Chapter IV: Part 4

"See what I see?" Paul pointed to the back stoop. And there was Grandma milking the nanny goat, who was tied to the stair railing.

"Sh ... sh!" Grandma warned as the children came up. "Don't frighten her. This ain't easy, but I got eenamost enough to make us a nice pot of cocoa."

All during lunch Grandma kept up a stream of conversation to cheer them. "Children," she said brightly, "a she-goat was 'zackly what we needed. If not for Misty, then for us. Ain't this cocoa _de_-licious?"

Paul and Maureen nodded, too tired for words.

"You can each have two cups. And all the biscuits you can eat, with gooseberry jam. I figger the starving people of the world would think this a Thanksgiving feast, don't ye?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"And since you still got work on Misty's stall, you don't need to hang my rug outside today. I got all the windows open and there's a good breeze blowing in."

"Thank you, Grandma."

"Now, you two perten up. Everything's going to be better this afternoon. Life's like a teeter-totter. Heartbreak, happiness. Happiness, heartbreak. You'll see. Everything'll be better this afternoon."

Grandma was right. By the time the wet sawdust was shoveled out, Mr. Hancock was back again with a small tow wagon hooked onto his car.

"Got a big surprise fer ye," he chuckled. "The road people was putting down some ground-up oyster shells, and I got 'em to fill my wagon plumb full. With them shells first, and the shavings atop that, ye'll have the driest stable this side o' Doc Finney's."

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a fury of work. Paul dumped the oyster shells onto the floor. Maureen raked them even. Then came layer on layer of chips and shavings. For a final touch they took a bale of straw and cut it up, a sheaf at a time, into short wisps.

"Why can't we just shake it airy?" Maureen asked. "My fingers ache. Why do I have to cut it?"

"Do you want his pipestem legs getting all tangled up and throwin' him down?"

"'Course not. When you tell me why, I don't mind doing it. But, Paul, how do you know it's going to be a 'he'?"

"I don't, silly. People always say 'he' when they don't know."

"Well, _I_ say 'she.'"

With the work done, Paul flopped down on the straw and lay there quite still.

"You sick?" Maureen asked in fright.

"No!"

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm a newborn colt and I'm testing to see if there are any draughts. Doctor Finney says they can't stand them."

"I feel the wind coming in through the siding. I can feel it blowing my hair."

"That's easy to fix." Paul got up and plastered the cracks with straw and mud. Meanwhile Maureen stripped some pine branches and scattered the needles lightly for fragrance.

By twilight any horse-master would have tacked a blue ribbon on the old chicken-coop barn. Maureen called Grandma to come out and inspect. "You've got to see, Grandma. It's beautiful. Misty's going to be the happiest mother in the world."

Grandma, holding her sweater tight around her neck, stepped inside the snug shelter. She beamed her approval. "I declare to goodness, I'd like to move in myself. Just wait 'til yer Grandpa sees this. Likely he'll do a hop-dance for joy."

But that night Grandpa never even looked at Misty's stall. It was dark when he came home. Without a word he made his way toward the kitchen table and sat down heavily. His face seemed made of clay, gray and pinched and old. Without removing his jacket he sat there, hands folded, just staring at the floor.

The noisy clock was no respecter of grief. Each stroke of the hammer thudded like a heartbeat. The seconds and minutes ticked on. Paul and Maureen sat very still, saying nothing, doing nothing. Just waiting.

"Yer Grandpa's had a mill day," Grandma whispered at last. "He's all cut to pieces. Jes' leave him be."

It was as if the gentle words had broken a dike. The old man hid his face in his arms and wept.

"Don't be ashamed to cry, Clarence. Let the tears out if they want to come." Grandma put her clean, scrubbed hand on the gnarled, mud-crusted ones. "King David in the Bible was a strong man and he wept copiously." Her voice went on softly. "In my Sunday School class just two weeks ago I gave the story of King David. There was one verse and it said, 'The King covered his face and wept.' Just like you, Clarence."

Neither Paul nor Maureen made a sound. They were too stunned. They watched the heaving shoulders in silence. Grandpa, who had always seemed so strong and indestructible, now looked little and feeble and old. When his sobs quieted, he wiped his eyes and slowly looked up. "I ain't fit to talk to nobody," he said, his voice no more than a breath.

"Oh ... oh, Grandpa!" Maureen cried. "Your voice! It's gone! You ain't bellerin'!" And she ran to him and flung her arms about him, sobbing hysterically.

"There, there, child. Don't you cry, too. I'm plumb 'shamed to break down when we're lots luckier than most folks." He smiled weakly. "We got our house and each other and...."

"And Misty," Paul said earnestly.

"And Misty," Grandpa nodded. "It's jes'...." He swallowed hard and his hands gripped the table until the knuckles showed white through the dirt. "It's jes'," he repeated, "that all the days of my life I'll hear that slow creakin' of the crane liftin' up the dead ponies, and I'll see their legs a-swingin' this way and that like they was still alive and kickin'." Now the words poured from him in a tide; he couldn't stop the flow. "And some had stars on their faces, and some had two-toned manes and tails, and some was marked so bright and purty, and most o' the mares had a little one inside 'em." His voice broke. "I knowed all my herd by name."

"How many were there in all, Clarence? Yours and the others?"

Grandpa's breath came heavy, as if he were still at work. "We lifted off more'n we could count," he said, "includin' the wild ones over to Assateague. And when the trucks was all lined up with their dead cargo, ever' one of us took off our hats, and the army men and us Chincoteaguers all looked alike with our sunburnt faces and white foreheads. And we was all alike in our sadness.

"Then the preacher, he come by and he said somethin' about these hosses needin' no headstone to mark their grave, and he put up a prayer to the memory of the wild free things. He said, 'Neither tide nor wind nor rain nor flight of time can erase the glory o' their memory.'"

