LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE

by

LAURA INGALLS WILDER

Text copyright 1935 by Laura Ingalls

Wilder

Text copyright renewed 1963, 1991

by Roger Lea MacBride

All rights reserved.

BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

Ages 8-12

The adventures continue for Laura Ingalls

and her family as they leave their little house in the

Big Woods of Wisconsin and set out for

Kansas. They travel for many days in their

covered wagon until they find the best spot

to build their little house on the prairie. Soon

they are planting and plowing, hunting wild ducks

and turkeys, and gathering grass for their cows.

Sometimes pioneer life is hard, but Laura and

her folks are always busy and happy in their new

little house.

And so continues Laura Ingalls Wilder's

beloved story of a pioneer girl and her family.

The nine Little House books have been cherished

by generations of readers as both a unique glimpse

into America's frontier past and a heartwarming,

unforgettable story.

LAURA INGALLS WILDER was born in

1867 in the log cabin described in LITTLE

HOUSE IN THE BIG WOODS. As her

classic Little House books tell us, she and

her family traveled by covered wagon across the

Midwest. She and her husband, Almanzo

Wilder, made their own covered-wagon trip with

their daughter, Rose, to Mansfield,

Missouri. There Laura wrote her story in the

Little House books, and lived until she was

ninety years old. For millions of readers,

however, she lives forever as the little pioneer girl

in the beloved Little House books.

THE LITTLE HOUSE BOOKS

by Laura Ingalls Wilder

LITTLE HOUSE IN THE BIG WOODS

LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE

FARMER BOY

ON THE BANKS OF PLUM CREEK

BY THE SHORES OF SILVER LAKE

THE LONG WINTER

LITTLE TOWN ON THE PRAIRIE

THESE HAPPY GOLDEN YEARS

THE FIRST FOUR YEARS

HarperCollins-Publishers

CONTENTS

GOING WEST

CROSSING THE CREEK

CAMP ON THE HIGH PRAIRIE

PRAIRIE DAY

THE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE

MOVING IN

THE WOLF-PACK

TWO STOUT DOORS

A FIRE ON THE HEARTH

A ROOF AND A FLOOR

INDIANS IN THE HOUSE

FRESH WATER TO DRINK

TEXAS LONGHORNS

INDIAN CAMP

FEVER 'n' AGUE

FIRE IN THE CHIMNEY

PA GOES TO TOWN

THE TALL INDIAN

MR. EDWARDS MEETS SANTA CLAUS

A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

INDIAN JAMBOREE

PRAIRIE FIRE

INDIAN WAR-CRY

INDIANS RIDE AWAY

SOLDIERS

GOING OUT

LITTLE HOUSE ON

THE PRAIRIE

GOING WEST

A long time ago, when all the grandfathers and

grandmothers of today were little boys and little girls or very

small babies, or perhaps not even born, Pa and

Ma and Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie

left their little house in the Big Woods of

Wisconsin. They drove away and left it

lonely and empty in the clearing among the big

trees, and they never saw that little house again.

They were going to the Indian country.

Pa said there were too many people in the Big Woods

now. Quite often Laura heard the ringing thud of an

ax which was not Pa's ax, or the echo of a shot that

did not come from his gun. The path that went by the little

house had become a road. Almost every day Laura

and Mary stopped their playing and stared in surprise

at a wagon slowly creaking by on that road.

Wild animals would not stay in a country where

there were so many people. Pa did not like to stay, either. He

liked a country where the wild animals lived

without being afraid. He liked to see the little

fawns and their mothers looking at him from the shadowy

woods, and the fat, lazy bears eating berries in

the wild-berry patches.

In the long winter evenings he talked to Ma about

the Western country. In the West the land was

level, and there were no trees. The grass grew

thick and high. There the wild animals wandered and

fed as though they were in a pasture that stretched much

farther than a man could see, and there were no

settlers. Only Indians lived there.

One day in the very last of the winter Pa said

to Ma, "Seeing you don't object, I've

decided to go see the West. I've had an offer

for this place, and we can sell it now for as much as

we're ever likely to get, enough to give us a start

in a new country."

"Oh, Charles, must we go now?" Ma said.

The weather was so cold and the snug house was so

comfortable.

"If we are going this year, we must go now,"

said Pa. "We can't get across the

Mississippi after the ice breaks."

So Pa sold the little house. He sold the cow

and calf. He made hickory bows and fastened

them upright to the wagon box. Ma helped him

stretch white canvas over them.

In the thin dark before morning Ma gently shook

Mary and Laura till they got up. In

firelight and candlelight she washed and combed them and

dressed them warmly. Over their long

red-flannel underwear she put wool

petticoats and wool dresses and long wool

stockings. She put their coats on them, and their

rabbit-skin hoods and their red yarn mittens.

Everything from the little house was in the wagon,

except the beds and tables and chairs. They did not

need to take these, because Pa could always make new

ones.

There was thin snow on the ground. The air was still and

cold and dark. The bare trees stood up against the

frosty stars. But in the east the sky was pale and

through the gray woods came lanterns with wagons

and horses, bringing Grandpa and Grandma and aunts

and uncles and cousins.

Mary and Laura clung tight to their rag

dolls and did not say anything. The cousins stood

around and looked at them. Grandma and all the

aunts hugged and kissed them and hugged and kissed

them again, saying good-by.

Pa hung his gun to the wagon bows inside the

canvas top, where he could reach it quickly from the

seat. He hung his bullet-pouch and powder-horn

beneath it. He laid the fiddle-box carefully between

pillows, where jolting would not hurt the fiddle.

The uncles helped him hitch the horses to the

wagon. All the cousins were told to kiss Mary

and Laura, so they did. Pa picked up Mary

and then Laura, and set them on the bed in the back

of the wagon. He helped Ma climb up to the

wagon-seat, and Grandma reached up and gave her

Baby Carrie. Pa swung up and sat beside

Ma, and Jack, the brindle bulldog, went under

the wagon.

So they all went away from the little log house.

The shutters were over the windows, so the little house

could not see them go. It stayed there inside the log

fence, behind the two big oak trees that in the

summertime had made green roofs for Mary and

Laura to play under. And that was the last of the little

house.

Pa promised that when they came to the West,

Laura should see a papoose.

"What is a papoose?" she asked him, and

he said, "A papoose is a little, brown,

Indian baby."

