity of American lifestyles that she documented; the combination of research, interviews, and drawings that she utilized; and the empathy and honesty that she employed in recording people’s lives.