Everyone in the little kitchen let out a deep sigh as if the preacher's words were right and good.

After a moment Grandpa got up from the table and put his arm around Grandma. "Now ye see, Idy, why I had to smuggle ye home. I needed ye for comfort."

Grandma wiped her spectacles with her apron. "Must be steam in the room," she said.

Grandpa had one more thing to say. "Fer jes' this oncet in my life I wisht I was a waterman 'stead of a hossman. When oysters die, ye can plant another bushel, and when boats drift away, ye can build another. But when ponies die ... how can ye replace 'em?"

Paul glanced around in sudden terror. It was as if a cold blade of fear had struck him. His eyes sought Maureen's. They were very dark and wide and asking.

Was Misty all right?

_Chapter 18_

WITHIN THE FOALING BOX

On the same day that Grandpa was airlifting the ponies and Paul and Maureen were drying out Misty's stall, Misty herself felt strangely unhappy.

She had a freshly made bed in a snug stable, and she couldn't have been lonely for she was never without company. If she so much as scratched an ear with a hind hoof, young David Finney tried to do it for her. If she lipped at her hay, he tore handfuls out of the manger and presented it joyously to her. If she lay down, he tried to help her get comfortable.

And there were newspaper men coming and going, taking pictures of her in her stall, out of her stall, with David, without David. One caught Misty pulling the ponytail of a lady reporter. There was plenty of laughter and a constant flow of visitors.

But in spite of all the attention she was getting, Misty felt discontented and homesick. She was accustomed to the cries of sea birds, and the tang of salt air, and the tidal rhythm of the sea. And she was accustomed to going in and out of her stall, to the old tin bathtub that was her watering trough. But here everything was brought to her.

She kept shaking her head nervously and stamping in impatience. Occasionally she let out a low cry of distress which brought David and Dr. Finney on the run. But they could not comfort her. She yawned right in their faces as much as to say, "Go away. I miss my own home-place and my own children and my own marsh grass."

In all the long day there was only one creature who seemed to sense her plight. It was Trineda, the trotter in the next stall. The two mares struck up a friendly attachment, and when they weren't interrupted by callers, they did a lot of neighborly visiting. If Misty paced back and forth, Trineda paced alongside in her own stall, making soothing, snorting sounds. The newsmen spoke of her as Misty's lady-in-waiting, and some took pictures of the two, nose to nose.

When night came on, Trineda was put out to pasture, and Misty's sudden loneness was almost beyond bearing. She shied at eerie shadows hulking across her stall. And her ear caught spooky rustling sounds. Filled with uneasiness, she began pacing again, not knowing that the shadows came from a lantern flame flickering as the wind stirred it, not knowing that the rustling sounds were made by Dr. Finney tiptoeing into the next stall, carefully setting down his bag of instruments, and stealthily opening up his sleeping roll.

When at last there was quiet, Misty lay down, trying to get comfortable. But she was even more uncomfortable. Hastily she got up and tried to sleep standing, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

Suddenly she wanted to get out, to be free, to high-tail it for home. She neighed in desperation. She pawed and scraped the floor, then banged her hoof against the door.

Trineda came flying in at once, whinnying her concern. Trying to help, she worked on the catch to the door, but it was padlocked. She thrust her head inside, reaching over Misty's shoulder, as much as to say, "There, there. There, there. It'll all be over soon."

Dr. Finney watched, fascinated, as the four-footed nurse quickly calmed her patient. "It'll probably be a long time yet," he told himself. "Nine chances out of ten she'll foal in the dark watches of the night. I'd better get some sleep while I can." He was aware that many of his friends would pity him tonight, shaking their heads over the hard life of a veterinarian. But at this moment he would not trade jobs for any other in the world. Each birth was a different kind of miracle.

Sighing in satisfaction, he slid down into his sleeping bag and settled himself for a long wait. The seconds wore on, and the minutes and the slow hours. He grew drowsy and he dozed, and he woke to check on Misty, and he dozed again. Toward morning his sleep was fitful and he dreamed that Misty was a tree with ripening fruit--just one golden pear. And he dreamed that the stem of the fruit was growing weak, and it was the moment of ripe perfection.

A flush of light in the northeast brought him sharply awake. He peered through the siding and he saw Misty lying down, and he saw wee forehoofs breaking through the silken birth bag, the head resting upon them; then quickly came the slender body with the hindlegs tucked under.

He froze in wonder at the tiny filly lying there, complete and whole in the straw. It gave one gulping gasp for air, and then its sides began rising and falling as regularly as the ticking of a clock.

Alarmed by the gasping sound, Misty scrambled to her feet and turned to look at the new little creature, and the cord joining them broke apart, like the pear from the tree. Motionless, she watched the spidery legs thrashing about in the straw. Her foal was struggling to get up. And then it was half way up, nearly standing!

Suddenly Misty was all motherliness. She sniffed at the shivering wet thing and some warning impulse told her to protect it from chills. Timidly at first, she began to mop it dry with her tongue. Then as her confidence grew, she scrubbed in great rhythmic swipes. Lick! Lick! Lick! More vigorously all the time. The moments stretched out, and still the cleaning and currying went on.

Dr. Finney sighed in relief. Now the miracle was complete--Misty had accepted her foal. He stepped over the unneeded bag of instruments and picked up a box of salt and a towel. Then, talking softly all the while, he unlocked Misty's door and went inside. "Good girl, Misty. Move over. There, now. You had an easy time."

With a practiced hand he sprinkled salt on the filly's coat and the licking began all over again. "That's right, Misty. You work on your baby," he said, unfolding the towel, "and I'll rub _you_ down. Then I'll make you a nice warm gruel. Why, you're not even sweating, but we can't take any chances."

