Chapter IV: Part 4

“Mrs. Peters,” she started, “Mom said that perhaps you might want me to take care of Sammy one of these Saturday evenings while you and Mr. Peters went to the movies.”

Mrs. Peters looked pleased. “Why Janie, that’s so kind of you, but aren’t you quite young for such a responsibility?”

“I’m thirteen,” said Janie proudly. “My mother gives me lots of responsibilities. I take care of my brothers almost as well as she does.”

Mrs. Peters smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you do, dear, and you’ll get along splendidly with Sammy, too. He likes you already. Come down Saturday evening about seven, and Mr. Peters and I will take you home again about eleven o’clock. We’ll give you a dollar.”

A DOLLAR! Whew! That was more money than she ever made in one day before. “Oh thank you, Mrs. Peters. I’ll be here at seven o’clock on Saturday. Good-by. Good-by Sammy!”

Janie’s legs flew back down the road. Billy and James were sitting on top of the stone posts waiting for the mailman. When Janie told them her news they looked pleased and impressed. “Golly, Jane. A dollar is real money. What are you going to do with it?”

“It will be the first dollar I ever earned and I’m going to do something special with it. I don’t know what it will be yet, though.”

“Oh, boy!” said James. “Guess I’ll get a job too.”

Mrs. Murray smiled as her daughter’s eager face appeared in the doorway. “So you’re going to take care of Sammy. Congratulations.”

“H’m,” said Grandma still clicking away at her knitting. “I’ll save my congratulations for a while, and in the meantime I’ll wish you good luck.”

Saturday evening came at last, and Janie started off down the road. Mom called after her: “Honey, why don’t you take one of the boys with you?”

Jane looked hurt. “Why, Mom! I don’t need any help.”

“All right then. I thought you might be lonely.”

The Peters were ready to leave and Mrs. Peters had prepared a list of instructions and left them on the telephone stand. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Peters,” said Jane confidently. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

Everything _was_ just fine until the car started away, and then young Sammy threw back his head and began to cry. He ran to the garden gate and called after the disappearing car, “Mommy! Daddy! Come back! I want to go with you!” Jane put her arms around him and gave him her brightest smile.

“They’ll come back, Sam. Now, let’s play ball.” Sam’s face cleared just a little and the two of them tossed the ball around on the lawn. Janie wanted to quit after the first few minutes, but not Sammy. He was having a fine time and when Janie sank down on the grass, panting for breath, he urged her on. “No stop, Janie. More ball, more ball!”

“Enough ball” said the amateur nursemaid, drawing him down beside her. “Now, I’ll tell you a story. I’ll tell you a story about Pinocchio.” Sammy’s eyes sparkled. He clapped his hands and his short black curls danced as he settled down on Janie’s lap. “Three Bears,” he coaxed. “Three Bears, Little Red Riding Hood.” Janie’s mind leaped back nimbly to her not so far distant childhood.

“Once upon a time,” she started, and Sammy relaxed. She rambled on and on. The Three Bears wandered through the legendary forest and Sammy shook his head at the empty porridge bowls. Little Red Riding Hood escaped from the wicked wolf and Sammy rejoiced. This was easy. This was much less strenuous than a ball game. She told of the adventures of Little Black Sambo and Snow White. Sammy was like a lamb.

“More story, Janie,” he begged. “More Three Bears, Little Red Riding Hood.”

Janie laughed and patted his hand. “Now I’m going to tell you about Pinocchio. ‘Once upon a time there was a stick of wood.’” Sammy listened. He marveled at the stick that could talk. He laughed at the ridiculous nose. He laughed when Pinocchio ran away. When poor Pinocchio returned from his wanderings and sat down at the fire to dry his feet, he looked expectant. When she told how the wooden feet burned off he rolled on the grass in glee.

Janie was indignant. “Why Sammy, you heartless little wretch. It hurts to have your feet burned off. You mustn’t laugh at anything so sad.” Obligingly, Sammy’s face fell. “Poor Pinocchio,” he said, and the tears started down his fat cheeks. Janie hastened to soften his grief. “Geppeto will make him some new feet.” But Sammy was determined to mourn if mourning was called for. In vain Janie tried to change the subject. Sammy wept. He cried until his face was wet with tears and looking up Jane saw her brother Bill at the gate.

“Oh, Billy,” she exclaimed. “I never was so glad to see you. I can’t cheer this child up.”

Billy wore his most impish expression, “I thought you didn’t need any help.”

Janie’s eyes flashed, “Bill Murray,” she exploded. “If you think this is funny, if you think this is any time for one of your jokes....”

Bill entered the yard and gathered the sobbing Sammy up in his arms. “Easy, old girl, easy,” he said. “Remember your temper.”

Janie bit her lip, then she rose up grimly, put one foot in back of her and gave a tremendous kick that sent her shoe flying up in the air. Coming down it lodged in the rain gutter and Billy roared with laughter. Sammy was reminded once more of the ball game.

“More ball, Janie,” he cried. “More ball.”

Janie quickly diverted his attention. “Bed time for little boys,” she said. “Sammy is going to put his pajamas on, brush his teeth, say his prayers, and go to bed.” Billy helped get his shoe laces untied, but he wanted to wash his face and hands by himself, and he dawdled for ten minutes brushing his teeth. He made quite an issue of wearing a certain pajama suit with a rabbit embroidered on the pocket, instead of the one his mother had laid out, but at last everything was settled to his satisfaction, and he said his prayers and climbed into bed.