They drove a long way through the snowy

woods, till they came to the town of Pepin.

Mary and Laura had seen it once before, but it

looked different now. The door of the store and the

doors of all the houses were shut, the stumps were

covered with snow, and no little children were playing

outdoors. Big cords of wood stood among the

stumps. Only two or three men in boots and

fur caps and bright plaid coats were to be seen.

Ma and Laura and Mary ate bread and

molasses in the wagon, and the horses ate corn

from nose-bags, while inside the store Pa

traded his furs for things they would need on the

journey. They could not stay long in the town, because

they must cross the lake that day.

The enormous lake stretched flat and smooth

and white all the way to the edge of the gray sky.

Wagon tracks went away across it, so far that you

could not see where they went; they ended in nothing at

all.

Pa drove the wagon out onto the ice,

following those wagon tracks. The horses'

hoofs clop-clopped with a dull sound, the wagon

wheels went crunching. The town grew smaller and

smaller behind, till even the tall store was only

a dot. All around the wagon there was nothing but

empty and silent space. Laura didn't like

it. But Pa was on the wagon seat and Jack was

under the wagon; she knew that nothing could hurt her

while Pa and Jack were there.

At last the wagon was pulling up a slope of

earth again, and again there were trees. There was a little

log house, too, among the trees. So Laura

felt better.

Nobody lived in the little house; it was a

place to camp in. It was a tiny house, and

strange, with a big fireplace and rough bunks

against all the walls. But it was warm when Pa had

built a fire in the fireplace. That night

Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie slept with

Ma in a bed made on the floor before the fire,

while Pa slept outside in the wagon, to guard

it and the horses.

In the night a strange noise wakened

Laura. It sounded like a shot, but it was sharper and

longer than a shot. Again and again she heard it.

Mary and Carrie were asleep, but Laura couldn't

sleep until Ma's voice came softly through

the dark. "Go to sleep, Laura," Ma said.

"It's only the ice cracking."

Next morning Pa said, "It's lucky

we crossed yesterday, Caroline. Wouldn't

wonder if the ice broke up today. We made a

late crossing, and we're lucky it didn't

start breaking up while we were out in the middle of

it."

"I thought about that yesterday, Charles," Ma

replied, gently.

Laura hadn't thought about it before, but now she

thought what would have happened if the ice had cracked

under the wagon wheels and they had all gone down

into the cold water in the middle of that vast lake.

"You're frightening somebody, Charles," Ma

said, and Pa caught Laura up in his safe,

big hug.

"We're across the Mississippi!" he said,

hugging her joyously. "How do you like that, little

half-pint of sweet cider half drunk up?

Do you like going out west where Indians live?"

Laura said she liked it, and she asked if they

were in the Indian country now. But they were not; they were

in Minnesota.

It was a long, long way to Indian

Territory. Almost every day the horses traveled

as far as they could; almost every night Pa and Ma

made camp in a new place. Sometimes they had

to stay several days in one camp because a creek was

in flood and they couldn't cross it till the water

went down. They crossed too many creeks

to count. They saw strange woods and hills, and

stranger country with no trees. They drove across

rivers on long wooden bridges, and they came

to one wide yellow river that had no bridge.

That was the Missouri River. Pa drove

onto a raft, and they all sat still in the wagon

while the raft went swaying away from the safe land

and slowly crossed all that rolling muddy-yellow

water.

After more days they came to hills again. In a

valley the wagon stuck fast in deep black

mud. Rain poured down and thunder crashed and

lightning flared. There was no place to make camp

and build a fire. Everything was damp and chill and

miserable in the wagon, but they had to stay in it and

eat cold bits of food.

Next day Pa found a place on a

hillside where they could camp. The rain had

stopped, but they had to wait a week before the creek

went down and the mud dried so that Pa could dig the

wagon wheels out of it and go on.

One day, while they were waiting, a

tall, lean man came out of the woods, riding a

black pony. He and Pa talked awhile, then

they went off into the woods together, and when they came

back, both of them were riding black ponies.

Pa had traded the tired brown horses for those

ponies.

They were beautiful little horses, and Pa said they

were not really ponies; they were western mustangs.

"They're strong as mules and gentle as

kittens," Pa said. They had large, soft,

gentle eyes, and long manes and tails, and

slender legs and feet much smaller and quicker than

the feet of horses in the Big Woods.

When Laura asked what their names were, Pa

said that she and Mary could name them. So Mary named

one, Pet, and Laura named the other, Patty.

When the creek's roar was not so loud and the road was

drier, Pa dug the wagon out of the mud. He

hitched Pet and Patty to it, and they all went

on together.

They had come in the covered wagon all the long

way from the Big Woods of Wisconsin, across

Minnesota and Iowa and Missouri. All that

long way, Jack had trotted under the wagon.

Now they set out to go across Kansas.

Kansas was an endless flat land covered with

tall grass blowing in the wind. Day after day they

traveled in Kansas, and saw nothing but the

rippling grass and enormous sky. In a

perfect circle the sky curved down the level

land, and the wagon was in the circle's exact

middle.

All day long Pet and Patty went forward,

trotting and walking and trotting again, but they couldn't

get out of the middle of that circle. When the sun

went down, the circle was still around them and the edge of the

sky was pink. Then slowly the land became black.

The wind made a lonely sound in the grass. The

camp fire was small and lost in so much space.

But large stars hung from the sky, glittering so

near that Laura felt she could almost touch them.

Next day the land was the same, the sky was the

same, the circle did not change. Laura and

Mary were tired of them all. There was nothing new

to do and nothing new to look at. The bed was made in

the back of the wagon and neatly covered with a gray

blanket; Laura and Mary sat on it. The

canvas sides of the wagon-top were rolled up and

tied; so the prairie wind blew in. It whipped

Laura's straight brown hair and

Mary's golden curls every-which-way, and the strong

light screwed up their eyelids.

Sometimes a big jack rabbit bounded in big

bounds away over the blowing grass. Jack paid

no attention. Poor Jack was tired, too, and

his paws were sore from traveling so far. The wagon

kept on jolting, the canvas top snapped in the

wind. Two faint wheel tracks kept going

away behind the wagon, always the same.

Pa's back was hunched. The reins were loose

in his hands, the wind blew his long brown beard.

Ma sat straight and quiet, her hands folded in

her lap. Baby Carrie slept in a nest

among the soft bundles.

