Caddie Woodlawn (8 page)

The snow continued to fall and drifted high and deep. It was always warm indoors, and there was always turkey to eat. But sometimes out-of-doors it was too cold and the drifts too high for the children to walk to school. Then Robert Ireton hitched old Betsy to the sledge and drove them there. Their feet resting on heated stones, and wrapped in mufflers to the tips of their noses, the children huddled together to keep warm. The bells on Betsy's harness jingled, the runners creaked and groaned in the dry snow, and sometimes Robert Ireton sang:

 

“Say, Ike, did ye ever go into an Irishman's shanty?

Sure, it's there where the whiskey is plenty.

With his pipe in his gob, is Paddy so gay,

No king in his palace so happy as he.

There's a three-legged stool and a table to match,

And the door of the shanty it hooks with a latch.

There's a pig in the sty and a cow in the stable,

And, sure, they are fed of the scraps from the table.

They'd die if confined, but they roam at their 'ase

And come into the shanty wheniver they pl'ase.

But say, Ike, Paddy's the boy!”

“Say, Ike, Paddy's the boy!” echoed the young Woodlawns at the tops of their voices, above the jingling of the bells and the creaking of the runners. Their breath rose in a steamy cloud from their singing mouths. The people in the village heard them coming, and said:

“It's them Woodlawn children, bless their souls!”

After the first tumultuous day, school had settled into a quiet routine. Obediah was often sulky, but he was no longer rebellious. Teacher had taught him his lesson, and Ashur took his cue from Obediah. For Caddie, the chief delight of school was the Saturday morning spelling bee. On that day there was a review of the week's work, and, after that, they could choose
sides for a spelldown. Each week the two best spellers, who stood out from the rest, were allowed to choose their teams for the next week. Caddie and Tom both had the sportsman's love of any test of skill. But Caddie was the better speller. She pored over the tattered spelling book with excited concentration, and she was usually the first to toss back her curls and fling up her hand to let Teacher know that she was ready to spell. She and Jane Flusher or Jane's brother Sam were usually the last ones standing at the end of the match, and then it was a fierce struggle to see which of them would go down first. The teacher had to turn to the back of the speller to “piccalilli” or “soliloquize” or “titillate,” before either Caddie or the Flushers would be “spelled down” and have to take a seat in laughing confusion and defeat. As much rivalry entered into choosing the teams as in the actual spelldowns. The best spellers were promptly snapped up, and the worst ones left simmering in their shame until the end of the choosing.

Saturday afternoons were free. Sometimes the young Woodlawns went coasting or sleigh riding. Sometimes they all went with Tom to set traps for muskrats on the ice. Sometimes, and that was best of all, Father took Tom and Caddie and Warren with him to the mill at Eau Galle, and let them skate on
the millpond. The ice froze there in a smooth sheet over the quiet pond, and only a little clearing of snow was needed to make good skating.

It was one Saturday late in December that Caddie came near drowning for the second time that year. Father had brought them to Eau Galle for the first skating of the season, and, while he was busy in the mill, Caddie and the two boys strapped on their skates and tried the ice. Tom was an expert skater, cutting figure-eights and scrolls and spirals in fine profusion over the new ice. Caddie and Warren were ambitious to do as well as Tom, but they could only follow along in awkward imitation of his skill. What they lacked in skill, they tried to make up in daring.

“You better be careful of that black ice,” called Tom. “It's kinda thin looking.”

“Who's afraid,” laughed Caddie, and Warren said: “I dare you to see how far out you can go, Caddie.”

“All right,” said Caddie. “You can't scare
me!”
and away she went. The black ice began to creak and then to crack. Crash! Smash! Caddie was in over her head again! But what is only an adventure in a summer lake may be no joke in an ice-covered pond. Warren shrieked his alarm, but there was no time to fetch Father from the mill. Tom saw that only instant action on his part could save Caddie. With cool presence
of mind, he made Warren lie down on the ice, and, catching hold of Warren's feet, he pushed him out over the thin ice until he could reach Caddie's groping hands.

“Hold tight, Warren,” he shouted. “I'll pull you both in!” And he did. Nobody made much fuss over it. Pioneer children were always having mishaps, but they were expected to know how to use their heads in emergencies.

But it changed a large part of the winter for Caddie. Father dried her off as best he could in the engine room of the mill, wrapped her in buffalo robes, and drove her home. Mother put her into a steaming washtub before the kitchen fire, and then to bed with hot stones wrapped in flannel, and hot tea made of the dried leaves of wild strawberry plants. But Caddie had caught a bad cold, which kept her in bed for a week and home from school for several weeks after that.

Her mother sat on the foot of Caddie's bed the night of the accident, with a cup in one hand and a spoon in the other, and shook her head in despair. Exasperation and fond concern struggled on her pretty face.

“Caddie, why can't you behave like a young lady?” she sighed. “You'll be the death of me if not of yourself! Only a few weeks ago you were fighting with that awful Obediah Jones. Yes, Hetty told me about it.

And now you've nearly killed yourself skating on thin ice. If it isn't one thing, it's another!”

“I'm sorry, Mother,” croaked Caddie hoarsely from the depths of a red-flannel bandage.

“Well, well,” sighed Mrs. Woodlawn. “It seems to be your nature. What will you have for supper? A little turkey broth?”

Caddie sighed. “Isn't there any bean soup, Mother?”

“No, it's turkey, dear.”

“Well, turkey then.”

“That's a good girl. Go to sleep now.”