It was quiet for a while. Billy worked at a crossword puzzle and Janie read, but she could hear the creak, creak of the springs as Sammy walked around on his bed. She looked at the instruction sheet once more, as if to draw inspiration from the written words. Mrs. Peters had written: “Bed at 7:30,” and here it was half past eight and Sammy still awake.

“What will I do, Bill? He won’t go to sleep.”

Billy took the matter in hand.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Sam,” he said. “If you’ll lie down on your bed and go to sleep, I’ll stand on my head.”

Sammy looked interested, and he lay down expectantly watching his entertainers. Janie sat down on a rocking chair, and Billy proceeded to stand on his head. The performance was a great success.

“More, more,” cried bright-eyed Sammy. “More stand on head!”

Billy rubbed his noggin and went back to work, but this time one hand slipped on the rug. As he struggled for his balance one heel caught in a pedestal holding a large Boston fern, and down came Billy, pedestal and fern with a great crash.

Sammy laughed and clapped his hands, but Janie rushed over to where he lay. “Billy! Oh Billy! Are you hurt?”

He shook his head groggily, and bits of jardiniere clattered to the floor. “No,” he said. “I’m all right, but I surely made a mess.” He started downstairs to get a broom and a dust pan, pulling Boston fern out of his hair as he went.

Sammy tried to climb out of bed, but Janie persuaded him to lie down again. “Go to sleep now,” she said gently, and she started to leave the room, but Sammy had another idea.

“Sammy want a drink.”

“I’ll get one for you right away,” promised Jane, and returned with a small glass of water.

“Sammy want a big drink.”

“Try this first, and if you’re still thirsty, I’ll bring some more.” Jane held the glass to his lips, but he bobbed as he stepped forward on the mattress, and part of the drink dribbled on the front of his pajamas.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Sit down for a moment while I get something dry for you to sleep in.”

By nine o’clock he was back in bed, and Janie was sitting in the room with him rocking and singing lullabies. It was warm and quiet, and Janie was very sleepy, but not Samuel. Whenever she faltered he urged her on. “More Humpty Dumpty, Janie. More Rockaby Baby.” Wearily Jane complied.

Billy had been reading downstairs and holding a wet towel to his head. Now, thinking that Sammy had dropped off to sleep, he tiptoed up the stairs. “Creak!” went a loose board. Sammy sat bolt upright.

“Mommy!” he cried. “Mommy’s home.”

Billy’s round face appeared at the top of the stairs and Sammy screamed in disappointment.

“Oh!” he cried. “I want my Mommy,” and he turned on his guardians with infantile rage. “Go home Janie. Billy, go home!”

Janie tried to quiet him, but he was over tired and over stimulated, and he threw his pillow on the floor and sobbed.

“I’ll go home,” said Bill. “I guess I wasn’t much help. Good-by, Sammy, old fella. Good-by, Jane.”

Jane gathered Sammy up in her arms and smoothed his bed. All the fight was out of him. He snuggled up against her with a tired sigh, and was asleep almost as soon as she put him back on the pillow.

Mom looked up curiously as Billy walked in. He had a bump on his head, and bits of fern and plant dirt still stuck to his hair.

“What in the world happened to you?”

“I’ve been down at the Peters helping Jane take care of Sammy, but I was thrown out.”

“Did Jane send you home?”

“No, Sammy did.”

Mom was on her feet in an instant, all concern. “Why that poor child,” she said. “Down there all alone taking care of him.” She reached for a sweater and started out the door. Billy trotted along at her side.

“I helped her, Mom. I did everything I could think of.”

Arriving at the Peters’ cottage, Mom pushed the gate open and hurried up the walk. She knocked and Janie appeared, completely unruffled.

“Janie,” cried Mom. “What happened? What’s wrong with little Sam. Is he feverish?”

“No, Mom,” Jane answered calmly. “It was just a tantrum. I put him back to bed and he’s fast asleep.”

Standing there, one step below her daughter on the steps Mom suddenly felt completely inadequate.

“You run along home, Mom,” said Jane, much as she would have spoken to one of the children. “I’ll be all right.”

Billy and Mom started back home, and Janie sank down on one of the big chairs. She looked at the inviting stacks of magazines that she had planned to read during the evening. It was cold and she was very sleepy. Mrs. Peters had said that she should find a lunch in the refrigerator, but she was too tired to be hungry. A hoot owl shrieked in the trees outside, and shivering, she wished that she hadn’t been so lofty in refusing Mom’s offer of company and assistance.

It was ten-thirty. How the time dragged. She went upstairs and peeked in at Sammy. He was sound asleep. Back down stairs again, she tuned in the radio, but there was nothing but the blare of dance bands, strident and unfamiliar. Her jaws ached with yawning. Would they never come home? She curled up at one end of the davenport, and pulled the afghan around her. It was so quiet she could almost hear the lapping of the waves on the shore. One by one, a few late cars whizzed by, but still the Peters didn’t come. Her head dropped lower and lower, and then with a jerk, she was awake again.

“Mustn’t go to sleep, Janie,” she said aloud. “Remember, you’re responsible here.”

She walked up and down for a while, but it made echoing sounds.

“Oh, dear. I wish I had let Mom stay.”

At last a car slowed down for the curve, and coasted into the Peters’ entrance. Janie flew to the door.

“Hello!” she called eagerly. “Hello!”

