Almanzo took the lines and at his command, Barnum trotted.
“Well, I’ll be darned! how did you do it?” he asked then. “I’ve been trying ever since I’ve had him, to get him to walk. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Laura said. “He is really a gentle horse.”
All the rest of that afternoon, Barnum walked or trotted when told to do so, and Almanzo bragged, “He’ll be gentle as a lamb after this.”
He was mistaken. On Friday night Barnum again refused to stand, and when finally Laura landed in the buggy, Almanzo reminded her that they would leave singing school at recess. But, though Barnum had not been tied so long as before, he was in such a temper that Laura drove him around and around the church until they barely got away as singing school was over.
Laura loved singing school. It began with singing scales to limber up the voices. Then Mr. Clewett taught them a simple exercise, the first in the book. He gave them the pitch with his tuning fork again and again, until all their voices chimed with it. Then they sang.
“Gaily now our boat is sailing,
O’er the blue and sparkling wave.”
When they could sing this very well, they learned another. This was the song of the grass.
“All around the open door,
—Smiling on the rich and poor,
Here I come! Here I come!
Creeping everywhere.”
Then they sang rounds.
“Three blind mice, see how they run,
they all ran after the farmer’s wife
she cut off their tails with a carving knife
three blind mice see how they run
they all ran after”
The basses chased the tenors that chased the altos that chased the sopranos around and around until they were all lost and exhausted from laughing. It was such fun! Laura could last longer than anyone because Pa had taught her and Carrie and Grace to sing “Three Blind Mice” long ago.
Barnum grew so gentle that Laura and Almanzo could stay till the evening’s end, and at recess he and the other young men took striped paper bags of candy from their coat pockets and passed them around to the girls. There were pink-and-white striped peppermint balls, and sticks of lemon candy and peppermint candy and horehound candy. And on the way home Laura sang.
Oh childhood’s joys are very great,
A-swingin’ on his mother’s gate,
A-eatin’ candy till his mouth
Is all stuck up from north to south,
But though I have to mind the rule,
I’d rather go to singing school!”
“That’s why I thought you’d like to go,” Almanzo said. “You’re always singing.”
Each singing school night the class sang farther and farther over in the book. On the last night they sang the anthem at the very end; page one hundred forty-four. “The Heavens Declare the Glory.”
Then singing school was ended. There would be no more such gay evenings.
Barnum no longer reared and plunged. He started quickly, with a little jump, into a smooth trot. The air was chilled with the breath of coming winter. The stars were brilliant and hung low in the frosty air. Looking at them, Laura sang the anthem again.
“The heavens declare the glory of God and
The Firmament showeth His handiwork.
Day unto day uttereth speech, and
Night unto night showeth knowledge.
There is no speech nor language
Where their voice is not heard.”
There was no sound but the soft clip-clop of Barnum’s feet as he walked along the grassy prairie road.
“Sing the starlight song,” Almanzo asked, and Laura sang again, softly,
In the starlight, in the starlight,
At the daylight’s dewy close,
When the nightingale is singing
His last love song to the rose;
In the calm clear night of summer
When the breezes softly play,
From the glitter of our dwelling
We will softly steal away.
Where the silv’ry waters murmur
By the margin of the sea,
In the starlight, in the starlight,
We will wander gay and free.”
Again silence came and was unbroken while Barnum of his own accord turned north toward the house. Then Laura said, “I’ve sung for you, now I’ll give you a penny for your thoughts.”
“I was wondering…” Almanzo paused. Then he picked up Laura’s hand that shone white in the starlight, and his sun-browned hand closed gently over it. He had never done that before. “Your hand is so small,” he said. Another pause. Then quickly, “I was wondering if you would like an engagement ring.”
“That would depend on who offered it to me,” Laura told him.
“If I should?” Almanzo asked.
“Then it would depend on the ring,” Laura answered and drew her hand away.
It was later than usual when Almanzo came next Sunday.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, when Laura was settled in the buggy and they were driving away.
“We can take a shorter drive,” Laura answered.
“But we want to go to Lake Henry. This is about our last chance for wild grapes, now they are frosted,” Almanzo told her.
It was a sunny afternoon, warm for the time of year. On either side of the narrow road between the twin lakes, ripened wild grapes were hanging from their vines in the trees. Almanzo drove slowly, and reaching from the buggy he and Laura picked the clusters of grapes. They ate of their tangy sweetness as they watched the water rippling in the sunshine and heard the little waves lapping on the shore.
As they drove home the sun went down in a flaming western sky. Twilight settled over the prairie, and the evening wind blew softly through the buggy.
Then driving with one hand, with the other Almanzo lifted Laura’s, and she felt something cool slip over her first finger while he reminded her, “You said it would depend on the ring. How do you like this one?”
Laura held her hand up to the first light of the new moon. The gold of the ring and its flat oval set shone in the faint moon radiance. Three small stones set in the golden oval glimmered.
“The set is a garnet, with a pearl on each side,” Almanzo told her.
“It is a beautiful ring,” Laura said. “I think… I would like to have it.”