Christmas came and went while Caddie was still recovering. She had intended to spend some of her silver dollar for presents, but it still lay snug and safe in the wooden trinket box, because she was not able to take it to the store. They hung their stockings by the fireplace on Christmas Eve and Santa Claus came down the chimney here in Wisconsin just as he did in Boston and St. Louis. But the apples and nuts which he packed around their toys were strangely like those which they themselves had picked.

“Mother,” said Warren, “what are we going to have to eat for Christmas dinner?”

“Mince pie, Warren,” said Mrs. Woodlawn brightly.

“That's good! But, I mean, what else?”

“Why, turkey and cranberries, of course! Folks always
have that for Christmas dinner.”

Warren sighed. “I know—but I thought, maybe—we'd have salt pork or something—just for a change.”

“Now, Warren, you run along and play. There are plenty of folks who'd be glad of a good turkey dinner on Christmas! You should count your blessings!”

After Christmas Tom and Warren and Hetty went back to school, and the house seemed very empty. Caddie was not allowed to play with Minnie and baby Joe because of her cold, and when other household tasks were done, Mother and Clara were busy sewing carpet rags. Father was at the mill and Mrs. Conroy did not want to be bothered in her kitchen. Caddie looked at the family Bible and read Tom's dog-eared book of Andersen's
Fairy Tales.
She went into the parlor and looked at the Caroline table which really belonged to her, although Mother would scarcely let her touch it, for fear she might mar it. It had been made by one of Mother's ancestors for his wife, Caroline, and ever since that time it had come down to the Carolines of the family. Over it hung the silhouette of Great Aunt Kittie who had been the last Caroline before Caddie. But even a nice little mahogany table which really belongs to you isn't much company, and grows tiresome after you have looked at it for a while.

Caddie's wandering feet took her upstairs to the
attic. Here were old boxes from Boston, and a beautiful round-topped trunk, lined with colored paper, with pictures of smiling children decorating the various compartments. And on a low shelf was a row of clocks, waiting for Father's expert hand to mend them. The attic was drafty, but, near the head of the stairs, a big brick chimney came up from the kitchen, and there it was warm. Caddie drew some of the boxes over to the chimney and sat with her back against it, while she looked through them. Most of the things she had seen often enough. There were too many people in the family to allow old things to accumulate, unused. Only two things which she found puzzled and surprised Caddie. She found them in the bottom of one of the boxes, and she knew that she had never seen them before. They were a pair of little red breeches and a pair of small, wooden-soled clogs. Surely they had never belonged either to Warren or to Tom. For some time they puzzled and excited her. Then she put them neatly away in the box, resolved to ask Mother about them as soon as she went downstairs.

Now she turned her attention to the clocks. They had been at the back of her mind all the time. She had been reserving them as a sort of final treat, as she often did with the things she liked best. She picked them up, one by one, and shook them to see if they
would start ticking. Among the others stood the circuit rider's clock. Caddie remembered what he had said—it was the “face of a dead friend.” Surely it would soon be time for the circuit rider to return, and Father had not yet started work upon the clock. How dreadful it would be, if the circuit rider should return and find his clock unmended! Caddie turned the clock thoughtfully in her hands. She had seen Father mend so many of them! Of course, they were not all alike inside, but she knew how the little screws came out and how the back came off, and then inside you saw all of the fascinating wheels and gimcracks. Why shouldn't she mend it herself? She was sure that she could. She sat down with her back against the chimney and began to loosen the screws.

It was more of a task than she had supposed. But Father's tools were there on the shelf, and she found a screwdriver of just the size she needed. The back came off, revealing the wheels and springs. Caddie knew enough about clocks to see what was the matter. The circuit rider had wound his clock too tightly, and in some way the spring had caught so that it could not unwind as it should have done. Caddie looked it over carefully. Then she began to loosen the screws which held it in place. She had to loosen several before she found the right ones. Time slipped away unheeded,
she was so deeply absorbed in the clock. Her cheeks were flushed and her face, bent low over her work, was curtained by her dangling curls.

And then at last she loosened the right screw! Whizz! bang! the spring flew out with a whirr and hit the low ceiling. Screws and cog wheels flew in every direction. It was like an explosion. The circuit rider's clock had suddenly flown to pieces! Caddie uttered a cry of despair and looked wildly about her. What would Father say?

There was a low chuckle from the stairway. Caddie followed the sound with startled eyes. Standing on one of the lower steps, so that his eyes were just above the level of the attic floor, stood her father. How long he had been watching her, she had no idea.

“Father,” she wailed, “it went to pieces! The circuit rider's clock!” Her father leaned against the wall of the staircase and laughed. Caddie had almost never seen him laugh so hard. She, herself, did not know whether to laugh or cry.

“Father,” she repeated, “it went to pieces!”

Still laughing, Mr. Woodlawn came up the stairs.

“Let's pick up the pieces,” he said. “We're going to put that clock together, Caddie. I've been needing a partner in my clock business for a long time. I don't know why I never thought of you before!”

“A partner!” gasped Caddie. She began to race
about the attic, picking up screws and springs. “A real partner?”

“If you do well,” said her father. “Clara is too busy with Mother, and Tom hasn't the patience nor the inclination. Yes, Caddie, I believe you'll be my partner.”

Together they sat on the attic floor and put the circuit rider's clock in order. Mr. Woodlawn explained and demonstrated, while Caddie's eager fingers did the work. Together they cleaned and oiled the parts and made the nice adjustments that were required. By the time the work was finished, it was growing dark in the attic.

“Now take that down and show your mother, Caddie,” said Mr. Woodlawn. Together they marched downstairs, one as proud as the other, and Caddie set the circuit rider's clock in the middle of the dining-room table.