Misty scarcely felt Dr. Finney's hands. She was nudging the foal with her nose, urging it up again so that she could scrub the other side.

The little creature _wanted_ to stand. Desperately it thrust its forelegs forward. They skidded, then splayed into an inverted V, like a schoolboy's compass. There! It was standing, swaying to and fro as if caught in a wind.

Smiling, Dr. Finney stopped his rubbing. He saw that all was well. Reluctantly he left the stall.

Minutes later he was on the telephone. Young David stood behind him, listening in amazement and disgust. How could grown-ups be so calm, as if they'd just come in from repairing a fence or pulling weeds? He wanted to do hand-springs, cartwheels, stand on his head! But there was his father's voice again, sounding plain and everyday.

"Yes, Paul. She delivered at dawn."

"A mare-colt, sound as a dollar."

"Yes, I'm making Misty a warm mash. Just waiting for it to cool a bit."

"No, Paul, she's just fine. Everything was normal."

"No, don't bring the nanny goat. Misty's a fine mother."

"Don't see why not. By mid-afternoon, anyway."

Dr. Finney put the receiver in place, stretching and yawning.

"Dad, what don't you 'see why not'?" David asked.

"Why they can't take Misty and her foal home today."

"Can I go out and see her now?" David pleaded.

"No, son," Dr. Finney replied. Then he saw the flushed young face and the tears brimming. "Of course you can go later. Just give them an hour or so alone."

_Chapter 19_

GLORY HALLELUJAH!

Paul turned from the telephone and let out a war whoop loud enough to break the sound barrier. He grabbed Maureen and they pulled Grandpa between them and went dancing around the kitchen table, lifting their knees high, bugling like wild horses. It was a free-for-all frolic. Grandpa was suddenly himself again, spry-legged and bellowing.

Grandma laughed in relief. She dropped her spoon in the pancake batter and half ran to the organ. Recklessly she threw back the lid and, with all stops open, made the notes thunder and throb as she sang in her full-bodied voice:

"Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah,
His truth is marching on."

Around and around the table marched the three Beebes. Skipper burst into the house, joining the dance, howling to the music. At last Grandpa had to sit down, and Paul and Maureen fell limp and exhausted on the floor.

Grandma turned from the organ, her eyes crinkled with joy. She clapped her hands for attention, then chanted:

"_Come_ day, _go_ day;
God send _Sun_-day.

And where do we go today?" she asked.

"To Pocomoke!" Maureen burst out.

"But before that, where? And who do we thank today?"

"Misty!" Paul shouted. But he grinned as he said it, knowing what Grandma had in mind.

Grandpa twisted uncomfortably. "Me and him," he said, scratching Skipper behind an ear, "we got to clean out the truck and do a passel o' things. We'll jes' do our churchin' while we work."

"Clarence Beebe, you'll do no sech a thing! Today is a shining special day and we won't argify. To church we go. _As a fambly!_"

Promptly at nine forty-five the truck, now clean as water and soap could make it, rattled out of the yard with Grandpa and Grandma sitting dressed up and proud in the cab, and Maureen and Paul in back, feet dangling over the tailgate. The sun was shining for the first time in a week, and the sky was a luminous blue.

"Seems almost like it's Easter," Maureen said. "Seems different from other Sundays. Wonder why?"

"'Cause we're wearing shadow rolls over our noses, just like race horses."

Unconsciously Maureen felt of her nose.

"Can't you see, Maureen? We're not even looking at the houses with their porches ripped off and mattresses and things drying in the sun. We're seeing bigger."

"Like what?"

Paul looked up. "Like that flag flying over the Fire House, painting stars and stripes on the sky. And the sea smiling and cheerful as if it'd never been nasty-mean."

Maureen nodded. "And even if the houses _are_ all bashed in, Paul, you hardly notice them for the clumps of daffydils."

It was true. The world seemed reborn. The blue-green water of the bay was unruffled and washing softly against the drift. Gulls were gliding on a seaward breeze with scarcely a wing-flutter. And here and there in all the mud and muck, hosts of yellow daffodils were nodding like spatters of sunshine.

Up in front Grandpa and Grandma were feeling the same joy. "The storm sure bloomed the place up," Grandpa said.

Grandma sighed in deep contentment. "Takes a wrathful storm to make us 'preciate bonny weather, don't it?"

As the Beebe family took their seats in the rapidly filling church, the men of the Coast Guard filed into the front rows.

"Paul!" Grandpa whispered loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. "There's Lieutenant Lipham. He's the one rescued you the day you snuck over to Assateague and your boat drifted away."

The lieutenant turned around, smiling broadly. Paul's cheeks reddened.

Maureen had secretly brought the birth announcements to church so that she and Paul could fill in the hour and date, everything except the name. But they never even opened the package. From almost the beginning of the sermon, they leaned forward, listening with every fiber.

"The earth is the Lord's," the deep voice of the preacher intoned. "He hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods."

And just by listening to the resounding voice, Paul and Maureen could see God commanding Noah to build the ark, big and flat-bottomed, and they could see the flood waters rising and the animals marching in, two by two.

"God is in the rescue business," the preacher's words rolled out, "and every believer is a member of His rescue force. Today we pay special tribute to the United States Coast Guard. In the sight of God, men who do not know the harbor of His love are like men lost at sea, grasping for something or someone to save them. The Church is God's rescue force, just as the Coast Guard is the government's rescue force."

The preacher half-closed his eyes. "On Thursday night," he said, "when the last of the refugees staying here in our church had been taken to their homes or to the mainland, I walked down the streets and saw the havoc and the emptiness of our once lovely island. Yet no Chincoteaguer had lost his life, and I paused to thank God.

