Emily's Runaway Imagination (6 page)

“I've got to!” yelled Grandpa.

“No!” shrieked Emily. “We'll never
get home.” My goodness, if she didn't get home, Mama would worry and she would never get to go for a ride again. Just when Emily thought they were going to crash into the gate, Grandpa turned aside and his automobile went bounding around in his alfalfa crop. Grandpa drove around and around in a circle. “It's no use, Emily,” he said. “I'll have to stop. There's nothing else to do. We can hike to the nearest farm and get a farmer with a team to tow us back to town.”

“No, wait, Grandpa,” begged Emily. Be towed back to town behind old-fashioned horses? I should say not! Grandpa and his wonderful new automobile would be the laughingstock of Pitchfork. Besides, it would take all morning or longer, and Emily was very anxious not to worry Mama. “If you drive real slow,” she suggested, “I could jump out and open the gate.”

“Emily, you might get hurt,” protested Grandpa.

“No, I won't,” Emily assured him. “I'll be careful.”

“I guess I could see how slow I can drive.” Grandpa sounded dubious, but he was not eager to be towed back by horses either. He was proud of his Ford and wanted to ride back in style. They slowed down until they were bouncing gently over the ruts. Emily held her breath for fear the engine might stop altogether and there they would be, out in the middle of an alfalfa field, miles from nowhere.

“You're sure you can do it?” asked Grandpa.

“I'm sure.” Emily laid her bouquet of columbine on the seat. She opened the door and looked down. The ground was passing by faster than she had expected. She took a deep breath and jumped. She stumbled and
fell, skinning her knee. Never mind. It was half-sock weather and her knee would heal. “I'm all right,” she called out, and while Grandpa speeded up and went on driving in circles through the alfalfa, she ran to the gate, climbed up and lifted off the ring of wire that secured it to the fence post. She pushed off with one foot and riding the gate,
she swung out across the road. If she had not been so worried it would have been fun. Swinging on gates was forbidden at home.

Grandpa drove through the gate and started going around in circles in the next field. Emily hopped off the gate before the dust had settled and pushed and shoved until it was closed once more. She slipped the circle of wire back in place and ran after the Ford. She had worked fast, because this field of wheat did not belong to Grandpa and the farmer who owned it might not like Grandpa driving around on his crop. Emily was glad it was a field of wheat and not a prune orchard. Grandpa would have had a terrible time if he had to drive in circles through an orchard.

Grandpa slowed down until Emily was afraid the engine would stop. She grabbed the edge of the Ford beside the seat cushion and pulled herself up on the running board.
Then she flopped into the seat. Whew! She had made it!

“Good work, Emily,” said Grandpa, and drove in a straight line down the wagon road once more.

Emily leaned back and concentrated on catching her breath before the next gate. If she had done it once she could do it again. She had to or be towed back by horses.

At the second gate Grandpa began to circle once more. Emily opened the door, for an instant glad that Mama could not see her now, and leaped bravely through the air. She stumbled again but managed not to fall. She must be getting the hang of it. Once more she slipped off the wire hoop. This gate creaked and Emily could not ride it. She had to shove. Grandpa straightened out his driving and went through. Emily tried not to breathe dust while she struggled to close the gate, and Grandpa circled through the
oats until she could scramble aboard. Whew! That was hard work. Emily hoped she had enough strength left for the third and last gate.

That gate was in view of some farm buildings. Grandpa circled slowly. Emily took a deep breath and leaped. Yes, she did seem to have the hang of it, because she landed on her feet. She ran to the gate, unfastened it, and tried to pull it open. It still would not budge. Desperately Emily shoved. What if Grandpa ran out of gas while he was circling around!

“Can you lift it up, Emily?” Grandpa yelled, as he drove past.

Emily lifted. The gate budged but that was all. Emily lifted again and managed to get the gate partway open but not enough for an automobile to pass through. She wondered if it would be too selfish to ask God to help her in this one little thing. “Don't
stop, Grandpa,” she begged. “I'll think of something.”

An inquisitive calf came bounding across the barnyard to see what was going on. It would be dreadful if he got through the gate. Emily would never be able to catch him in that big field and Grandpa really would run out of gas while she tried. She put one hand on the gatepost and the other on the gate. The calf frolicked over and nuzzled her with his moist nose. “Shoo!” she cried. “Go away!”

The farmer came out of the barn with a pitchfork in his hands. “What the Sam Hill is going on here?” he yelled, dropping the pitchfork and running toward Emily.

“Don't stop, Grandpa,” pleaded Emily, as the calf licked her face with his long, wet tongue. “I'll ask the man to open the gate.”

“What are you driving around in my oats for?” demanded the farmer.

“I can't stop,” yelled Grandpa. “I'll never get her started again.”