“Hi,” called the Peters pleasantly. “How is everything?”

“Fine, just fine,” said Janie in her relief to see them again.

“Get your sweater, dear,” said Mrs. Peters, “and I’ll take you home. How did you get along? Is Sammy asleep?”

“Oh yes, he went to sleep. I sang to him and told him stories,” and then she remembered the Boston fern.

“Oh, Mrs. Peters,” she choked, and all the strain of the evening hit her at once and she was crying.

“Billy stood on his head, and broke your fern!”

Mrs. Peters looked puzzled, amused, and sympathetic all at once. She patted Janie on the shoulders as they started out the door. “Accidents will happen,” she said, “and boys will be boys, but I’m glad that you didn’t have any trouble with Sammy. He’s such a dear, good boy. I looked in at him sleeping just now. He looked just like an angel.”

Janie heard it all in a daze of weariness. “Oh yes,” she agreed drowsily. “A little angel.”

As they reached the Murrays’ gate, Mrs. Peters thanked her again, and pressed a dollar bill into her hand. Janie said “Goodnight” and walked wearily down the stone steps through the rock garden, and then up the brick steps to the porch.

Mom was waiting up for her. “Come in, baby,” she said. “I have your bed open and your pajamas laid out. You can sleep late tomorrow morning.”

Janie thanked her, and then sank down on her bed, almost too tired to take off her shoes, but in her right hand she grasped a crisp one-dollar bill.

She reached for her piggybank, and patted his sleek flower-decorated sides. “Piggy,” she said, “if you knew how hard it was for me to earn this money, you’d be really grateful.” She stuffed the dollar in the slot. “Here you are,” she whispered. “I promised I’d feed you, and don’t say that Janie doesn’t keep her promises.”

_Chapter Eleven_

_The Front Seat on the Bus_

The storm was followed by three weeks of clear, hot weather. The lake was soft and clean, like rain water. The garden thrived in the heat, and the little rabbits grew sleek and fat, and kept everyone busy gathering clover for them.

One morning Janie awoke to hear the clop-clop of the farmer’s horses as they walked down the road. They were drawing an elaborate machine painted bright red and yellow, like a circus wagon. The farmer, all in faded blue, looked drab by comparison.

“Mom,” she called. “Look at the fancy wagon the farmer has this morning. What is he going to do with that?”

Mom raised her shade, and the boys popped their heads out of the upstairs windows.

“That is a brand new reaper,” she answered. “My, doesn’t it glisten! This must be the first time he’s had it out. That machine cuts the grain, then ties it into sheaves. He’ll stack them in yellow shocks all over the field, and Aunt Claire will sunburn her nose while she puts it all on canvas.”

Janie wriggled her way back to the middle of the bed, and reached down to the floor for her slippers. Harvesting meant August, and August meant hayfever. Hayfever meant going to town to the doctor’s office for _shots_. She made a face, but it wasn’t so bad, really. Just a quick little pinch, like getting caught with a pin.

“Mom,” she called again. “When do I go to town for my shots?”

Mrs. Murray was brushing her teeth, and the answer sounded a little bubbly at first. “You can start any time now,” she answered. “How would you like to go in tomorrow morning?”

Jane looked puzzled. “Daddy won’t be here. Who would take me?”

“You can go in on the bus, and come back with Daddy.”

All by herself on the bus! Janie glowed. Billy asked if he couldn’t go along, but Mom said, “Not this time, Billy. I need you to help cut grass.”

Janie thought about the trip all day. She washed her hair, and put it up in pin curls all over her head, pressed her blue dress, and brushed her hat. She put some pink polish on her fingernails. Mom offered to let her take one of her prettiest handkerchiefs, but what Grandma loaned her was the best of all.

“Come here, Janie,” she said, and she unfastened her wrist watch. “You’ll be needing a watch to tell the time, what with having to meet a bus, and keep an appointment at the doctor’s and all. I want you to take my watch.” Janie’s eyes popped.

“But, mind you take good care of it, and don’t let it drop.”

“Oh, thank you, Grandma,” said Jane, kissing her. “Thank you. I’ll take ever so good care of it. I’ll be just as careful as I know how.” She slept that night with the little watch near her ear. It seemed to talk to her in a fast small voice. “Going to town on the bus,” it said over and over again. “Going to town on the bus.”

She slept late the next morning. By the time she was dressed the boys were off fishing, and Grandma and Mom were finishing their coffee on the porch.

“Hurry up, sleepy head,” Mom said. “It’s nine o’clock now, and the bus leaves at ten minutes after ten. You’ll just about have time to eat your breakfast and gather your things together before it’s time to leave.”

Janie drank her milk and decided against the cereal. She reached for a piece of coffee cake, all crumbly with powdered sugar on the top, but Grandma changed her mind for her.

“If I were you, Lady Jane,” she said, “I’d eat my cereal. You have a long day ahead of you, and besides, how would a fashionable creature like you look with powdered sugar all over the front of her dress?” Jane giggled and dug into her corn flakes.

“Is there anything I can buy for you, Grandma? Do you want me to telephone for you while I’m in town?”

The senior Mrs. Murray cocked her head and thought. “Not unless it would be some embroidery cotton,” she said. She searched through a large paper box that must have contained hundreds of skeins of bright-colored embroidery cotton. “Here, this is it.” She extracted a few strands of salmon colored thread. “Put this in your purse, and see if you can match it for me. Here,” she added, pressing a coin into the palm of Janie’s hand, “buy something for yourself.”