"Then I came back to the parsonage. All was dark and quiet. I was alone. Darkness was all around. Then a flash across the sky! The only light left shining came from the old lighthouse on Assateague Island. It was spreading wide its beam of hope and guidance. So it is when the lights of this old world are snuffed out, and the storms of life would destroy us, the steady light of God's love still shines. As our great Coast Guard keeps the light flashing from the lighthouse, so it is our task to keep our lights burning here at home.

"Let us sing."

Paul and Maureen were almost sorry when the sermon ended. They rose with the congregation, and sang as lustily as Grandma. Even Grandpa made his lips move as if he knew the words:

"Brightly beams our Father's mercy
From His lighthouse evermore,
But to us He gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore."

Just as the final "Amen" faded, the preacher was handed a message. He read it to himself in apparent pleasure. Then he stilled the congregation.

"Friends," he said with a smile, "I have an important announcement." He cleared his throat and glanced at Paul and Maureen before he began. "On this day, in a stable in the city of Pocomoke, a foal was born--a tiny mare colt." He paused. Then he added, "And her mother is Misty."

There was a rustle as everyone turned to look at Paul and Maureen, then smiles and murmurs of "Misty ... Misty" from every pew.

Quickly the congregation moved out into the bright sunshine. Preacher Britton was greeting the members, and Paul and Maureen, blushing in embarrassment, were standing beside him. Everyone was shaking hands with everyone else. Hands that all week had lifted and scrubbed and prayed now clasped each other in joy.

"It's the happiest news to reach Chincoteague in a week of terror!"

"The very happiest."

For once Grandpa didn't bolt for home as if his house were on fire. He shook hands heartily with the preacher. "Reverend," he said, "ye jes' put up one o' the greatest sermons I ever heerd!"

"Come oftener," the preacher replied with a grin.

_Chapter 20_

HOME AT LAST

After returning home from church, all of the Beebes hurried into old clothes and went to work in a kind of happy frenzy. Everything needed doing at once.

Paul crushed oats in Grandma's coffee grinder and mixed them with bran and linseed, all ready for the hot water when Misty came home. He filled the manger with good-smelling hay. He washed the salt block.

"Wouldn't surprise me none if ye licked it clean with yer own tongue," Grandpa laughed as he went by with Nanny's kid tugging at his pants leg.

In the kitchen Maureen was sewing strips of tape on an old blanket. Every now and then she ran to try it on Grandma to see if the ties were in the right place. "If it fits you, Grandma, it'll fit Misty."

Grandma made a wry face. "Reckon I should be complimented," she snorted, "'stead of laying my ears back. Beats me!" she added as she wrapped jelly sandwiches in waxed paper. "There's barely a speck o' meal in the house for biscuits or bread, and scarce a dry thing to cover folks with, but there's allus oats and bran a-plenty, and a royal blanket for Miss Misty."

"Missus Misty!" Maureen corrected.

Grandma disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and came back with a shy smile. "Here's my contribution," she said. "Likely I'll have no more use for this soft baby blanket. With a couple of safety pins to fasten it under her belly, it'll be just the right size for Misty's young'un. That long ride home will be kind o' drafty for a newborn."

By half-past noon Grandpa and Paul and Maureen were waving good-bye to Grandma and were on their way to Pocomoke City. To their amazement, the causeway to the mainland was jammed with a long procession of cars coming from Maryland, Delaware, and even Washington, D.C.

"Why in tarnation they coming to Chincoteague today?" Paul asked, opening up the lunch box.

"I'll tune ye if I catch ye sayin' 'tarnation' again," Grandpa scolded. Then he cackled in laughter. "'Tain't fittin' except fer an old feller like me."

"But why _are_ they?" Maureen wanted to know.

"Folks is funny," Grandpa mused. "Some jes' nacherly likes to waller in woe like pigs in a pen. Sure as shootin' they're comin' to gawp at the wreckage and to take pitchers o' the boats in the streets, and the soggy beddin' and things dryin' in the sun. Curiosity folks, I calls 'em."

A station wagon with a Maryland license flagged them down. Brakes screeched for a mile as cars behind honked in a mad chorus. A young man with a shock of red hair called out, "How do we get to the Beebe Ranch? We want to see Misty's colt."

Grandpa stopped the truck and guffawed. "News out already?" he asked in amazement.

"Yes, sir! Network had it on the radio, and my kids gave me no peace--"

"Wal, what do ye know! Sorry, young feller, but you passed plumb by her. She's over to Pocomoke City, to Doc Finney's house." Grandpa drove on, chuckling.

"See!" Maureen said. "Not everybody comes to look at trouble."

"Ye're right, honey. Lucky thing yer Grandma stayed to home. She would've flew into the air, hearin' me talk like that."

* * * * *

When they reached Dr. Finney's place, the doctor, who had been watching from the house, came to meet them. With a welcoming smile he unlocked the gate and motioned Grandpa to drive in and park alongside the corral. Then without a word he led the way. In absolute silence the three Beebes walked one after the other Indian file behind him. They moved across the paddock as if it were hallowed ground. Still in silence they eased up to the barn. And then, after almost a year of waiting, the moment had come!

Unconsciously Grandpa took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. Paul and Maureen stood on tiptoe, peering in without breathing. They were utterly still, not wanting the scene to change. There, at the far end of the stall, stood Misty. She eyed them dispassionately as if they belonged to another world and another time. Like a bird brooding a chick she was hovering over a wise little, fuzzy little, scraggly little foal. For a moment the tiny thing took fright and leaned quivering against her mother, who made soft whuffing sounds. Then, comforted, she nosed her way to Misty's teats and began nursing.

"Wa-al, I never!" Grandpa sighed in deep contentment. "Them sucky-smacky sounds is purtier 'n a hull flock o' meadow larks!"

