Caddie Woodlawn (17 page)

Caddie went up and knocked, and Mrs. Hyman let them in.

“Yes, Katie's been very poorly ever since the scare,” said her mother. “But do come in. I think the sight of you will do her good.”

Katie sat up in bed, a little knitted shawl about her shoulders and pillows piled behind her. Her face was so pale, her eyes so blue, her hair so golden—like a little girl in a dream or a fairy tale. On the rough wall beside her was pinned the finest Valentine from Dunnville store. Tom looked at it and suddenly lost his voice.

“I'm sorry you've been poorly,” said Caddie, coming up to the bed.

Katie reached out her little thin hand and caught Caddie's sturdy one. “Oh, Caddie,” she said, “I want to feel if you are real. You look so real! I'm glad you

came. I've had such nightmares since the scare. In them people are always hunting for you, and I'm the only one who knows that you are away being scalped by the Indians, and I can't tell because I've crossed my heart. Oh, you can't know how awful it is!”

Caddie sat down on the edge of the bed, awkwardly holding the little hand in hers. “I shouldn't have made you cross your heart,” she said. “It was real unkind of me, Katie. But I didn't mean it that way. You see, just then, I was more scared of the white folks than the Indians. Katie, honestly, you mustn't be afraid of the Indians. Most of them are just as good and friendly as can be. Let me tell you about John and what he gave me to keep for him before he went away.”

Tom drew up a chair and together they told her
about John's departure and the scalp belt show, and how Mrs. Hankinson had gone away, and what Caddie had done with her silver dollar. Encouraged by the little shadowy smiles about her lips, they piled on all the lively details they could remember or invent, and, before they were through, Katie was laughing and there was a little pinkness in each pale cheek.

“Oh, I should have liked to see them with their bright red handkerchiefs!” she said. “I—I
almost
wish I could have seen the scalp belt show.”

“Well,” said Tom, “it's here,” and he tapped the brown paper parcel which lay on his knee.

“Here?” echoed Katie, looking a little startled.

“Yes,” said Tom. “Caddie thought you'd be afraid to look at it. But I knew you wouldn't want to be the only one who hadn't seen it.”

“She doesn't want to see it, Tom. It's only a bunch of old Indian scalps,” said Caddie, fearing that all their cheerful talk would have been wasted if Katie were obliged to see the gruesome object. But Katie sat up straighter in her pillows. There was a kind of resolute bravery about her that no one had ever noticed there before.

“I
do
want to see it—very much.”

Tom unwrapped the brown paper and held up the belt. “Isn't that a beauty?” he demanded.

Katie gasped. “Yes,” she said. “Yes—it—is—a beauty.” She even touched one of the tails of hair, and when she had, she looked quite proud and pleased.

“Do wrap it up now, Tom,” said Caddie, “and here are some cookies Mother sent which you'll find much nicer than scalps. I hope you'll be well soon, and now we must go.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Katie. “I think I
will
be well soon.” And, indeed, she did look better already.

As they rose to go Tom's eye rested again on the “rose is red” Valentine. Katie looked at it, too. Then their eyes met in some embarrassment.

“Tom,” said Katie, “I guessed who sent it.”

Tom laughed. “You did? That was pretty smart of you, Katie.”

All the way home Tom whistled and sang: “Fol de rol-lol, fol de rol-lol, fol de rol-lol, de rol lido!”

Now the air began to be warm and the sun to shine. One day, when the three adventurers were in the woods hunting for arbutus to take to Teacher, they heard a roaring on the river.

“The ice is going out,” said Tom. “Let's go and see.” They ran to the river bank and stood together, watching. They could not hear each other speak above the sound of grinding, crashing ice. By evening the ice had piled itself in places as high as the tavern at Dunnville. The tavern on the other side of the river was cut off from the town entirely. In summer a ferry plied between the two banks, in winter folks crossed on the ice, but now the two banks were separated by
a great jam of ice that groaned and creaked and made its slow way down to larger rivers.

“It won't be long now until the Little Steamer comes again,” said Mrs. Woodlawn with a smile. “Of course we shouldn't complain now that they bring some of our mail in on sledges, but, just the same, I like it better to be in touch with Boston and the rest of the world. Children, what should you think of having your cousin Annabelle from Boston here to visit you this summer? Her parents have been talking of letting her make the journey for some time. She could go by the steam cars to St. Louis, visit Uncle Edmunds folks, and come on here by boat. I think I'll sit down and write them this very day.”

“What's she like, Mother?”

“Oh, I haven't seen her for years, of course, but she was a darling little girl and very accomplished. She's not so old as Clara—nearer Caddie's age, I believe, but, well—she's been reared as a lady, and will be nicely finished, I am sure.”