“Grandma! That’s too much money.”

“Well then, buy an extra hair ribbon to match your yellow sweater.” Janie laughed. She dropped the money and the thread into her purse, and ran to get her hat. She was driving over to the station with Mrs. Williams. When Mrs. Williams took her husband down to the bus station in the morning, everyone who wanted to go to town that day seemed to be jammed into the car with her. She tooted at the gate, and Janie kissed her mother and Grandmother hastily, and ran up the garden steps.

“Hello, Mrs. Williams,” she said, a little out of breath. “Do you think we’ll be on time?” Mrs. Williams smiled as she eased the shiny, dark car into second gear. “Of course we’ll be on time,” she said. Her voice was deep and rich, and when she said “of course”, it sounded like “of coss.” Janie never tired of looking at her and listening to her talk. She was so pretty, and she could play the piano just like someone you’d hear at a concert. She had crossed the ocean half a dozen times. She had gone to the opera in Paris, and she had climbed a mountain in Switzerland. She had flown to South America. It was no wonder she said “Of coss” about meeting a bus. Janie sighed with joy, and shifted a little on the seat.

They came to the place where the railroad used to be, and then they turned onto the main highway, and Mrs. Williams faced the direction from which the bus would come. There were other people waiting to go to town. A young woman carried a little baby on one arm, and a black, oilcloth covered bag on the other. The day was warm, but the baby was wrapped from head to foot in a thick pink blanket. Even his little face was pink. When I have a baby, Jane thought, I’ll let him stay uncovered in the summer. Poor little fellow. He looks like a boiled shrimp.

A stout lady in a summery print dress held a parasol over her head, and squinted down the road every so often to see if the bus was coming. A boy, about fourteen years old, sat on a large stone at the roadside. He was dressed in a Boy Scout uniform, and he carried a shoe box, which he handled gingerly. I’ll bet it’s eggs, thought Jane. I’ll bet it’s two dozen eggs that he’s taking into town for someone.

Mrs. Williams looked out of the window. “Here it comes,” she cried. “It will be here in just a minute.” Jane hugged her purse. The fifty cents in her hand made a sharp red ring where she held it tight.

Jane was out of the car and over at the side of the road with the others before she knew it. “Good-by, Mrs. Williams,” she called. “Thank you for the ride.”

The boy scout waited for the lady with the pink baby to get on ahead of him. The stout lady with the parasol came next. Janie clutched her purse and her hat and climbed the rubber covered steps, and the boy scout was right behind her, still balancing his eggs. She dropped her fifty cents into the glass box, and looked around for a seat. “That will be fifty-five cents, Miss,” said the driver. “Oh dear,” said Janie, and she searched quickly through her purse for a nickel. She found one, and the bus began to roar and tremble as it turned out on the highway.

The seats were pretty well taken by the time it came to Oak Lake, but there was one seat that Janie had always wanted, and glory be, it was vacant now. Perhaps none of the grown folks wanted that seat. It was right up in front, across from the driver. It faced the aisle instead of facing forward the way the others did, but Janie didn’t mind. She sat side ways and leaned her arms on the window sill. It was glorious. They gained speed as they rolled along through the gentle Wisconsin hills. Farmers were at work everywhere, busy with harvesting the grain. It would be a fine day for playing White Horse.

Now the houses were much closer together. They were nearing the city. Janie knew every landmark well. She had been traveling this road ever since she was a baby, but things looked different from the front seat of the big bus, just as the trees in the yard looked different when you crawled up and sat on the roof, and then they rolled down a busy shopping street.

They passed through the outskirts of the city. They stopped near a ladies’ dress shop to wait for the light to change. There was a woman in the show window, busily draping a manikin. The figure was beautifully gowned and had an expression of great hauteur. Everything was perfect, except her head, and that was shining bald. At her feet lay a carefully arranged blond wig. The woman was still draping the skirt as the bus started on through the intersection. Janie grinned to herself. “I must remember,” she thought, “never to go out without my wig.”

People were beginning to leave the bus now. Janie was going all the way down to the terminal. They had to travel much more slowly, now that the traffic was heavy, and once they had to stop while a bridge went up, and a long coal boat slid through on its way up the river. Once over the bridge, they threaded their ponderous way down a hill and over a lot of railroad tracks, and then the driver turned and turned at his wheel, and they cut sharply into the long dark tunnel at the terminal building. There were other big busses lined up, and they nosed into the ramp just as a boat eases up to a pier.

By now Jane felt like a seasoned traveler. She picked up her purse and walked into the waiting room with the others. She made straight for the public telephones, and put her purse on the little shelf in front of her. She put a nickel in the slot, and dialed the doctor’s number slowly and carefully. “This is Jane Murray,” she said as the office girl answered. “What time would you like to have me come out?”

“The doctor can see you at four, Jane.”

“Thank you, Miss Clark. Good-by.”

The little watch said half past eleven. She left the terminal, and walked slowly down the busy street. The shop windows were fascinating. There were stores that sold wallpaper and paint, and there were shops that sold nothing but baby clothes. One little place, about the size of the pantry at home, sold nothing but nuts. There was a pan of fresh-roasted nuts slowly revolving in the window. An imitation squirrel looked at them greedily out of his imitation eyes.