Maureen brushed away a tear. How could a creature be so young and breakable-looking, and yet so spunky? "Why, I feel like I'm its grandma!" she whispered shyly. "And hasn't it got the longest eye-winkers and the curliest tail you most ever saw?"

Paul whispered too. "Look at the strange marking on her forehead--it's in the shape of a new sickle moon! I know!" he exulted. "That's 'cause she was born in the time of the new moon."

Grandpa stared. "She's the onliest colt I ever see with a markin' like that."

"Yes," Dr. Finney said. "There's nothing like her on the Eastern Shore."

"Likely not in all the world," Paul said.

After the colt had drunk her fill, Misty came to the door and nickered happily, sniffing Paul and Maureen by turns.

"She's inviting us in," Paul said.

Slowly, quietly, not to startle the little one, the Beebes went into the stall, and the gentlest of hands lifted her forelock that was only beginning to be a forelock. "Here's a girl's got a head on her," Grandpa approved. "There's enough Arabian into her to make that purty head. And ain't she marked up nice? Not a reg'lar map on her shoulders like her mommy, but she's got her four white stockings."

"And her color is sorrel, like Wings," Maureen said.

Dr. Finney looked at his watch, thinking of the calls still to be made.

Grandpa followed his glance. "If'n ye'll excuse us," he said, "we got to hyper along now. Any last-minute advice, Doc?"

"For now," Dr. Finney said, "avoid bulky food for Misty. Nothing rich or hard to digest."

"How about ground oats and bran and linseed?" Paul asked hopefully.

"Couldn't be better! And no need to remind you children that daily mucking-out is a MUST."

Grandpa nodded vigorously, an "I-told-you-so" twinkle in his eye.

"Right now their stall is the cleanest in the whole wide world," Maureen said proudly.

With quiet confidence she and Paul tied Misty's blanket in place for the trip back. Grandpa took the soft baby blanket and laid it on the little one. Then he crouched down and lifted her up in his arms and carried her out, with Paul leading Misty alongside.

As she approached the truck, Misty planted her feet and balked. Plain as day she bellered: "I'm _not_ getting into that thing without my baby!" But when she found out that her foal was safely stowed in the cab in front, she hurried up the ramp, poked her head through the window, and nickered in relief.

Dr. Finney started to wave good-bye, then had a last-minute request. "Mind driving by David's window?" he asked. "I had to put him to bed this morning with a case of old-fashioned measles. Poor lad hasn't seen the colt. He's heartbroken."

Paul felt a prick of shame. "I'm sorry, Dr. Finney, I didn't even miss him." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden gull. "I made it to sell to the tourist folk," he explained, "but I want to give it to David instead. And some day," he added, warming to his own generosity, "I might make a carving of Misty and her foal. Just for him."

Grandpa drove home very carefully, avoiding ruts and bumps. He didn't want to jar the little filly, who lay asleep across Paul's and Maureen's laps, her soft woolen blanket rising and falling with her breathing.

Going over the causeway, they slowed to a crawl. One driver spotted Misty and put on the brakes so suddenly that his two children almost flew through the windshield. "There she is!" he shouted. "Hey, Mister, wait!"

Grandpa came to a stop, grinning. He felt good toward the whole world. "Want a picture?" he asked.

"Do we!" And now other cars were stopping and out popped dozens of children and dozens of cameras. Traffic stalled while shutters clicked on all sides.

After a few moments Misty began stomping and whinnying. There was a curious urging in her mind, a tremendous pull for home.

"Let's go," Paul said. "Misty's getting nervous."

Grandpa stopped the picture-taking and drove on. And at long last they were going down Beebe Road into Pony Ranch. Once the tailgate was lowered Misty slow-footed down the ramp like a queen returning to her kingdom. Skipper, the official greeter, welcomed her in ten-foot bounds, jumping, rolling, yelping in pure joy. And out on the marsh, Wings added his voice in a great cry of triumph.

Grandma rushed out of the house, calling, "Where's Misty's baby? Where?"

For answer Paul and Grandpa lifted her out of the truck and carefully set her down beside her mother. She tried a little caper, lost her balance and fell in a heap. Bravely she scrabbled up again, then staggered to her mother and began drinking thirstily. Satisfied, she blew bubbles, sending little beads of milk running down her whiskers.

Misty whickered in contentment. "Home at last," she seemed to say. And she gave the little rump at her side a nip, ever so gentle and motherly.

_Chapter 21_

A GRAVE DECISION

That night, when Pony Ranch had simmered down into a semblance of peace, Maureen brought out the birth announcements and piled them on the kitchen table. She and Paul were alone. Grandpa had gone to an emergency meeting of the Pony Penning Committee, and Grandma was attending the evening church service.

"You put the date on," Paul said to Maureen. "You write better than me. Besides, I got some important thinking to do."

"Oh?"

Paul flicked open his pocketknife and began working on a block of wood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maureen dip her pen in the ink bottle and wait with it poised in the air.

"I declare, Paul Beebe, you can be downright mean! What _are_ you thinking?"

"And you can be such a _girl_!" Paul said in disdain. "Always poking and prying."

"All right, I won't ask. 'Cause I already know. So there!"

"What do you know?"

"You're trying to think of the right name for Misty's baby."

"Okay then. I reckon you got what Grandpa calls 'woman's tuition.' Now you know what's occupying my mind, whyn't you keep quiet and do your work?"

_Sunday, March 11, 6 a.m._ Maureen wrote again and again until her fingers were tired.

At last Paul was ready to talk. "There's three ways to do it. One is by her markings...."

"Like _New Moon_ or _White Stockings_, Paul?"

"Uh-huh. And the second way is by using her family's names--like _Misty Wings_ or _Pied Phantom_."

"And what's the third way, Paul?"