“Then leave it on. It is yours and next summer I will build a little house in the grove on the tree claim. It will have to be a little house. Do you mind?”
“I have always lived in little houses. I like them,” Laura answered.
They had almost reached home. Lamplight shone from its windows and Pa was playing the fiddle. Laura knew the song, it was one that he often sang to Ma. His voice rose with its music and he sang,
“A beautiful castle I’ve built for thee
In dreamland far away,
And there, gentle darling, come dwell with me,
Where love alone has sway.
Oh, sweet will be our blisses,
Oh, rare will be our blisses!
We’ll tell our time by the lovers’ chime
That strikes the hour with kisses.”
Barnum was quiet while Laura and Almanzo stood beside the buggy when Pa’s song was finished. Then Laura held up her face in the faint moonlight. “You may kiss me good night,” she said, and after their first kiss she went into the house while Almanzo drove away.
Pa laid down his fiddle when Laura came in. He looked at her hand where the ring sparkled in the lamplight.
“I see it is settled,” he said. “Almanzo was talking to me yesterday and I guess it’s all right.”
“If only you are sure, Laura,” Ma said gently. “Sometimes I think it is the horses you care for, more than their master.”
“I couldn’t have one without the other,” Laura answered shakily.
Then Ma smiled at her, Pa cleared his throat gruffly and Laura knew they
understood what she was too shy to say.
Chapter 24
Almanzo Goes Away
Even at home Laura felt that her ring was conspicuous. Its smooth clasp was strange on her first finger, and the garnet and pearls were constantly catching the light. Several times on the way to school next morning she almost took it off and tied it into her handkerchief for safekeeping. But, after all, she was engaged; that could not always be a secret.
She did not mind being almost late to school that morning. There was barely time to slide into her seat with Ida before Mr. Owen called the room to order, and quickly she opened a book so that it hid her left hand. But just as she was beginning to study, a glitter caught her eye.
Ida’s left hand was resting on the desk where Laura would be sure to see the broad circlet of gold shining on the first finger.
Laura looked from the ring to Ida’s laughing, blushing face and shy eyes, and then she broke a school rule. She whispered, “Elmer?” Ida blushed even rosier, and nodded. Then under the edge of the desk, Laura showed Ida her own left hand.
Mary Power and Florence and Minnie could hardly wait until recess to pounce upon them and admire their rings. “But I’m sorry you have them,” Mary Power said, “for I suppose both of you will be quitting school now.”
“Not me,” Ida denied. “I am going to school this winter, anyway.”
“So am I,” said Laura. “I want to get a certificate again in the spring.”
“Will you teach school next summer?” Florence asked.
“If I can get a school,” Laura replied.
“I can get the school in our district if I can get a certificate,” Florence told them, “but I’m afraid of teachers’ examinations.”
“Oh, you will pass,” Laura encouraged her. “There’s nothing much to it, if only you don’t get confused and forget what you know.”
“Well, I’m not engaged, nor do I want to teach,” said Mary Power. “How about you, Ida? Are you going to teach for a while?”
Ida laughed, “No, indeed! I never did want to teach. I’d rather keep house. Why do you suppose I got this ring?”
They all laughed with her, and Minnie asked, “Well, why did you get yours, Laura? Don’t you want to keep house?”
“Oh, yes,” Laura answered. “But Almanzo has to build it first.” Then the big new bell clanged in the cupola, and recess was over.
There was no singing school now, so Laura did not expect to see Almanzo until the next Sunday. She was surprised when Pa asked her, Wednesday night, whether she had seen Almanzo.
“I saw him at the blacksmith shop,” Pa told her. “He said he’d see you after school if he could, and if not, to tell you he didn’t have time. It seems he and Royal are leaving next Sunday for Minnesota. Something’s come up, and Royal’s got to go sooner than he expected.” Laura was shocked. She had known that Almanzo and his brother planned to spend the winter with their folks in Minnesota, but he had not intended to go so soon. It was shocking that the whole pattern of the days could be broken so suddenly. There would be no more Sunday drives. “It may be best,” she said. “They will be sure to reach Minnesota before snow falls.”
“Yes, they’ll likely have good weather for the trip,” Pa agreed. “I told him I’d keep Lady while they’re gone. He’s going to leave the buggy here, and he said you are to drive Lady as much as you please, Laura.”
“Oh, Laura! will you take me driving?” Carrie asked, and Grace cried, “Me, too, Laura! Me, too?”
Laura promised that she would, but the rest of that week seemed oddly empty. She had not realized before how often, during a week, she had looked forward to the Sunday drives.
Early next Sunday morning, Almanzo and his brother Royal came. Royal was driving his own team, hitched to his peddler’s cart. Almanzo drove Lady, hitched single to his shining, lazy-back buggy. Pa came out of the stable to meet them, and Almanzo drove the buggy under the hay-covered shed. There he unhitched Lady, then led her into the stable.
Afterward, leaving Pa and Royal talking, he came to the kitchen door. He hadn’t time to stop, he told Ma, but he would like to see Laura for a moment.