"Ah-wow!" Mary yawned, and Laura said:

"Ma, can't we get out and run behind the wagon?

My legs are so tired."

"No, Laura," Ma said.

"Aren't we going to camp pretty soon?"

Laura asked. It seemed such a long time since

noon, when they had eaten their lunch sitting on the

clean grass in the shade of the wagon.

Pa answered: "Not yet. It's too early

to camp now."

"I want to camp, now! I'm so tired,"

Laura said.

Then Ma said, "Laura." That was all, but it

meant that Laura must not complain. So she did not

complain any more out loud, but she was still naughty,

inside. She sat and thought complaints to herself.

Her legs ached and the wind wouldn't stop blowing

her hair. The grass waved and the wagon jolted

and nothing else happened for a long time.

"We're coming to a creek or a river," Pa

said. "Girls, can you see those trees ahead?"

Laura stood up and held to one of the wagon

bows. Far ahead she saw a low dark smudge.

"That's trees," Pa said. "You can tell by the

shape of the shadows. In this country, trees mean

water. That's where we'll camp tonight."

CROSSING THE CREEK

Pet and Patty began to trot briskly, as

if they were glad, too. Laura held tight to the

wagon bow and stood up in the jolting wagon.

Beyond Pa's shoulder and far across the waves of

green grass she could see the trees, and they were not

like any trees she had seen before. They were no

taller than bushes.

"Whoa!" said Pa, suddenly. "Now which way?"

he muttered to himself.

The road divided here, and you could not tell which was

the more-traveled way. Both of them were faint wheel

tracks in the grass. One went toward the west,

the other sloped downward a little, toward the south.

Both soon vanished in the tall, blowing grass.

"Better go downhill, I guess," Pa

decided. "The creek's down in the bottoms.

Must be this is the way to the ford." He turned

Pet and Patty toward the south.

The road went down and up and down and up again,

over gently curving land. The trees were nearer

now, but they were no taller. Then Laura gasped

and clutched the wagon bow, for almost under Pet's and

Patty's noses there was no more blowing grass,

there was no land at all. She looked beyond the edge

of the land and across the tops of trees.

The road turned there. For a little way it went

along the cliff's top, then it went sharply

downward. Pa put on the brakes; Pet and

Patty braced themselves backward and almost sat

down. The wagon wheels slid onward, little by little

lowering the wagon farther down the steep slope into the

ground. Jagged cliffs of bare red earth rose up

on both sides of the wagon. Grass waved

along their tops, but nothing grew on their seamed,

straight-up-and-down sides. They were hot, and

heat came from them against Laura's face. The

wind was still blowing overhead, but it did not blow down

into this deep crack in the ground. The stillness

seemed strange and empty.

Then once more the wagon was level. The narrow

crack down which it had come opened into the bottom

lands. Here grew the tall trees whose tops

Laura had seen from the prairie above. Shady

groves were scattered on the rolling meadows, and in

the groves deer were lying down, hardly to be seen

among the shadows. The deer turned their heads

toward the wagon, and curious fawns stood up

to see it more clearly.

Laura was surprised because she did not see the

creek. But the bottom lands were wide. Down

here, below the prairie, there were gentle hills and

open sunny places. The air was still and hot.

Under the wagon wheels the ground was soft. In the

sunny open spaces the grass grew thin, and

deer had cropped it short.

For a while the high, bare cliffs of red earth

stood up behind the wagon. But they were almost

hidden behind hills and trees when Pet and Patty

stopped to drink from the creek.

The rushing sound of the water filled the still air.

All along the creek banks the trees hung

over it and made it dark with shadows. In the middle

it ran swiftly, sparkling silver and blue.

"This creek's pretty high," Pa said. "But

I guess we can make it all right. You can see

this is a ford, by the old wheel ruts. What do you

say, Caroline?"

"Whatever you say, Charles," Ma answered.

Pet and Patty lifted their wet noses.

They pricked their ears forward, looking at the

creek; then they pricked them backward to hear

what Pa would say. They sighed and laid their soft

noses together to whisper to each other. A little way

upstream, Jack was lapping the water with his red

tongue.

"I'll tie down the wagon-cover," Pa

said. He climbed down from the seat, unrolled the

canvas sides and tied them firmly to the wagon

box. Then he pulled the rope at the back, so

that the canvas puckered together in the middle, leaving

only a tiny round hole, too small to see

through.

Mary huddled down on the bed. She did not like

fords; she was afraid of the rushing water. But

Laura was excited; she liked the splashing. Pa

climbed to the seat, saying, "They may have to swim,

out there in the middle. But we'll make it all

right, Caroline."

Laura thought of Jack and said, "I wish

Jack could ride in the wagon, Pa."

Pa did not answer. He gathered the reins

tightly in his hands. Ma said, "Jack can swim,

Laura. He will be all right."

The wagon went forward softly in mud. Water

began to splash against the wheels. The splashing

grew louder. The wagon shook as the noisy

water struck at it. Then all at once the

wagon lifted and balanced and swayed. It was a

lovely feeling.

The noise stopped, and Ma said, sharply,

"Lie down, girls!"

Quick as a flash, Mary and Laura dropped

flat on the bed. When Ma spoke like that, they

did as they were told. Ma's arm pulled a smothering

blanket over them, heads and all.

"Be still, just as you are. Don't move!" she

said.

Mary did not move; she was trembling and still.

But Laura could not help wriggling a little bit.

She did so want to see what was happening. She

could feel the wagon swaying and turning; the

splashing was noisy again, and again it died away.

Then Pa's voice frightened Laura. It said,

"Take them, Caroline!"

The wagon lurched; there was a sudden heavy

splash beside it. Laura sat straight up and

clawed the blanket from her head.

Pa was gone. Ma sat alone, holding tight

to the reins with both hands. Mary hid her face in

the blanket again, but Laura rose up farther.

She couldn't see the creek bank. She couldn't

see anything in front of the wagon but water rushing

at it. And in the water, three heads; Pet's

head and Patty's head and Pa's small, wet

head. Pa's fist in the water was holding tight

to Pet's bridle.

Laura could faintly hear Pa's voice through

the rushing of the water. It sounded calm and cheerful,

but she couldn't hear what he said. He was talking

to the horses. Ma's face was white and scared.

"Lie down, Laura," Ma said.