Just then Grandpa's truck roared into the yard, brakes screeching. Grandpa himself banged into the house like a Fourth of July firecracker. He threw his hat on the peg, then with both hands began rubbing the bristles in his ears.

"I say there's _got_ to be a Pony Pennin' this year like allus," he stormed. "Why, it's the oldest roundup in America! We jes' can't let folks down 'cause of a little flood. Why, come July and roundup time, folks are goin' to pack their night things and set out for Chincoteague hopin' to give their kids a real hollerday. And they're goin' to drive fer miles an' miles, and when they get here--NO hollerday! No Pony Penning!" He snorted in disgust. "I won't hear to it! I jes'--"

"Grandpa!" Paul interrupted. "Who says there won't be a Pony Penning?"

"Why, the Mayor's committee and the firemen, they say ain't enough wild ponies left over to Assateague to make it excitin', and no money in the treasury to buy new ones.

"What's more," he bellowed, "they're right! But I ain't told 'em so! 'Cause without ponies this-here island is dead. Do ye think folks comes here to see oysters and clams and biddies?"

"No, Grandpa."

"Ye're dead right they don't! They come to see wild ponies swimmin' across the channel, and feudin' and fratchin' in the pens. Pony Penning Day! That's what they come fer. Can't see it nowhere else in the world."

Paul and Maureen were aghast. July without Pony Penning was unthinkable. "All year I been answering letters about Misty," Maureen said. "And in every one I invited people to come to Pony Penning, people from all over the United States. Even one to Alaska."

Paul broke in. "And this year folks'll come special on purpose to see Misty's baby."

Grandpa began pacing, thinking out loud. "If only we had the ponies! If only the Town Council could buy back some of the colts that was auctioned off last year and the year afore that."

He quickened his pace. "Why, we could load 'em onto a big old barge, and chug 'em acrost the channel to Assateague, and they'd go wild again jes' like they'd never left." Now he spoke out with great conviction. "Why, then we could put up one o' the greatest Pony Pennings in Chincoteague history."

Grandpa ran out of breath. He gulped for more. "But all that'd take a heap o' money," he sighed.

"Maybe," Maureen said excitedly, "maybe Paul and me could earn a lot of money like we did to buy Misty's mother. We could rake clams or help people clean up their houses."

Paul looked pityingly at his sister. "When you going to grow up, Maureen? Why, it took us three whole months to earn enough to buy just one mare and her colt. Besides, folks here lost most everything in the flood. They can't afford to hire us."

"Paul's right, honey."

"But, Grandpa," Paul asked, "even if we had the money, would people sell back their ponies?"

"Likely some'd be right anxious to help," Grandpa replied, "and some'd sell fer other reasons. A lucky thing me and the Fire Company got a record o' each sale, and if only half them people say yes, that'd give us the start we need."

Grandpa suddenly remembered that his feet hurt. He collapsed into the nearest chair and began unlacing his Sunday shoes. "Can't abide 'em!" he grumbled. "I jes' stormed outen that meetin' afore it was done--half 'cause my hackles was up, but half 'cause my shoes squinched me."

The phone rang insistently. "You answer, Paul. There's another thing I can't abide. Phone-talkin'. A contraption o' the devil."

"It's for you, Grandpa. It's the Mayor and he sounds real important."

Grandpa thudded to the phone. "Hall-oo-oa!" he bellowed.

"Grandpa doesn't need a phone," Paul snickered. "He could just open a window."

"Sh!" Maureen put up a finger, listening.

"_Who_ called you?" Grandpa questioned.

There was a pause.

"What in tunket _he_ want?"

Another pause.

"He did!"

Paul and Maureen looked inquiringly at each other.

"Wa-al, Great Jumpin' Jehoshephat! Now ain't that nice?... What's that ye say?"

A long pause.

Still holding the receiver, Grandpa turned and looked penetratingly at Paul and Maureen. His voice sobered. "Sure I like the ideer, Mayor, but 'tain't fer me to say. I'll have to put it to Paul and Maureen and get their yes or no. The colt, nor Misty neither--they ain't mine, y'know."

Grandpa hung up the receiver and walked back to the table, collecting his thoughts. Paul and Maureen stared at him, unable to ask the question except with their eyes.

Grandpa hummed and hawed. "Now I ain't a-goin' to influence ye," he said. "It's _yer_ druthers, an' no one else's."

"But what is it?"

"Y'see, uh, it's this way. One o' the big chiefs from the movie company that made Misty's picture--he jes' telephoned the Mayor long distance. From his home, mind ye."

"What did he want?" Maureen asked. "Does he want to make a picture of Misty's baby?"

"Stop interruptin'," Paul scolded. "Let Grandpa finish."

"Wa-al," Grandpa went on, "seems he'd been readin' 'bout the storm and how so many ponies had drowned. And he wants to do somethin' to help. Why, he's willin' to let theaters borry the picture of Misty free; that is, _if_ the money tooken in goes to build up the lost herds."

Paul did a flying leap over his chair. "That's great, Grandpa. You don't have to get our okay on that."

"But I ain't told ye the kernel yet," Grandpa explained. "Y'see, the Mayor and the Council wants to start a disaster fund, and call it the Misty Disaster Fund." Grandpa stroked his chin and a far look crept into his eyes. "They want to cast Misty in the biggest role o' her life; even bigger'n bein' a star in a movie."

The children listened, speechless.

"Even bigger," Grandpa added, "than birthin' a colt."

"What could be bigger?" Maureen asked.

"They want Misty and her young'un to make a personal tour wherever her picture is playing, and go right spang up onto the stage. And part o' the ticket money'll be used to tidy up the island, but most of it to buy back the ponies. Mind ye, it'll all have to start right away. Mebbe in two weeks--that is, if there's to be a roundup this year."