A newsboy shouted at the corner, something about “Wuxtra, Wuxtra!” He shouted so that he got red in the face. Just as Janie got close to him, he stopped to draw a breath, and she looked at him in surprise. He wasn’t excited at all. His eyes were as matter of fact as her own. Only his voice was wrought up so. Pigeons circled far overhead. They lived in the balconies and towers at the top of the tall buildings.

A policeman blew his whistle at the street crossing near a big department store, and Janie marched across with the crowd. She pushed on the revolving door until her little cubicle swung her right into the store. My, but it smelled good. No wonder, she was in the perfume department. She walked to the notions department, and bought the skein of salmon colored thread for Grandma. Notions department ... what a funny name, she thought. I wonder if they call it that because ladies say: “I have a notion to buy this, or I have a notion to buy that.” I must remember to ask someone about it sometime.

A river ran close to the building, and Jane walked over to the windows to look out. A sign read:

_Eat Your Lunch In Our Sky Room_
DINE ABOVE THE CLOUDS.

Jane squinted up. It wasn’t above the clouds, really, but something in her imaginative heart responded to the invitation. She looked in her purse. There was the one dollar bill she had earned taking care of Sammy, and Mom had given her thirty-five cents for lunch and car fare. “That’s where I’m going to eat my lunch,” she said. “That’s how I’ll spend my dollar.”

She walked over to the row of elevators. A pretty lady in a neat gray uniform clicked a little snapper that she had in her hand, and that was a signal for the elevator to climb. They went up, up, and up, past dresses and hats and chairs and mixing bowls. They passed long rolls of carpeting that looked like giant crayons laying side by side on the floor. “Call your floor please,” the operator sang out, and at each stop people would squeeze out, and new people would squeeze in. They passed dress materials and lamps and luggage.

At last they came to the top floor, and Janie stepped out into what was called a lounge. It looked like a large living room, and people sat on the chairs and davenports waiting to meet their friends, or perhaps they were just resting.

A tall lady who seemed to be the hostess stood at the entrance and smiled and bowed as the people came in. She smiled very sweetly at Jane. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Where would you like to sit?” The large room seemed crowded, but along one side of the room ran a sort of porch, a long narrow balcony overlooking the river. It had a curved glass roof, like a conservatory.

“Oh,” said Jane eagerly. “Could I sit out there?”

“Yes, you could,” said the lady. “Come along with me,” and she led Jane to a small table next to one of the windows. The river was eight stories straight down, and on all sides the buildings rose even higher than Jane’s balcony. From where she sat, she could see three bridges. It was interesting to see that they crossed the river at an angle instead of in a businesslike straightforward way. Then she remembered a story that Grandma used to tell. It seemed that over one hundred years ago, when the city was first founded, it was really three separate towns. The people on the west side of the river quarreled with the people on the east bank, and vowed never to have anything to do with them. When the streets were laid out they were careful to see that they did not line up with the streets across the river. They wanted to make it inconvenient ever to build a bridge. Now there were many bridges, a little askew perhaps, but happily making one big friendly town out of the little squabbling villages.

Jane was so absorbed in the view that she forgot to order until a smiling waitress reminded her. Then she remembered she was hungry. Breakfast was so long ago. She read everything on the long menu, and mentally counted her money. This was to be something different, something special. No ham sandwich and a glass of milk this time. She finally decided upon an elaborate chicken mixture in a potato basket, and a chocolate ice-cream sundae for dessert.

The food was delicious, and Janie was engrossed. Once, as she lifted a spoonful of ice cream, she looked up to see a sea gull watching her from his perch just out side the window. He wasn’t nearly so pretty close up as he was from a distance. He was quite awkward and ugly looking, except for his eyes. They were like clear, red glass. Janie smiled at him, but he only looked at her bleakly. “Greedy,” he seemed to say. “There you sit, eating chicken and ice cream, while I have to scour the river for my dinner.” With that unhappy observation he was gone.

“Grouch,” Jane said, and continued to enjoy her lunch.

A noisy tug chortled up the river leaving a wake of foam. It was small enough to scuttle under the bridges, and the bridge tender only waved his arm in salute, instead of having to turn all the machinery as he did for the big boats.

The clock in one of the tall buildings across the river chimed and Janie looked up. Goodness! It was one o’clock. The waitress brought the check, and Janie extracted her crisp one dollar bill and laid it on the slip of paper. She wasn’t quite sure of what to do next, but grown people always put something on the tray for the waitress. She added a dime and a nickel from her rapidly dwindling supply.

An exquisite creature, dressed in the very latest fashion, walked slowly up and down the aisles between the tables. Every curl was in place. Her face had the pleasantly blank expression of a wax doll. Her posture was faultless, and she moved so very gracefully and formally, it was almost like dancing. Janie held her breath. In spite of all that Mom had taught her, she stared. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life, even on circus posters.

She rose to leave, but her eyes wouldn’t come away from the beautiful lady. She walked backwards, and missing the entrance, bumped into a palm tree.

The hostess at the entrance looked as if she hadn’t seen the mishap, but her eyes were sparkling.

“Would you like to be a model when you grow up, dear?”

“Oh yes,” said Jane blissfully walking away on air. All the way down to the street floor she studied her reflection in the tiny mirror at the elevator operator’s elbow. She held her chin very high, and lowered her eyelashes. That was better. With her eyes half closed she looked just right.

“Main floor,” the operator called. “Main floor, watch your step, please.”

Jane floated out with her nose in the air, and tripped on the ledge. Down she went, full length, on the floor. Half a dozen people helped her up, and were very solicitous.