Laura lay down. She felt cold and

sick. Her eyes were shut tight, but she could still

see the terrible water and Pa's brown beard

drowning in it.

For a long, long time the wagon swayed and

swung, and Mary cried without making a sound, and

Laura's stomach felt sicker and sicker. Then

the front wheels struck and grated, and Pa

shouted. The whole wagon jerked and jolted and

tipped backward, but the wheels were turning on the

ground. Laura was up again, holding to the seat; she

saw Pet's and Patty's scrambling wet

backs climbing a steep bank, and Pa running

beside them, shouting, "Hi, Patty! Hi, Pet!

Get up! Get up! Whoopsy-daisy! Good

girls!"

At the top of the bank they stood still, panting and

dripping. And the wagon stood still, safely out of that

creek.

Pa stood panting and dripping, too, and Ma

said, "Oh, Charles!"

"There, there, Caroline," said Pa. "We're

all safe, thanks to a good tight wagon-box

well fastened to the running-gear. I never saw a

creek rise so fast in my life. Pet and

Patty are good swimmers, but I guess

they wouldn't have made it if I hadn't helped

them."

If Pa had not known what to do, or if Ma

had been too frightened to drive, or if Laura

and Mary had been naughty and bothered her, then they

would all have been lost. The river would have rolled

them over and over and carried them away and drowned

them, and nobody would ever have known what became of

them. For weeks, perhaps, no other person would come

along that road.

"Well," said Pa, "all's well that ends

well," and Ma said, "Charles, you're wet to the

skin."

Before Pa could answer, Laura cried, "Oh,

where's Jack?"

They had forgotten Jack. They had left him

on the other side of that dreadful water and now they

could not see him anywhere. He must have tried to swim

after them, but they could not see him struggling in the

water now.

Laura swallowed hard, to keep from crying.

She knew it was shameful to cry, but there was crying

inside her. All the long way from Wisconsin

poor Jack had followed them so patiently and

faithfully, and now they had left him to drown.

He was so tired, and they might have taken him into the

wagon. He had stood on the bank and seen the

wagon going away from him, as if they didn't

care for him at all. And he would never know how much

they wanted him.

Pa said he wouldn't have done such a thing

to Jack, not for a million dollars. If he'd

known how that creek would rise when they were in

midstream, he would never have let Jack try

to swim it. "But that can't be helped now," he said.

He went far up and down the creek bank,

looking for Jack, calling him and whistling for him.

It was no use. Jack was gone.

At last there was nothing to do but to go on. Pet and

Patty were rested. Pa's clothes had dried on

him while he searched for Jack. He took the

reins again, and drove uphill, out of the river

bottoms.

Laura looked back all the way. She

knew she wouldn't see Jack again, but she wanted

to. She didn't see anything but low curves of

land coming between the wagon and the creek, and beyond the

creek those strange cliffs of red earth rose up

again.

Then other bluffs just like them stood up in

front of the wagon. Faint wheel tracks went

into a crack between those earthen walls. Pet and

Patty climbed till the crack became a

small grassy valley. And the valley widened

out to the High Prairie once more.

No road, not even the faintest trace of

wheels or of a rider's passing, could be seen

anywhere. That prairie looked as if no human

eye had ever seen it before. Only the tall wild

grass covered the endless empty land and a great

empty sky arched over it. Far away the sun's

edge touched the rim of the earth. The sun was

enormous and it was throbbing and pulsing with light.

All around the sky's edge ran a pale pink

glow, and above the pink was yellow, and above that

blue. Above the blue the sky was no color at

all. Purple shadows were gathering over the land,

and the wind was mourning.

Pa stopped the mustangs. He and Ma got out

of the wagon to make camp, and Mary and Laura

climbed down to the ground, too.

"Oh, Ma," Laura begged, "Jack has

gone to heaven, hasn't he? He was such a good

dog, can't he go to heaven?"

Ma did not know what to answer, but Pa said:

"Yes, Laura, he can. God that doesn't

forget the sparrows won't leave a good dog like

Jack out in the cold."

Laura felt only a little better. She was not

happy. Pa did not whistle about his work as

usual, and after a while he said, "And what

we'll do in a wild country without a good

watchdog I don't know."

CAMP ON THE HIGH PRAIRIE

Pa made camp as usual. First, he

unhitched and unharnessed Pet and Patty, and he

put them on their picket-lines. Picket-lines

were long ropes fastened to iron pegs driven into the

ground. The pegs were called picket-pins. When

horses were on picket-lines they could eat all

the grass that the long ropes would let them reach.

But when Pet and Patty were put on them, the first

thing they did was to lie down and roll back and forth

and over. They rolled till the feeling of the harness

was all gone from their backs.

While Pet and Patty were rolling, Pa

pulled all the grass from a large, round space

of ground. There was old, dead grass at

the roots of the green grass, and Pa would take

no chance of setting the prairie on fire. If

fire once started in that dry under-grass, it would

sweep that whole country bare and black. Pa

said, "Best be on the safe side, it saves

trouble in the end."

When the space was clear of grass, Pa laid

a handful of dry grass in its center. From the

creek bottoms he brought an armful of twigs

and dead wood. He laid small twigs and

larger twigs and then the wood on the handful of dry

grass, and he lighted the grass. The fire

crackled merrily inside the ring of bare ground that

it couldn't get out of.

Then Pa brought water from the creek, while

Mary and Laura helped Ma get supper. Ma

measured coffee beans into the coffee-mill and

Mary ground them. Laura filled the coffee-pot

with the water Pa brought, and Ma set the pot in the

coals. She set the iron bake-oven in the

coals, too.

While it heated, she mixed cornmeal and salt

with water and patted it into little cakes. She greased

the bake-oven with a pork-rind, laid the cornmeal

cakes in it, and put on its iron cover. Then

Pa raked more coals over the cover, while Ma

sliced fat salt pork. She fried the slices

in the iron spider. The spider had short legs

to stand on in the coals, and that was why it was called a

spider. If it had had no legs, it would have been

only a frying pan.

The coffee boiled, the cakes baked, the meat

fried, and they all smelled so good that Laura

grew hungrier and hungrier.

Pa set the wagon-seat near the fire. He

and Ma sat on it. Mary and Laura sat on the

wagon tongue. Each of them had a tin plate,

and a steel knife and a steel fork with white bone

handles. Ma had a tin cup and Pa had a tin

cup, and Baby Carrie had a little one an her

own, but Mary and Laura had to share their tin cup.