“Please open the gate for us,” begged Emily, shoving at the calf with her foot. If only the farmer would help them out!

The farmer began to laugh. “Beat it, Buttercup,” he said, slapping the calf on the rump. Then he opened the gate for Emily.

“Oh, thank you,” said Emily, with great feeling. “Thank you ever so much.” She hoped she was doing a good job of thanking the farmer. If Grandpa felt he had to thank him too, he might think he had to stop. No, it was all right. Grandpa was circling the barnyard, skillfully avoiding three chickens and the bounding Buttercup.

The farmer stood watching Emily with something like admiration as she leaped to the running board when Grandpa drove by.

“Thank you,” she called again, to make sure, as she flopped into the seat.

“Thank you, sir,” Grandpa yelled above the noise of the engine.

“You're welcome,” the farmer yelled back. “Next time get a horse!”

Gracious! Emily hoped the farmer did not get to town often. She did not want this adventure to get around Pitchfork. Grandpa would never hear the last of it and Mama might not let her go driving again.

“Yes sir, Emily,” said Grandpa, as they headed back toward Pitchfork, “I always said you were a humdinger.”

The ride back to town was peaceful enough, although Emily was a little nervous lest they meet a cow in the middle of the road that might force them to stop. It would be awful if they had to stop now after all she had been through. When they came to Main Street, she said, “I can walk home from the store, Grandpa, as easy as not.”

“All right, Emily,” agreed Grandpa. “You
know, I have a feeling your mother might not think too highly of what went on this morning. Probably I shouldn't have let you do it. Maybe we had better keep it a secret, you and me.”

“Yes, let's,” agreed Emily, who was happy that Grandpa wasn't going to tell, either. Secrets were fun and she was pleased that she and Grandpa had one all their own to share.

“Whoa!” cried Grandpa, stopping in front of the store just as if there was nothing wrong with his Model T. Old George A. Barbee would be only too happy to tell him how to fix it.

When Emily climbed out with Mrs. Scott's three books and the bouquet of columbine, she discovered her legs felt wobbly. “Thank you for the ride, Grandpa,” she said, not feeling the least bit like a humdinger.

Grandpa's eyes twinkled. “Thank
you
, Emily. I don't know what I'd have done
without you.” He meant it, too.

Emily walked home on shaky legs. No running or skipping this morning. She found Mama on the back porch doing the washing, which seemed surprising until Emily realized that it was only mid-morning even though she felt as if she had been gone a long, long time.

“What lovely columbine!” Mama smiled over the wringer. “Did you have a nice ride, Emily?”

“Yes, Mama.” Wearily Emily sat down on the back steps to rest. “But Mama, I don't think many people will want to read Mrs. Scott's donation.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” Mama folded a pair of overalls so they would go through the wringer.

“And Mama,” said Emily, “the most exciting thing happened. I was waved at by an aviator! An airplane flew over and I waved
at him and he waved back.”

“Why Emily, that's the second airplane that has been around here this year!” Mama guided the overalls into a washtub of rinse water. “Just think, it was only about seventy-five years ago that your pioneer ancestors came here by covered wagon, and now your grandfather is driving his automobile and airplanes are flying over!” She fished another pair of overalls from the suds in the washing machine. “Emily, your grandfather is right. Times are changing and he is right to keep up with them, even at his age.”

As Emily bent over to examine her skinned knee, she could not help thinking that it had been all she could do to keep up with Grandpa's Tin Lizzie.

S
ummer was a busy time on the farm. Mama and Emily canned fruits and vegetables, jars and jars of fruits and vegetables. Emily snapped the beans and slipped the skins off so many peaches that she began to feel as if the skin was about to slip off her hands. Mama even found time to can pie cherries, and Emily became expert at flipping pits out of cherries with a buttonhook.

All day long the wash boiler full of jars
steamed and bubbled on top of the stove, but in the middle of every morning and every afternoon Emily escaped from the hot kitchen to take a Mason jar of lemonade without sugar to Daddy, who was working in the fields. Daddy, his denim shirt soaked and his sunburned face streaming with sweat, was mighty glad to see Emily and that jar of lemonade. On the way back to the house Emily always wanted to pick a bouquet of bachelor's buttons, but she never did. When Daddy was her age, all the Bartlett boys had to work long hours weeding bachelor's buttons out of the fields and to this day Daddy did not want to see the pesky things in a vase in the house. It was too bad, because Emily dearly loved to gather wildflowers.