“Are you hurt, little girl?”

“Did you trip?”

“Let me brush you off.”

“Dear me, such a fall!”

“Can I get you a drink of water?”

“Perhaps you’d better sit down for a moment.”

Janie was embarrassed, but otherwise quite all right. “Thank you,” she said to each one who wanted to help her. “Thank you, but I’m not hurt. I’m all right now. I only stumbled.”

She started off by herself once more, and this time she didn’t lower her eyelashes, and she didn’t float. “I’ll wait till I get home,” she thought. “I’ll practice that walk in my room.”

She looked at her watch once more. It was early in the afternoon, only one-fifteen. Two hours stretched before her to do with as she pleased. She decided to go to the stamp store. All the Murrays except Mom collected stamps, and they had worn a beaten path to the stamp store. Mom would have none of it. “I collect stamps, all right,” she said. “I collect them off the floor and under the beds. I shouldn’t be surprised if I’d brush stamps out of my hair!”

The stamp man was glad to see her. He was small and gray and stooped. He always seemed absorbed in something he was peering at through a magnifying glass. He was like a kindly absent-minded gnome. Janie sat on a stool at the counter, and pushed off her hat. It was good to sit down after the hot walk up the street. A fly buzzed on the screen at the window, and the clock ticked. That was the only sound as the old man and the young girl pored over the bright-colored paper squares. She looked and looked, and at last decided upon three stamps, one for each of the boys. She opened her purse and reached for her money, but the money was gone. She searched again, and turned the purse upside down and shook it, but there was nothing in it but a handkerchief and two skeins of embroidery cotton.

“Oh, Mr. Marckus,” she wailed. “What will I do? I’ve lost my money.”

“Eh? What’s that you say?”

“I’ve lost my money. It must have fallen out of my purse when I fell getting out of the elevator. I wanted to buy these stamps for the boys, and now I’ve lost my money.”

Mr. Marckus carefully put a stamp down with a pair of tiny tweezers. He squinted at her distressed face.

“How much do you need,” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t really need anything. I can walk from here to the doctor’s office, and I’m getting a ride back to the lake with Daddy, but I spent a whole dollar on myself, and now I wish that I could buy something for the boys.”

“Well, you can’t charge anything here,” said Mr. Marckus in his dry, dusty, little voice. “If I gave credit to all the young ones who came in here, I’d never be able to make enough to pay my rent.”

Janie’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean,” she started to say.

“I know you didn’t,” said Mr. Marckus. “Your whole family, from your Grandmother down have always been good customers of mine. Here, take the stamps, and we’ll say they’re a birthday present. You have a birthday pretty soon, don’t you?”

“No,” said Janie, looking happy again. “Not until September.”

“Makes no difference,” he said. “A present’s a present.”

He went back to his magnifying glass, and seemed to pay no attention to Janie’s delighted thanks as she prepared to leave.

The twenty-two blocks to the doctor’s office seemed very long indeed. When she got there the waiting room was crowded and she was thirsty and tired. When Daddy called for her at five o’clock she thought she had never been so glad to see him.

“Well, chickie,” he said, pinching her nose. “Did you have a good day? Did you have a fine time spending your hard-earned dollar?”

She settled back in the front seat gratefully, and the car headed for the lake. “Daddy,” she confessed. “I had fun. It was a good day, but I spent my whole dollar on a fancy meal. I ate so much that I felt uneasy all afternoon, and now my money is gone and I have nothing to show for it, not even a new hair ribbon.”

Daddy chuckled. “That’s all right, Janie, my girl,” he said. “We all learn our little lessons.”

_Chapter Twelve_

_The Bear Who Loved Apple Pie_

It was cool that night at the lake front. The boys built a fire with some old boards that had washed up on the shore and begged Daddy for a story.

“Please tell us a story about Indians, Daddy,” said Davey. Bill ran to gather some dry willow twigs to get the fire off to a blazing start.

“I want a bear story,” James insisted. “Mom knows a good one about a big brown bear. It’s a true story, too. She told it to me a long time ago, when I was real little.”

Dad laughed. “It would appear,” he said, “that I’m being ousted as the storyteller of the evening. Janie, run and get your mother.”

Mom was standing on the stepladder tacking paper edging on the cupboard shelves. She had a hammer in one hand and a handful of tacks in the other. “Me?” she asked, gesturing with a hammer. “You’ve got the champion storyteller of McWade county down there right now. Why don’t you have him entertain you?”

“It’s James,” said Jane patiently. “He’s got it into his head that he wants to hear your story about the big brown bear, and I was sent to fetch you.”

“Why,” said Mom. “I’m flattered. I’ll find my sweater and be right with you.”

“Welcome to the powwow,” said Daddy rising and bowing low. “These mighty braves,” he explained, “would like to hear an Indian story and a bear story.”

Mom joined in the play. She wrapped her sweater around her shoulders, making believe it was an Indian blanket, and accepted a cushion near the fire.

“I think I know the story that James is referring to. It’s a true story about Indians that your Grandmother told to me.” She leaned back against the willow tree, and made designs in the sand with a willow twig as she talked.

“It was about a hundred years ago when the Murrays first moved to Wisconsin. Your Great-grandfather bought a farm up in Door county. I shouldn’t say a farm, because it was really a forest. Before it could be a farm they had to chop the trees down, uproot the stumps, and carry off the stones. They built a little cabin in the clearing, and there they lived and worked.