They drank water. They could not drink coffee

until they grew up.

While they were eating supper the purple shadows

closed around the camp fire. The vast prairie

was dark and still. Only the wind moved stealthily through

the grass, and the large, low stars hung glittering

from the great sky.

The camp fire was cozy in the big, chill

darkness. The slices of pork were crisp

and fat, the corncakes were good. In the dark beyond the

wagon, Pet and Patty were eating, too. They

bit off bites of grass with sharply crunching

sounds.

"We'll camp here a day or two," said

Pa. "Maybe we'll stay here. There's good

land, timber in the bottoms, plenty of game--

everything a man could want. What do you say,

Caroline?"

"We might go farther and fare worse," Ma

replied.

"Anyway, I'll look around tomorrow," Pa

said. "I'll take my gun and get us some good

fresh meat."

He lighted his pipe with a hot coal, and

stretched out his legs comfortably. The warm, brown

smell of tobacco smoke mixed with the warmth of the

fire. Mary yawned, and slid off the wagon

tongue to sit on the grass. Laura yawned,

too. Ma quickly washed the tin plates, the tin

cups, the knives and forks. She washed the

bake-oven and the spider, and rinsed the dish-cloth.

For an instant she was still, listening to the long,

wailing howl from the dark prairie. They all

knew what it was. But that sound always ran cold

up Laura's backbone and crinkled over the

back of her head.

Ma shook the dish-cloth, and then she walked

into the dark and spread the cloth on the tall grass

to dry. When she came back Pa said:

"Wolves. Half a mile away, I'd

judge. Well, where there's deer there will be

wolves. I wish--"

He didn't say what he wished, but Laura

knew. He wished Jack were there. When wolves

howled in the Big Woods, Laura had always

known that Jack would not let them hurt her. A

lump swelled hard in her throat and her nose

smarted. She winked fast and did not cry. That

wolf, or perhaps another wolf, howled again.

"Bedtime for little girls!" Ma said, cheerfully.

Mary got up and turned around so that Ma could

unbutton her. But Laura jumped up and stood

still. She saw something. Deep in the dark beyond the

firelight, two green lights were shining near the

ground. They were eyes.

Cold ran up Laura's backbone, her

scalp crinkled, her hair stood up. The green

lights moved; one winked out, then the other winked

out, then both shone steadily, coming nearer.

"Look, Pa, look!" Laura said. "A

wolf!"

Pa did not seem to move quickly, but he did.

In an instant he took his gun out of the wagon and

was ready to fire at those green eyes. The eyes

stopped coming. They were still in the dark, looking at

him.

"It can't be a wolf. Unless it's a mad

wolf," Pa said. Ma lifted Mary into the

wagon. "And it's not that," said Pa. "Listen to the

horses." Pet and Patty were still biting off

bits of grass.

"A lynx?" said Ma.

"Or a coyote?" Pa picked up a stick

of wood; he shouted, and threw it. The green

eyes went close to the ground, as if the animal

crouched to spring. Pa held the gun ready. The

creature did not move.

"Don't, Charles," Ma said. But Pa

slowly walked toward those eyes. And slowly

along the ground the eyes crawled toward him.

Laura could see the animal in the edge of the dark.

It was a tawny animal and brindled. Then Pa

shouted and Laura screamed.

The next thing she knew she was trying to hug a

jumping, panting, wriggling Jack, who lapped

her face and hands with his warm wet tongue. She

couldn't hold him. He leaped and wriggled from her

to Pa to Ma and back to her again.

"Well, I'm beat!" Pa said.

"So am I," said Ma. "But did you have

to wake the baby?" She rocked Carrie in her

arms, hushing her.

Jack was perfectly well. But soon he

lay down close to Laura and sighed a long

sigh. His eyes were red with tiredness, and all the under

part of him was caked with mud. Ma gave him a

cornmeal cake and he licked it and wagged

politely, but he could not eat. He was too

tired.

"No telling how long he kept swimming,"

Pa said. "Nor how far he was carried downstream

before he landed." And when at last he reached them,

Laura called him a wolf, and Pa threatened

to shoot him.

But Jack knew they didn't mean it.

Laura asked him, "You knew we didn't mean

it, didn't you, Jack?" Jack wagged his stump

of a tail; he knew.

It was past bedtime. Pa chained Pet and

Patty to the feed-box at the back of the wagon and

fed them their corn. Carrie slept again, and Ma

helped Mary and Laura undress. She put

their long nightgowns over their heads while they

stuck their arms into the sleeves. They buttoned the

neckbands themselves, and tied the strings of their

nightcaps beneath their chins. Under the wagon Jack

wearily turned around three times, and lay down

to sleep.

In the wagon Laura and Mary said their

prayers and crawled into their little bed. Ma kissed

them good night.

On the other side of the canvas, Pet and

Patty were eating their corn. When Patty

whooshed into the feed-box, the whoosh was right at

Laura's ear. There were little scurrying sounds in the

grass. In the trees by the creek an owl

called, "Who-oo? who-oo?" Farther away

another owl answered, "Oo-oo, oo-oo." Far

away on the prairie the wolves howled, and under

the wagon Jack growled low in his chest. In the

wagon everything was safe and snug.

Thickly in front of the open wagon-top

hung the large, glittering stars. Pa could reach

them, Laura thought. She wished he would pick the

largest one from the thread on which it hung from the sky,

and give it to her. She was wide awake, she was not

sleepy at all, but suddenly she was very much

surprised. The large star winked at her!

Then she was waking up, next morning.

PRAIRIE DAY

Soft whickerings were close to Laura's ear, and

grain rattled into the feed-box. Pa was giving

Pet and Patty their breakfasts.

"Back, Pet! Don't be greedy," he

said. "You know it's Patty's turn."

Pet stamped her foot and nickered.

"Now, Patty, keep your own end of the box,"

said Pa. "This is for Pet."

Then a little squeal from Patty.

"Hah! Got nipped, didn't you?" Pa said

"And serve you right. I told you to eat your own

corn."

Mary and Laura looked at each other and

laughed. They could smell bacon and coffee and

hear pancakes sizzling, and they scrambled out of

bed.