Ma sent him into the sitting room, and as Laura turned from plumping up the cushions on the window seat, the ring on her hand sparkled in the morning light.
Almanzo smiled. “Your new ring is becoming to your hand,” he said.
Laura turned her hand in the sunshine. The gold of the ring gleamed, the garnet glowed richly in the center of the flat, oval set, and on either side of it the pearl shimmered lustrously.
“It is beautiful, this ring,” she said.
“I would say the hand,” Almanzo replied. “I suppose your father told you that Royal and I are going home sooner than we expected. Royal decided to drive through Iowa, so we are starting now. I brought Lady and the buggy over, for you to use whenever you please.”
“Where is Prince?” Laura asked.
“One of my neighbors is keeping Prince, and Lady’s colt, and Cap is keeping Barnum and Skip. I’ll need all four of them in the spring.” A shrill whistle sounded from outside, “Royal is calling, so kiss me good-by and I’ll go,” Almanzo finished.
They kissed quickly, then Laura went with him to the door and watched while he and Royal drove away. She felt left behind and unhappy. Then at her elbow Carrie asked, “Are you going to be lonesome?” so soberly that Laura smiled.
“No, I’m not going to be lonesome,” she answered stoutly. “After dinner we will hitch up Lady and go for a drive.”
Pa came in and went to the stove. “It’s getting so a fire feels good,” he said. “Caroline, what would you think of staying here all winter, instead of going to town? I’ve been figuring. I believe I can rent the building in town this winter, and if I can, I can tar-paper and side this house. Maybe even paint it.”
“That would be a gain, Charles,” Ma said at once.
“Another thing,” Pa continued. “We have so much stock now, it would be a big job to move all the hay and fodder. With this house sided outside, and good thick building paper inside, we’d be snug here. We can put up the coal heater in the sitting room and get our winter’s supply of coal. There’s a cellarful of vegetables from the garden, pumpkins and squashes from the field. Even if the winter’s so bad I can’t get to town often, we won’t need to worry about being hungry or cold.”
“This is true,” said Ma. “But, Charles, the girls must go to school, and it’s too far for them to walk in the wintertime. A blizzard might come up.”
“I will drive them there and back,” Pa promised. “It’s only a mile, and it will be a quick trip with the bobsled and no load.”
“Very well,” Ma consented. “If you rent the building in town, and want to stay here, I am satisfied to do so. I will be glad not to move.”
So before snow fell, all was snug on the homestead claim. In its new siding the little house was really a house, no longer a claim shanty. Inside, thick gray building paper covered all the pine-board walls. They had grown so brown with time, that the lighter paper brightened the rooms, and the freshly starched white muslin curtains gave them a crisp look.
When the first heavy snows came, Pa put the wagon box on the bobsled runners, and half-filled it with hay. Then on school days, Laura and Carrie, with Grace snuggled between them, sat on the blanket-covered hay, with other blankets tucked over and around them, while Pa drove them to the schoolhouse in the morning and brought them home at night to the warmly welcoming house.
Every afternoon on his way to the school, he stopped at the post office, and once or twice a week there was a letter for Laura, from Almanzo. He had reached his father’s home in Minnesota; he would come back in the spring.
Chapter 25
The Night before Christmas
On Christmas Eve again, there was a Christmas tree at the church in town. In good time, the Christmas box had gone to Mary, and the house was full of Christmas secrets as the girls hid from each other to wrap the presents for the
Christmas tree. But at ten o’clock that morning, snow began to fall.
Still it seemed that it might be possible to go to the Christmas tree. All the afternoon Grace watched from the window, and once or twice the wind moderated. By suppertime, however, it was howling at the eaves, and the air was thick with flying snow.
“It’s too dangerous to risk it,” Pa said. It was a straight wind, blowing steadily, but you never could tell; it might turn into a blizzard while the people were in the church.
No plans had been made for Christmas Eve at home, so everyone had much to do. In the kitchen Laura was popping corn in the iron kettle set into a hole of the stove top from which she had removed the stove lid. She put a handful of salt into the kettle; when it was hot she put in a handful of popcorn. With a long-handled spoon she stirred it, while with the other hand she held the kettle’s cover to keep the corn from flying out as it popped. When it stopped popping she dropped in another handful of corn and kept on stirring, but now she need not hold the cover, for the popped white kernels stayed on top and kept the popping kernels from jumping out of the kettle.
Ma was boiling molasses in a pan. When Laura’s kettle was full of popped corn, Ma dipped some into a large pan, poured a thin trickle of the boiling molasses over it, and then buttering her hands, she deftly squeezed handfuls of it into popcorn balls. Laura kept popping corn and Ma made it into balls until the large dishpan was heaped with their sweet crispness.
In the sitting room Carrie and Grace made little bags of pink mosquito netting, left over last summer from the screen door. They filled the bags with Christmas candy that Pa had brought from town that week.
“It’s lucky I thought we’d want more candy than we’d likely get at the Christmas tree,” Pa took credit to himself.
These Happy Golden Years Page 15