“You’ve seen pictures of Great-grandmother in Grandma’s album. She looks very prim and sedate in her stiff silk dress, and her little children look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but they were just the same sort of people that we are now. I think that Great-grandfather must often have been tired and discouraged at the end of the day, and Great-grandmother must have been frightened and lonely at times, but they worked on and on and lived to see the forest disappear and beautiful cherry orchards bloom in its place.

“There were no neighbors near by, but the Indians were friendly. One of their trails led past the cabin, and the Murrays used to watch them padding along on their way to the settlement at Sturgeon Bay. Great-grandfather knew two of the braves.

“‘That’s Ninnecons,’ he would point out. ‘He has no fingers on his left hand. He says that a bear bit them off, but most likely he got them caught in a beaver trap. The tall one is Shabeno. He’s a good Indian. They’re walking down to the settlement to sell those baskets you see piled on the squaws’ heads.’

“Summer was a busy time. The entire family helped to grow and gather food for the winter. The children helped in the garden patch, and little Nick pulled trout out of the brook as fast as he could bait his hook. Blackberries as big as thimbles glistened in the sun at the edge of the clearing, and thick clusters of wild grapes gave promise of being jelly in the fall. There were raspberries in the woods, but Great-grandfather didn’t want them to go picking berries without him.

“‘A big brown bear lives in the neighborhood,’ he said. ‘He has a sweet tooth. Remember how he stole the wild honey you wanted, Mother? He likes raspberries. You’d most likely meet him in the berry patch.’

“‘He wouldn’t hurt us,’ said Great-grandmother. ‘He might like raspberries. He might even make off with a lamb or a young pig, but he wouldn’t hurt a person.’

“‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ said Great-grandfather. ‘Folks around here say that he’s the one who bit off Ninnecons’ fingers.’

“Great-grandmother laughed and turned back to her work. There was always work to be done in the little clearing. She made her own soap out of ashes and lye and waste fat, and she dipped candles and grew herbs in a tiny garden at the side of the cabin, so that she could make some of her own medicines.

“When the summer turned to fall the air was fragrant with the odor of smoked hams and slabs of bacon. Pumpkins were gathered, and dried corn hung from the rafters like ripe bananas. The forest turned scarlet and yellow and orange, and the slender birch trees at the outskirts looked like a lady’s white fingers held up to the blaze. Indian summer was a little breath of quiet and content, a Thanksgiving at the end of a meal. Just a moment of drowsing in the sun, listening to the ripened nuts falling from the trees and to the partridge rising, and then fall was over, and the northern winter roared in across the Great Lakes.

“During the winter the men worked in the woods cutting down the tall trees, and the women spent most of their time indoors. There was always a fire in the fireplace, and Great-grandmother would sit there spinning and knitting. She taught the children and entertained them, and she cooked and mended and baked and kept the cabin tidy. She sprinkled crumbs for the birds, and once when the snow was deep they tamed a chipmunk.

“Often, on moonlit nights, they looked out to see deer feeding in their garden. The gentle creatures would dig down into the snow with their dainty hooves and nibble at the frozen stumps of cabbages and the remains of corn and chard.”

“Why did they eat that old stuff?” asked Davey.

“Because they were hungry,” said Bill. “Very hungry. Deer almost starve in the wintertime.”

“That’s right,” said Mom. “All the creatures in the forest were hungry, but the wolves sounded hungriest of all. When they howled at night it seemed that they were right on the edge of the clearing, and Great-grandmother would pull the pieced quilt up over her head and shiver.”

“How did the children play in winter,” asked Bill. “Could they go coasting and skating like we do?”

“Yes, but they had neither skates nor sleds as we have now. Nick coasted on barrel staves and he had his own trap line, but Katy and Nell spent most of their time inside the cabin playing with calico dolls.

“One day Great-grandmother looked out to see Ninnecons and Shabeno filing past. They were followed by their patient wives who had baskets piled on their heads and papooses strapped on their backs.

“‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I feel so sorry for those poor women and for those little babies. How cold they must be. I’m going to ask them to come in to get warm.’ She threw a shawl over her head and ran to the door.

“‘Ninnecons,’ she called. ‘Shabeno, won’t you stop for a while and get warm?’

“Without answering the four of them turned off the trail and started up the path to the cabin. Nelly and Katy darted under the beds like frightened rabbits, and the baby started to cry, but Great-grandmother and Nick stood there as if they were giving a reception, and the braves walked in. The squaws stopped at the door and unfastened their papooses.”

Mom paused and looked around at the faces in the firelight.

“Do you know what they did then?” she asked.

Three mouths made circles saying “No.”

But James knew the answer. “I know, Mom,” he said with his eyes sparkling. “I remember now. They parked them outside in the snowbank.”

“That’s right,” said Mom smiling. “The squaws propped their children against the side of the cabin and followed the braves inside. The men walked over close to the fire and sat on the floor without saying a word. Great-grandmother offered chairs to the women, but they declined modestly and sat on the floor near the door. You’ve often heard the expression, ‘Like a wooden Indian.’ Well, that’s just what they were like. They sat there absorbing the heat without moving a muscle. After a while the girls picked up courage and edged out from under the bed. Little Nick was braver than the others. He came over and stood beside his mother and looked and looked. At last his curiosity got the better of his good manners. Pointing to the fingerless hand, he said to Ninnecons,

“‘Did a bear do that?’