Summer was such a busy time that Emily was afraid Mama and the Ladies' Civic Club might forget about the library. She should have known Mama would not forget
something once she had started it. Every week Mama managed to find time to send some news about the library to the
Pitchfork Report
. Sixty-two books had been given to the library. (Mama did not put in the paper that the sixty-two books were not very good books. She did not want to discourage people from giving.) More books were needed, especially books for boys and girls. Another bookcase or cupboard with doors that could be locked would be useful. Any plans for raising money for shelves and books would be gratefully received. And finally the important announcement—the library was actually going to open on Saturday afternoon in the Commercial Clubrooms, upstairs over the Pitchfork State Bank, and a gala occasion it was going to be. The whole town was invited and there was to be a silver tea. People could borrow books and keep them for two weeks. It was
going to be a big day in Pitchfork.

“Mama, what's a silver tea?” asked Emily, thinking that it sounded very special, like a golden wedding.

“A way of raising money,” answered Mama. “We will put a plate on the tea table, and everyone who can will leave a silver coin on it to help the library.”

Silver coins could mean silver dollars or it could mean ten-cent pieces. Emily hoped for silver dollars, lots of them, because someday Mama hoped Pitchfork would have a real library in a room by itself, with an encyclopedia and open shelves full of books.

Emily could hardly wait for Saturday to come. During the week the stationmaster at the depot telephoned Mama to say that a crate of books had arrived from the state library. Mama had Grandpa pick up the crate in his Ford and deliver it to the Commercial Clubrooms. And wouldn't you know?
That was the week the tomatoes were ripe and Mama was so busy canning tomatoes and selling tomatoes to other ladies who wanted to can them that she did not have time to go uptown and open that crate. Emily could hardly stand it, she was so anxious to find out if the state library had sent
Black Beauty
, that book about the chatty horses she was so curious to read. Or maybe—terrible thought—the state library in Salem, capital of Oregon, was so big and so grand it would not bother to send books to boys and girls. Maybe it had more important things to do.

Finally Saturday actually did arrive and Mama decided they had so much to do to get ready for the tea they would just stack the dinner dishes in the sink. Mama put on her best gray silk dress, and Emily wore the scratchy yellow organdy that Grandma had made for her. The only thing in the world that scratched as much as an organdy dress was a slide in a straw stack, but today Emily
did not care if the organdy did scratch. She wanted to look her best for the silver tea. Mama gave her ten cents to tie in the corner of her handkerchief until she could drop it on the plate on the tea table.

When Emily and her mother climbed the steep stairs to the Commercial Clubrooms they found the members of the Ladies' Civic Club flying around getting ready for the tea. The table was already set with someone's best white linen tablecloth and a glass basket of pink cosmos had been placed in the center. Cookies and tiny sandwiches were laid out on plates. The table really did look very pretty even though the room smelled of stale cigar smoke and was furnished with cuspidors and leather chairs with the stuffing coming out. In one corner, over by the old china closets someone had loaned to be used as bookcases, was the crate from the state library.

“Mama,” whispered Emily. “When are
you going to open the crate?”

“Now Emily,” said Mama firmly, “just remember that no one is to take books until after I give my talk. And remember, too, that you are the librarian's daughter. You can choose just one book. It would not look right for you to take more.”

“Just one, Mama?”

“Just one.”

One book was better than no books, thought Emily, and next week she could change it. Just let that one book be
Black Beauty
was all she hoped.

“Let's open some windows and air this place out,” said Mrs. Archer.

People began to climb the stairs to the clubrooms. Soon the room was abloom with some of Grandma's prettiest hats, although not all the ladies wore hats. Many farm women who were in town to do their week's shopping wore cotton housedresses and no
hats at all. Arlene Twitchell, the prettiest girl in town, arrived with some music in her hand, and Mrs. Warty Thompson opened the piano.

“Mama, she isn't going to sing, is she?” whispered Emily, who was anxious to get on with the opening of the library and knew that Arlene never stopped with one song.

“Shh. Yes,” answered Mama.

Then someone discovered that no one had brought any sugar cubes, and Emily was sent off to Grandpa's store to fetch some. By the time she returned, folding chairs had been set up and Mama had unpacked the crate and set the state books on the shelves. Emily edged over toward the china cupboards.

Mama fumbled in her handbag and brought out a fifty-cent piece. “Here, Emily,” she whispered. “Put this on that empty plate along with your dime. If people see some silver on the plate, they will be more apt to
donate to the library.”

After Emily did as she was told, Mrs. Warty Thompson sat down at the piano and Arlene Twitchell began to sing. She sang
Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life
and
I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles
. Emily was careful to clap just hard enough to be polite but not hard enough to encourage her to sing a third song. Arlene did look so pretty with her dark curly hair and her white dotted Swiss dress.

“My, just look at the work her mother put on that dress,” Emily heard someone whisper.

“It's no wonder she is spoiled,” was the whispered answer. “I feel sorry for the man who marries her.”