Paul turned to his sister. "What do you say, Maureen?"

Maureen's face clouded and she thought carefully before replying. "If Misty's baby wasn't so new and tiny, I'd say yes."

Paul picked up the block of wood and his knife, and made a few fierce jabs. "Exactly the way I feel." He looked at Maureen. "'Course, it'd be fun to be excused from school and all."

"Mostly it'd be on Saturdays," Grandpa said drily.

"But suppose," Paul was serious now, "suppose they caught the shippin' fever, or bad coughs from travelin' and going in and out of hot theaters. Or even broke a leg."

All three of them lapsed into silence. No one knew what to say. Maureen screwed the cap onto the ink bottle as if she would never have need of it again. Paul threw his piece of wood into the stove and closed his knife. The silence was a growing power. Grandpa sat down and crossed his arms, using his paunch as a ledge. He looked up at the ceiling and across at the clock. He picked up one of the birth announcements and studied it. The corners of his mouth twisted into a smile of sympathy and understanding. "It'd be chancy," he admitted. "Mighty chancy."

"But suppose," Paul spoke slowly, earnestly, "suppose we let Misty and the colt go to just one theater, and if they come home feeling frisky, they could go again. But if they got sick or were off their feed for just one day, they'd _never_ have to go again."

Grandpa's eyes shone like twin meteors. "Sometimes I think you two is the livin' image o' me! I'm so proud of ye I could strut like one o' our peacocks in full sail. I'll take it up with the Council first thing in the--"

_Bong! Bong!_ ... The clock struck the hour of ten, and with the last _bong_ the telephone rang shrilly. Grandpa clapped a hand to his forehead, then grabbed for his shoes. "Great balls o' fire! I plumb forgot to pick up yer Grandma from the meetin' house. You answer, Maureen. I'm gone!"

_Chapter 22_

THE NAMING BEE

Over the weekend the schoolhouse had been dried out, and on Monday it re-opened with only the high-tide mark showing. Paul and Maureen were present and on time. But it was a hard thing to remember the provinces of Canada, or to stand up and recite: "Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe ..." when Misty's filly had to be named. The Town Council was insistent. They had to have a name at once. And the more Paul and Maureen were pressed to make a decision, the harder it was to decide.

For the next few days, in school and out, they thought up names and just as quickly discarded them. None seemed right. Either they were too long, or when you called them out across the marsh they sounded puny. It wasn't like naming just any colt.

For three days they struggled. Then on Wednesday almost at dusk Mr. Conant, the postmaster himself, arrived at Pony Ranch with a whole bag of mail for the Beebes. When Grandma spied him striding across the yard, she quickly set an extra place at the table and sent Maureen to the door.

"Evenin', Mr. Conant," Maureen said politely, but her eyes were on the mailbag.

"How do you do, Maureen and Mrs. Beebe?"

"How-do, Mr. Conant. I declare," Grandma chuckled, "you look jes' like Santa Claus with that leather pouch ye're carryin'. Let me hang it on a peg whilst you set down. Mr. Beebe and Paul will be in right soon. Now then," she beamed, "do stay to supper. We got us a fine turtle stew with black-eyed peas, and light bread, and some of my beach-plum preserves."

"I'd be very honored to stay!" Mr. Conant replied. "My wife has taken her mother to Salisbury for over night, and while she has no doubt prepared some tasty treat for me, what is food without good talk to digest it?"

Grandma looked pleased. "That's what I allus tell Clarence, only I don't say it so elegant."

Maureen was still eyeing the mailbag, her curiosity at the bursting point.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Mr. Conant smiled broadly. He reached into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope bearing a bright red Special Delivery sticker. "It's for you and Paul," he said, handing it to Maureen. "Since it's marked _Special_, I decided to bring all of your mail along, instead of letting it wait until tomorrow." Pointing to the mailbag, he added, "It's the biggest batch of mail ever to come to Chincoteague for one family in one day."

There was a clatter and a stamping in the back hall as Grandpa and Paul came in. "Why, if 'tain't Mr. Conant," Grandpa said, putting out his hand. "I'm as pleased to see ye as a dog with two tails!"

"Look, Paul!" Maureen cried. "A letter, Special Delivery! For us!"

Paul took the news with outward calm, but his eyes strained to see the postmark and his fingers itched to snatch the letter and run off, like Skipper with a bone.

"You children put that letter with the others and wash up now," Grandma scolded gently as she stirred the stew. "Turtles is hard to come by, and I ain't minded to let our vittles get ruint. Besides," she said, "if it's good news, it'll keep, and if it's bad, time enough to read it after we've et. Everyone, please to sit. You here, Mr. Postmaster."

In spite of company, supper that night was, as Grandpa put it, "a lick and a gallop." Everyone was in a fever of excitement to start opening the letters. But first the table had to be cleared, and the crumbs swept clean. Then Grandma spread out a fresh checkered cloth to protect the top. "We allus use the kitchen table for everything," she explained to Mr. Conant, "fer readin' and writin', fer splintin' broken bird legs--whatever 'tis needs doin'." She nodded now in the direction of the mail pouch.

The postmaster took down the bag and dumped the letters onto the table. With the hand of an expert he stacked them in neat piles, placing the Special Delivery on top.

"It's like Christmas!" Maureen gasped.

"It's _bigger_ than Christmas," Paul said.

"Who they for?" Grandpa wanted to know.

"Some are for you, Mr. Beebe, and some for Paul and Maureen."

Wait-a-Minute jumped on the table and began upsetting the piles. Paul swept her off with his arm. "You tend to your kittens," he said not unkindly. "We got important business!" He took out his pocketknife. "I'll do the slitting," he announced.

"I'll do the pullin' out and unfoldin'," Grandpa offered.