Mary could dress herself, all but the

middle button. Laura buttoned that one for

her, then Mary buttoned Laura all the way

up the back. They washed their hands and faces in the

tin washbasin on the wagon-step. Ma combed every

snarl out of their hair, while Pa brought fresh

water from the creek.

Then they sat on the clean grass and ate

pancakes and bacon and molasses from the tin

plates in their laps.

All around them shadows were moving over the waving

grasses, while the sun rose. Meadow larks were

springing straight up from the billows of grass into the

high, clear sky, singing as they went. Small

pearly clouds drifted in the intense blueness

overhead. In all the weed-tops tiny birds were

swinging and singing in tiny voices. Pa said they were

dick-cissels.

"Dickie, dickie!" Laura called back

to them. "Dickie-bird!"

"Eat your breakfast, Laura," Ma said.

"You must mind your manners, even if we are a

hundred miles from anywhere."

Pa said, mildly, "It's only forty miles

to Independence, Caroline, and no doubt there's a

neighbor or so nearer than that."

"Forty miles, then," Ma agreed. "But

whether or no, it isn't good manners to sing at

table. Or when you're eating," she added, because there

was no table.

There was only the enormous, empty prairie,

with grasses blowing in waves of light and shadow

across it, and the great blue sky above it, and birds

flying up from it and singing with joy because the sun was

rising. And on the whole enormous prairie there

was no sign that any other human being had ever been

there.

In all that space of land and sky stood the

lonely, small, covered wagon. And close to it

sat Pa and Ma and Laura and Mary and Baby

Carrie, eating their breakfasts. The mustangs

munched their corn, and Jack sat still, trying hard

not to beg. Laura was not allowed to feed him while

she ate, but she saved bits for him. And Ma

made a big pancake for him, of the last of the

batter.

Rabbits were everywhere in the grass, and thousands of

prairie chickens, but Jack could not hunt his

breakfast that day. Pa was going hunting, and Jack

must guard the camp.

First Pa put Pet and Patty on

their picket-lines. Then he took the wooden

tub from the side of the wagon and filled it with water

from the creek. Ma was going to do the washing.

Then Pa stuck his sharp hatchet in his belt,

he hung his powder-horn beside the hatchet, he

put the patch-box and the bullet-pouch in his

pocket, and he took his gun on his arm.

He said to Ma: "Take your time, Caroline.

We won't move the wagon till we want

to. We've got all the time there is."

He went away. For a little while they could see

the upper part of him above the tall grasses, going

away and growing smaller. Then he went out of

sight and the prairie was empty.

Mary and Laura washed the dishes while Ma

made the beds in the wagon. They put the clean

dishes neatly in their box; they picked up every

scattered twig and put it in the fire; they

stacked the wood against a wagon wheel. Then

everything about the camp was tidy.

Ma brought the wooden pannikin of soft soap

from the wagon. She kilted up her skirts and

rolled up her sleeves, and she knelt by the tub

on the grass. She washed sheets and

pillow-cases and white underthings, she washed

dresses and shirts, and she rinsed them in clear

water and spread them on the clean grass, to dry

in the sun.

Mary and Laura were exploring. They must not go

far from the wagon, but it was fun to run through the tall

grass, in the sunshine and wind. Huge rabbits

bounded away before them, birds fluttered up and

settled again. The tiny dickie-birds were

everywhere, and their tiny nests were in the tall weeds.

And everywhere were little brown-striped gophers.

These little creatures looked soft as velvet.

They had bright round eyes and crinkling noses and

wee paws. They popped out of holes in the

ground, and stood up to look at Mary and

Laura. Their hind legs folded under their

haunches, their little paws folded tight to their

chests, and they looked exactly like bits of dead

wood sticking out of the ground. Only their bright

eyes glittered.

Mary and Laura wanted to catch one to take

to Ma. Again and again they almost had one. The gopher

would stand perfectly still until you were sure you had

him this time, then just as you touched him, he wasn't

there. There was only his round hole in the ground.

Laura ran and ran, and couldn't catch

one. Mary sat perfectly still beside a hole,

waiting for one to come up, and just beyond her reach

gophers scampered merrily, and gophers sat up

and looked at her. But not one ever came out of that

hole.

Once a shadow floated across the grass, and every

gopher vanished. A hawk was sailing overhead.

It was so close that Laura saw its cruel round

eye turned downward to look at her. She saw

its sharp beak and its savage claws curled

ready to pounce. But the hawk saw nothing but

Laura and Mary and round, empty holes in the

ground. It sailed away, looking somewhere else for

its dinner.

Then all the little gophers came up again.

It was nearly noon then. The sun was almost

overhead. So Laura and Mary picked flowers from

the weeds, and they took the flowers to Ma, instead

of a gopher.

Ma was folding the dry clothes. The little

panties and petticoats were whiter than snow,

warm from the sun, and smelling like the grass. Ma

laid them in the wagon, and took the flowers. She

admired equally the flowers that Laura gave her

and the flowers that Mary gave her, and she put them

together in a tin cup full of water. She set them

on the wagon-step, to make the camp pretty.

Then she split two cold corn-cakes and

spread them with molasses. She gave one to Mary

and one to Laura. That was their dinner, and it was very

good.

"Where is a papoose, Ma?" Laura

asked.

"Don't speak with your mouth full, Laura,"

said Ma.

So Laura chewed and swallowed, and she said,

"I want to see a papoose."

"Mercy on us!" Ma said. "Whatever makes

you want to see Indians? We will see enough of them.

More than we want to, I wouldn't wonder."

"They wouldn't hurt us, would they?" Mary

asked. Mary was always good; she never spoke with her

mouth full.

"No!" Ma said. "Don't get such an

idea into your head."

"Why don't you like Indians, Ma?" Laura

asked, and she caught a drip of molasses with

her tongue.

"I just don't like them; and don't lick your

fingers, Laura," said Ma.

"This is Indian country, isn't it?"

Laura said. "What did we come to their country

for, if you don't like them?"

Ma said she didn't know whether this was Indian

country or not. She didn't know where the Kansas

line was. But whether or no, the Indians would not

be here long. Pa had word from a man in Washington

that the Indian Territory would be open

to settlement soon. It might already be open

to settlement. They could not know, because Washington was

so far away.

Then Ma took the sadiron out of the wagon and

heated it by the fire. She sprinkled a dress for

Mary and a dress for Laura and a little dress for

Baby Carrie, and her own sprigged calico.