“Oh! That kind of girl!” said Tom.

Caddie's heart, which had undergone a certain disagreeable chill at Mother's, “but, well—
she's
been reared as a lady,” warmed pleasantly again at the deep scorn in Tom's voice. Tom was more than a brother, he was a friend.

However, the whole family looked with interest and a sense of expectation at the letter which Mother wrote and directed to Miss Annabelle Grey of Boston. It stood upon a shelf in the parlor for many days, waiting for the Little Steamer to come and take it.

Before the ice went out, Father and Robert Ireton had gone through the woods adjoining the farm and tapped the sugar maple trees. This was a delightful business to Tom, Caddie, and Warren, who made the rounds of the sap buckets in the afternoons after school, and felt that they were chiefly responsible for the maple syrup that was so good on Mrs. Conroy's hot cakes.

And now vacation loomed delightfully ahead. The winter term of school was almost over and Miss Parker would go and teach the children of Durand their A B Cs and multiplication tables for three months. The last day of school was to be a “speaking” day with songs by the school and recitations by some of the pupils. Caddie and Warren both had pieces. Caddie's was a very noble one beginning:

“A traveller on a dusty road

Strewed acorns on the lea,

And one took root and sprouted up

And grew into a tree.”

The poem went on to say that, as carelessly tossed acorns may grow into great oaks, so may little words and deeds of kindness grow into great and beautiful things. Under Mother's coaching Caddie had practiced it with gestures and a fine Boston accent, and it was quite perfect.

But everyone felt a little doubtful of Warren. His piece was so short that it seemed impossible that he should be able to forget it or mix it up in any way. But Warren was not gifted as a public speaker. He said it over and over as he went about the house.

“If at first you don't succeed,

Try, try again!

That's easy, isn't it? You don't think I'll forget it, do you?”

“Of course not, Warren,” said Caddie. “Just don't get stage fright, that's all.”

“What's stage fright?” asked Warren in a worried tone.

“Oh, just being scared when you have to get up and see so many eyes looking at you.”

“You won't have time to get scared with a piece as short as that,” laughed Tom. Then he struck a dramatic attitude and declaimed:

“If at first you don't fricassee,

Fry, fry a hen!”

This struck Warren as tremendously funny, and he went about the house giving Tom's version of the piece as often as he gave the correct one.

On the morning of the “speaking” day the sky was full of black clouds. There was a heavy stillness in the air with an occasional drop of rain and a rumbling of distant thunder.

“There's going to be a dreadful storm,” said Mrs. Woodlawn. “I can feel it in the air. I planned to take Minnie and baby Joe to the speaking, but I don't dare risk it on such a day. It looks black enough for a tornado or a cloudburst. I really believe that you children had all better stay at home where you'll be safe.”

“Stay at home from the speaking?” cried Caddie in dismay, thinking of her best white apron so nicely starched, and of the gestures and the Boston accent. Were they all to be wasted?

“Why, Ma—I mean Mother, we've gone to school in stormy weather all winter,” said Tom. “It won't hurt us.”

“I think Mother's right. We better stay at home,” said Warren, who was beginning to look a little pale around the gills. Ever since he had arisen that morning the air about him had been filled with muttered “try,
try again”s, and sometimes with “fry, fry a hen's which slipped out inadvertently.

“I'm
going,” said Hetty stoutly.

“Well, well, go along,” said Mrs. Woodlawn, “but I'll keep the little ones at home.”

So away the four Woodlawns trudged to school.

The schoolroom was decorated with evergreen branches and a loop of faded bunting, and the children were conspicuously starched and clean. Miss Parker herself had on a shiny black silk apron instead of the usual one of speckled calico. A few of the Dunnville parents sat on benches at the front of the room, looking self-conscious and important. Caddie's heart beat a little faster, but not so much for herself as for Warren, whose face wore a look of dark foreboding. Could one possibly forget a piece so short as his? wondered Caddie uncomfortably. Then she heard Miss Parker calling her name, and she got up without any hesitation, mounted the platform, and made the neat curtsy Mother had taught her.

“A traveller on a dusty road

Strewed acorns on the lea,

And one took root . . .”

It went off perfectly, gestures, Boston accent and everything.

She dropped another curtsy and returned to her seat, feeling that, perhaps for the first time in her life, she had acquitted herself exactly as an “accomplished” young lady would have done. Too bad that Mother had not been there to see! While she was still glowing with this novel achievement, she heard Miss Parker announce:

“And now Master Warren Woodlawn will be heard in a recitation. Come right up here in front, Warren.”

For a moment Warren clung desperately to the bench on which he sat. Then with a rush he mounted the platform and began to recite in a very loud voice.

“If at first you don't fricassee,

Fry, fry a hen!”