"You read them to us, Grandma," Maureen said. "You make everything sound like a storybook."

Grandma blushed. "Mr. Conant's got the edification. I'd be right shy readin' in front of him."

"Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Beebe. I agree with Maureen. Many a Sunday I've gone by your class and heard you reading from the Bible. I feel complimented you let me stay and be part of the family."

For a moment the slitting of the envelopes and the crackle of paper were the only sounds in the room. Then Grandma picked up the Special Delivery letter, took a deep breath, and in her best Sunday voice began:

"_Dear Paul and Maureen,_

"_I am sorry the storm came. But I am glad Misty had a baby. Was I
surprised!_

"_I hope some day I can visit your island or maybe even live there.
I hope to go to Pony Penning Day and maybe buy a pony._

"_I hope you don't mind if I send you a name for Misty's baby. I
think 'Windy' would be nice._"

"By ginger!" Grandpa exclaimed. "That's uncommon purty. Let's have another, Idy."

Mr. Conant took pencil and paper out of his pocket and wrote down _Windy_ with a checkmark after it.

"This one is to Misty herself," Grandma went on. "Why, it's a regular baby card, and it says, _Congratulations to you and the new little bundle of joy_."

"Turn it over, Grandma, there's a note on the back," Maureen said.

"So there is! Listen:

"_Dear little Misty,_

"_I've heard so much about you I feel like I know you. I love
horses and I was worried about you during the storm. You have a
wonderful master and mistress to bring you into the kitchen._

"_You should name your filly 'Misty's Little Storm Cloud.'_

Isn't that beautiful, folks?"

Grandpa looked inquiringly at the children. "To my notion," he hesitated, "it'd be too long a handle fer such a little mite--even if we was to boil it down some."

Maureen was impatient. "More, Grandma. More!"

"Here's one from a fifth-grader up to Glassboro, New Jersey:

"_I am a boy ten and a half years old. This is not a very long
letter, but I like the name 'Windy' for Misty's colt._"

Mr. Conant made a second checkmark after _Windy_. "Two for _Windy_," he announced.

"Doggone, if this ain't jes' like an election," Grandpa said. "Vote countin' and all."

Grandma broke out in smiles. "This one's mostly questions:

"_Dear Paul and Maureen,_

"_How are you? I am fine. I read in the paper that Misty is safe._

"_How do you pronounce your island's name?_

"_If I should come to your island, would you show me how to eat
oysters?_

"_How are your Grandpa and Grandma? I think you are one of the
greatest families in the U.S.A._

"_P.S. Do you think you'll have a Pony Penning this year?_"

"See?" Maureen said. "Folks are asking already, but I just won't answer this one until later. Go on, Grandma."

"Here's one from a lady teacher:

"_We read in the paper that Misty had a filly and also that 145
ponies died. My heart just sinks._

"_One of my pupils said that colts have such twinkly legs he
thought 'Sand Piper' would be a good name for Misty's baby._"

"Hmmm," Paul said approvingly. "See what I mean, Maureen? _Sand Piper_ would honor her granddaddy, the Pied Piper."

Mr. Conant wrote down the name with one checkmark and a star beside it.

"If she was a horse-colt instead of a mare-colt," Maureen said, "I'd like it fine. But we got to think about when she's grown up."

Mr. Conant erased the star.

Grandma pursed her lips as she read the next letter to herself.

"Land sakes, Idy, I'll be a bushy-whiskered old man by the time ye make that one out."

"Oh, it's easy to make out," she replied. "The writing's beautiful. It's to you, Clarence." She held it up for all to see. Then she cleared her throat:

"_Dear Sir:_

"_I cut a picture from the state paper yesterday of Misty's filly,
born Sunday, March 11th. The caption said she was foaled at an
animal hospital, but I am hoping that someone in your town can give
me more information about her. Is she healthy? And is she for
sale?_"

There was a stunned silence. Grandpa's face went red and the cords of his neck bulged.

Mr. Conant looked at him in alarm. "Mr. Beebe," he said, "I know the answer to that one. If you'll allow me, I'd like to do the replying."

Grandpa didn't trust himself to speak. He managed a nod of thanks.

"Grandma, try another!" Maureen urged.

"Here's a real short one," Grandma said cheerily, "and it says:

"_If I owned Misty, I would name her colt 'Stormy.'_"

Paul's eyes met Maureen's and held. Then he leaped up from his chair, stood on his head, and cried, "Yahoo!" In an instant he was right side up again. He shouted the name, "STORMY!" Then he whispered it very softly, "_Stormy_."

Maureen clapped her hands. "Why, it sounds good both ways!"

Promptly Mr. Conant wrote it down. "I'll give this one two stars," he said.

And still there were more letters and more names--_Gale Winds_ and _Rip Tide_ and _Sea Wings_ and _Ocean Mist_ and _Misty's Shadow_ and _Mini Mist_ and _Foggy_ and _Cloudy_--until at last they were down to one letter.

Grandpa loosened his suspenders, yawning and stretching. "Out with that last one, Idy. Sandman's workin' on me, both barrels."

Grandma's face lighted with pleasure. "Why, it's signed by a whole bunch of school children over to Reistertown, Maryland." She adjusted her spectacles and began:

"_Our class read the book about Misty. Now we are reading about the
awful storm that flooded your island. We are glad Misty was not
drowned. As soon as we heard the news about her colt, we decided to
write you. We think you should name her 'Stormy' because she was
born in a storm. Would you like that? We would. We had a secret
ballot, and 'Stormy' won first place with twenty votes._"

Paul drew in his breath. "That does it!" he said. "Remember, Maureen? Sometimes they name 'em for markings, sometimes for ancestors, and the third way is for natural phenom ... happenings of Nature."

"Like the storm?"