She spread a blanket and a sheet on the wagon

seat, and she ironed the dresses.

Baby Carrie slept in the wagon. Laura

and Mary and Jack lay on the shady grass beside

it, because now the sunshine was hot. Jack's mouth was

open and his red tongue hung out, his eyes blinked

sleepily. Ma hummed softly to herself while the

iron smoothed all the wrinkles out of the little

dresses. All around them, to the very edge of the world,

there was nothing but grasses waving in the wind. Far

overhead, a few white puffs of cloud sailed in

the thin blue air.

Laura was very happy. The wind sang a low,

rustling song in the grass. Grasshoppers'

rasping quivered up from an the immense prairie.

A buzzing came faintly from all the trees in the

creek bottoms. But all these sounds made a

great, warm, happy silence. Laura had never

seen a place she liked so much as this place.

She didn't know she had gone to sleep until

she woke up. Jack was on his feet, wagging his

stump tail. The sun was low, and Pa was coming across

the prairie. Laura jumped up and ran, and his

long shadow stretched to meet her in the waving

grasses.

He held up the game in his hand, for her

to see. He had a rabbit, the largest rabbit she

had ever seen, and two plump prairie hens.

Laura jumped up and down and clapped her hands

and squealed. Then she caught hold of his other

sleeve and hippety-hopped through the tall

grasses, beside him.

"This country's cram-jammed with game," he

told her. "I saw fifty deer if I saw

one, and antelope, squirrels,

rabbits, birds of all kinds. The creek's

full of fish." He said to Ma, "I tell you,

Caroline, there's everything we want here. We can

live like kings!"

That was a wonderful supper. They sat by the

camp fire and ate the tender, savory,

flavory meat till they could eat no more. When

at last Laura set down her plate, she

sighed with contentment. She didn't want anything more

in the world.

The last color was fading from the enormous sky

and all the level land was shadowy. The warmth of the

fire was pleasant because the night wind was cool.

Phoebe-birds called sadly from the woods

down by the creek. For a little while a mockingbird

sang, then the stars came out and the birds were still.

Softly Pa's fiddle sang in the starlight.

Sometimes he sang a little and sometimes the fiddle

sang alone. Sweet and thin and far away, the

fiddle went on singing:

"None knew thee but to love thee,

Thou dear one of my heart ...."

The large, bright stars hung down from the sky.

Lower and lower they came, quivering with music.

Laura gasped, and Ma came quickly. "What

is it, Laura?" she asked, and Laura

whispered, "The stars were singing."

"You've been asleep," Ma said. "It is

only the fiddle. And it's time little girls were in

bed."

She undressed Laura in the firelight and

put her nightgown on and tied her nightcap, and

tucked her into bed. But the fiddle was still singing in the

starlight. The night was full of music, and

Laura was sure that part of it came from the great,

bright stars swinging so low above the prairie.

THE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE

Laura and Mary were up next morning earlier

than the sun. They ate their breakfast of

cornmeal mush with prairie-hen gravy, and

hurried to help Ma wash the dishes. Pa was

loading everything else into the wagon and hitching up

Pet and Patty.

When the sun rose, they were driving on across the

prairie. There was no road now. Pet

and Patty waded through the grasses, and the wagon

left behind it only the tracks of its wheels.

Before noon, Pa said, "Whoa!" The wagon

stopped.

"Here we are, Caroline!" he said. "Right here

we'll build our house."

Laura and Mary scrambled over the feed-box

and dropped to the ground in a hurry. All around

them there was nothing but grassy prairie spreading

to the edge of the sky.

Quite near them, to the north, the creek bottoms

lay below the prairie. Some darker green

tree-tops showed, and beyond them bits of the rim of

earthen bluffs held up the prairie's

grasses. Far away to the east, a broken line

of different greens lay on the prairie, and Pa

said that was the river.

"That's the Verdigris River," he said,

pointing it out to Ma.

Right away, he and Ma began to unload the

wagon. They took out everything and piled it on the

ground. Then they took off the wagon-cover and

put it over the pile. Then they took even the

wagon-box off, while Laura and Mary and

Jack watched.

The wagon had been home for a long time. Now

there was nothing left of it but the four wheels and the part

that connected them. Pet and Patty were still hitched

to the tongue. Pa took a bucket and his ax, and

sitting on this skeleton wagon, he drove

away. He drove right down into the prairie, out

of sight.

"Where's Pa going?" Laura asked, and Ma

said, "He's going to get a load of logs from the

creek bottoms."

It was strange and frightening to be left without the

wagon on the High Prairie. The land and the sky

seemed too large, and Laura felt small.

She wanted to hide and be still in the tall grass,

like a little prairie chicken. But she didn't.

She helped Ma, while Mary sat on the

grass and minded Baby Carrie.

First Laura and Ma made the beds, under the

wagon-cover tent. Then Ma arranged the boxes

and bundles, while Laura pulled all the

grass from a space in front of the tent. That

made a bare place for the fire. They couldn't

start the fire until Pa brought wood.

There was nothing more to do, so Laura explored a

little. She did not go far from the tent. But

she found a queer little kind of tunnel in the

grass. You'd never notice it if you looked

across the waving grass-tops. But when you came

to it, there it was--a narrow, straight, hard path

down between the grass stems. It went out into the endless

prairie.

Laura went along it a little way. She went

slowly, and more slowly, and then she stood still and

felt queer. So she turned around and came back

quickly. When she looked over her shoulder, there

wasn't anything there. But she hurried.

When Pa came riding back on a load of

logs, Laura told him about that path. He said

he had seen it yesterday. "It's some old

trail," he said.

That night by the fire Laura asked again when she

would see a papoose, but Pa didn't know. He

said you never saw Indians unless they wanted you

to see them. He had seen Indians when he was a

boy in New York State, but Laura never

had. She knew they were wild men with red skins, and

their hatchets were called tomahawks.

Pa knew all about wild animals, so he

must know about wild men, too. Laura thought he

would show her a papoose some day, just as he had

shown her fawns, and little bears, and wolves.

For days Pa hauled logs. He made two

piles of them, one for the house and one for the stable.

There began to be a road where he drove back and

forth to the creek bottoms. And at night on their

picket-lines Pet and Patty ate the grass,

till it was short and stubby all around the

log-piles.