“‘Ugh,’ said Ninnecons, ‘bear.’

“That was the extent of the conversation. In another few minutes the braves got up and walked out. The squaws picked up their baskets and babies and followed them down to the trail and then away through the silent forest.

“Many times before spring came, the Indians passed that way, but they never needed another invitation to come in to get warm. They just walked in. They weren’t being impolite. They were really being very logical and reasonable. If the white squaw wanted them in on one cold day, why not on any cold day? Great-grandmother would hear the latch click, and she’d look up from her spinning to see her brown-skinned friends glide in. Occasionally she gave them something to eat, hot tea and corn bread. Sometimes they gave her a present in return. Once she got a basket, and toward spring there were gifts of maple sugar that delighted the children.

“Great-grandmother longed for spring. She watched the buds grow large on the maple trees. Morning came earlier and evening stayed longer. One day she looked out to see a great flock of geese, with their necks outstretched, flying in perfect formation to the Canadian lakes. She called to the children to watch them.

“‘See,’ she said. ‘Spring is here at last.’

“The snow melted and it rained. It rained and rained. The road to the settlement was impassible. It was so muddy that the oxen would have bogged down at every step. Great-grandmother didn’t mind except that the sugar barrel was empty. The flour barrel was almost empty too. There was a little tea in the canister over the fireplace, and part of a slab of bacon hung from the rafters.

“‘We won’t be hungry for another week or so,’ said Great-grandmother as she poured corn meal into a bowl and stirred away at the all too familiar johnnycake.”

“What’s a johnnycake, Mom?” asked Davey.

“It’s another name for corn bread,” said Mom and she kept right on with her story.

“At the side of the cabin rose a brown hump of earth with a wooden ventilator sticking out of the top. It looked like a fat brown man sleeping with a pipe in his mouth. Do any of you children know what it was?”

They looked puzzled, but Janie had a gleam in her eye. “I think I know,” she said. “It must have been a root cellar. We saw them in New Salem where Abraham Lincoln once lived. Weren’t they used for storing potatoes and things like that?”

“That’s right,” said Mom. “It was a root cellar. Great-grandmother searched carefully, but the potatoes were gone, and the carrot bin was empty. The last of the turnips and pumpkins had been used in March. There never was a root cellar that looked more like Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. She picked up her candle and started to leave when she spied a crock jar in a far corner.

“‘Why they’re apples,’ she exclaimed. ‘Enough dried apples to make a pie, if only I had some sugar.’ She didn’t tell her husband about what she had found. I’ll wait until the sugar barrel comes, she thought, and surprise him.

“At last the rain stopped and the sun and the wind dried the fields and the trails. The road to Sturgeon Bay was open, and Great-grandfather started off with the ox team and the big-wheeled wagon. The trip took two days, and on the evening of the second day the creaking of the wagon wheels and the lowing of the oxen announced his return.

“How happy they were to be all together again. Great-grandfather picked the children up and swung them in the air. The little girls each got a stick of striped peppermint candy and Nick got a mouth organ. Great-grandmother got a length of calico for a new dress.

“After supper they sat in the dooryard enjoying the mild spring evening. Nick almost learned to play Yankee Doodle, and he entertained them while his father talked of the news at the settlement.

“‘I saw a Boston paper,’ he said. ‘The Texas treaty of annexation has been signed. Tyler will find himself in trouble over that. The Mexican government says it means war. The Indians have pulled out of the country along the shore of Lake Superior, and the white men are moving in fast. Bob McIntyre says that iron has been discovered at Marquette and copper at Kewanaw Point.’

“Great-grandfather leaned over and knocked the bowl of his pipe against a rock. ‘I heard something amusing, Mother,’ he said. ‘Folks say that a dentist in Hartford, Connecticut, has discovered a painless method of pulling teeth. Laughing gas, they call it. Ha! Ha! Did you ever hear of anything so far fetched?’

“‘What are they reading?’ asked Great-grandmother with her hand on her cheek.

“‘Reading, indeed,’ said her husband. ‘Sure, and they’re all too busy for that, but if it was reading they had time for it would be a book by a Frenchman, Alexander Dumas.’

“‘Yes,’ said Great-grandmother, leaning forward. ‘What is the name of the book?’

“‘It’s a novel,’ said Great-grandfather, ‘by the name of “The Count of Monte Cristo”, but that,’ he continued, ‘is of no real importance. Something wonderful and strange has happened that will conquer the space of loneliness of this great country more than anything that has happened so far. A man by the name of Morse has built a telegraph line from Baltimore to Washington. Imagine that, over forty miles.’

“‘Did he send a message?’ asked Great-grandmother. ‘What did he say?’

“Great-grandfather looked up at the first star. He said, ‘What hath God wrought?’

“Bright and early the next morning Great-grandmother took a hatchet and opened the sugar barrel. She sent Nick to the root cellar for a crock of dried apples, and she worked busily at her pie. The children stood around and watched her. My! it smelled good.

“Just as it was time for the pie to come out of the oven there was a click of the latch and who should walk in but Ninnecons and Shabeno. Oh bother, thought Great-grandmother. They will sit here all day unless I give them some, and if I cut it up there won’t be enough for Johnny when he comes home for his dinner. There are no apples to make another. Perhaps it will go around if I give them extra small pieces. She bent over the oven and lifted out the most luscious, mouth-watering apple pie that you ever saw. The Indians had never smelled anything half so good. Their nostrils widened, and their black beady eyes shone.