Emily could not help thinking how pleasant it would be to have curly hair and be spoiled. Then Mrs. George Thompson played
Humoresque
on the violin. Everybody in town had heard Mrs. Thompson play
Humoresque
dozens of times, but a violin solo did make the tea seem more stylish. Besides, everybody in town liked Mrs. George Thompson. No one had ever heard her say an unkind word about anybody.

More people kept coming, including some of the men of the town, who said they wanted to have a look at this library. They stayed to eat and joke about the tiny sandwiches. And then—oh, dear—who should arrive but Fong Quock! Emily hoped he would not notice her in the crowd. She squeezed toward the back of the room, where he would not see her.

Mama gave a little talk about how she hoped someday the library could have a room of its own with open shelves (instead of somebody's old china closets, thought Emily) and what a valuable thing an encyclopedia would be for the town. It occurred to Emily that even though her hair was not
curly and she could never hope to grow up to be the prettiest girl in town, she was still one of the most important girls in Pitchfork. She was the daughter of the librarian, the niece of the mayor, and the only girl in town who could go behind the counters in Grandpa's store. She was also the girl who had licked the stamp that carried Mama's letter to the state library.

Mama finished her talk and the library of Pitchfork, Oregon, was open for business!

Tea was served and Emily was torn between getting a peek at the books and staying where she could keep an eye on the plate of silver. It turned out she had no choice. Mama asked her to pass the cream and sugar on a little tray.

“Why can't June do it?” whispered Emily, who had seen her cousin in the crowd.

“She might spill the cream,” answered Mama.

“Did they send
Black Beauty
?” whispered
Emily, as she picked up the tray with the sugar bowl and cream pitcher.

“Not this time. Now don't worry. I'll save you a book if it looks as if they will all be taken.” Mama went to take up her duties as librarian.

Pleased to be trusted with the cream pitcher, Emily circulated through the crowd. “Cream and sugar?” she asked politely, of anyone holding a cup of tea.

“Why, hello, Emily. How nice you look,” the ladies would say. Not how pretty—how nice. “Yes, I would like a lump of sugar for my tea.”

Out of the corner of her eye Emily could see her cousin June. The elastic in one of her bloomer legs was loose, and she was leaning over the tea table eating cookies and watching the plate for pieces of silver.
Plink. Plink
. It sounded as if dimes were being dropped. Emily did not hear any
plunks
that would mean someone had given a whole dollar.
Plank
. That sounded like a quarter.
Plink. Plank
. A dime and a quarter. Every little bit helped.

Then Mrs. George Thompson served Fong Quock a cup of tea.

Oh dear, thought Emily. Now she would have to go offer him cream and sugar. She hesitated, wondering if by some lucky chance he might have forgotten about Plince.

“Emily,” said Mrs. Thompson, “perhaps Mr. Quock would like some cream and sugar.”

There was nothing for Emily to do but offer it to him. “Cream and sugar?” she asked, her eyes on the floor.

“No, fank you,” said Fong Quock. “Missy leave Plince home today?”

“Yes, I did,” mumbled Emily, sensing rather than seeing the smile on Fong Quock's face. She did not have to stand there, did she? Not when he didn't want any cream
and sugar. She hurried on to another tea drinker, sloshing the cream as she went.

June must have had her fill of cookies, because she wandered over to the china closets to look over the books. Tray in hand, Emily stepped lightly over a cuspidor and made her way to the library corner. She was not going to have June beat her to the books if she could help it.

“Oh, there's Emily with the cream and sugar,” said a lady. “You are just the girl I have been looking for.”

Dutifully Emily held out her tray while the lady helped herself to three lumps of sugar.

“My, but you do look nice in your yellow organdy,” said the lady. “Just like a little buttercup.”

Emily did not feel like a little buttercup. Her organdy dress scratched around the neck and arms and she was filled with impatience.
Then
plunk
. Emily's sharp ears caught the sound of someone's dropping a whole big dollar on the plate on the table. It was—of all people—Fong Quock! The ladies near the tea table exchanged surprised glances while the old man, smiling and nodding, made his way to the stairs. Emily stared after him in astonishment. A whole silver dollar!

There were two more plunks on the plate that afternoon. Mr. Archer, the president of the bank downstairs, left a dollar, and Grandma managed to get away from the store long enough to drink a cup of tea and leave another dollar.

Three whole silver dollars, but Fong Quock's dollar was the one everybody talked about, and talk they did. “Well now, wasn't that nice of him, especially when he can read very little English himself?” “Imagine, the old fellow's taking the trouble to come up here and give a dollar to the library—I
wonder if he is lonely since he sold his confectionery store.” “I have always heard that the Chinese are scholarly people and it must
be true.” “And my dear, did you see it? The dollar was actually tarnished, he has had it so long. I'll bet he still has the first dollar he ever earned.” “Not now he hasn't, because he just gave it to the library.” This last remark brought forth kindly laughter.