Pa began the house first. He paced off the

size of it on the ground, then with his spade he

dug a shallow little hollow along two sides of

that space. Into these hollows he rolled two of the

biggest logs. They were sound, strong logs, because

they must hold up the house. They were called

sills.

Then Pa chose two more strong, big logs, and

he rolled these logs onto the ends of the sills,

so that they made a hollow square. Now with his ax

he cut a wide, deep notch near each end of

these logs. He cut these notches out of the top of the

log, but with his eye he measured the sills, and he

cut the notches so that they would fit around half of the

sill.

When the notches were cut, he rolled the log

over. And the notches fitted down over the

sill.

That finished the foundation of the house. It was one

log high. The sills were half buried in the

ground, and the logs on their ends fitted snugly

to the ground. At the corners, where they crossed, the

notches let them fit together so that they were no

thicker than one log. And the two ends stuck out

beyond the notches.

Next day Pa began the walls. From each

side he rolled up a log, and he notched its

ends so that it fitted down over the end logs. Then

he rolled up logs from the ends, and notched them so

that they fitted down over the side logs. Now the

whole house was two logs high.

The logs fitted solidly together at the

corners. But no log is ever perfectly

straight, and all logs are bigger at one end

than at the other end, so cracks were left between them

all along the walls. But that did not matter, because

Pa would chink those cracks.

All by himself, he built the house three logs

high. Then Ma helped him. Pa lifted one end

of a log onto the wall, then Ma held it while

he lifted the other end. He stood up on the

wall to cut the notches, and Ma helped roll and

hold the log while he settled it where it should be

to make the corner perfectly square.

So, log by log, they built the walls higher,

till they were pretty high, and Laura couldn't

get over them any more. She was tired of watching

Pa and Ma build the house, and she went into the

tall grass, exploring. Suddenly she heard

Pa shout, "Let go! Get out from under!"

The big, heavy log was sliding. Pa was trying

to hold up his end of it, to keep it from falling on

Ma. He couldn't. It crashed down. Ma

huddled on the ground.

She got to Ma almost as quickly as Pa did.

Pa knelt down and called Ma in a dreadful

voice, and Ma gasped, "I'm all right."

The log was on her foot. Pa lifted the log

and Ma pulled her foot from under it. Pa felt

her to see if any bones were broken.

"Move your arms," he said. "Is your back

hurt? Can you turn your head?" Ma moved her

arms and turned her head.

"Thank God," Pa said. He helped Ma

to sit up. She said again, "I'm all right,

Charles. It's just my foot."

Quickly Pa took off her shoe and

stocking. He felt her foot all over, moving

the ankle and the instep and every toe. "Does it hurt

much?" he asked.

Ma's face was gray and her mouth was a tight

line. "Not much," she said.

"No bones broken," said Pa. "It's only

a bad sprain."

Ma said, cheerfully: "Well, a sprain's

soon mended. Don't be so upset, Charles."

"I blame myself," said Pa. "I should have used

skids."

He helped Ma to the tent. He built up the

fire and heated water. When the water was as hot as

Ma could bear, she put her swollen foot into it.

It was Providential that the foot was not

crushed. Only a little hollow in the ground had

saved it.

Pa kept pouring more hot water into the tub in which

Ma's foot was soaking. Her foot was red from the

heat and the puffed ankle began to turn purple.

Ma took her foot out of the water and bound strips

of rag tightly around and around the ankle. "I can

manage," she said.

She could not get her shoe on. But she tied more

rags around her foot, and she hobbled on it. She

got supper as usual, only a little more slowly.

But Pa said she could not help to build the house

until her ankle was well.

He hewed out skids. These were long, flat

slabs. One end rested on the ground, and the other

end rested on the log wall. He was not going

to lift any more logs; he and Ma would roll them

up these skids.

But Ma's ankle was not well yet. When she

unwrapped it in the evenings, to soak it in hot

water, it was all purple and black and green and

yellow. The house must wait.

Then one afternoon Pa came merrily whistling up

the creek road. They had not expected him home

from hunting so soon. As soon as he saw them he

shouted, "Good news!"

They had a neighbor, only two miles

away on the other side of the creek. Pa had

met him in the woods. They were going to trade work

and that would make it easier for everyone.

"He's a bachelor," said Pa, "and he

says he can get along without a house better

than you and the girls can. So he's going to help me

first. Then as soon as he gets his logs ready,

I'll go over and help him."

They need not wait any longer for the house, and

Ma need not do any more work on it.

"How do you like that, Caroline?" Pa asked,

joyfully; and Ma said, "That's good, Charles.

I'm glad."

Early next morning Mr. Edwards came.

He was lean and tall and brown. He bowed to Ma

and called her "Ma'am," politely. But he

told Laura that he was a wildcat from

Tennessee. He wore tall boots and a ragged

jumper, and a coonskin cap, and he could spit

tobacco juice farther than Laura had ever

imagined that anyone could spit tobacco juice.

He could hit anything he spit at, too.

Laura tried and tried, but she could never spit so

far or so well as Mr. Edwards could.

He was a fast worker. In one day he and Pa

built those walls as high as Pa wanted them.

They joked and sang while they worked, and their axes

made the chips fly.

On top of the walls they set up a

skeleton roof of slender poles. Then in the

south wall they cut a tall hole for a door, and

in the west wall and the east wall they cut square

holes for windows.

Laura couldn't wait to see the inside of the

house. As soon as the tall hole was cut, she

ran inside. Everything was striped there. Stripes

of sunshine came through the cracks in the west

wall, and stripes of shadow came down from the

poles overhead. The stripes of shade and

sunshine were all across Laura's hands and her arms

and her bare feet. And through the cracks between the

logs she could see stripes of prairie. The

sweet smell of the prairie mixed with the sweet

smell of cut wood.

Then, as Pa cut away the logs to make the

window hole in the west wall, chunks of sunshine

came in. When he finished, a big block of

sunshine lay on the ground inside the house.

Around the door hole and the window holes, Pa

and Mr. Edwards nailed thin slabs against the cut

ends of the logs. And the house was finished, all but the

roof. The walls were solid and the house was large,

much larger than the tent. It was a nice house.

Mr. Edwards said he would go home now, but

Pa and Ma said he must stay to supper. Ma had

cooked an especially good supper because they had

company.

There was stewed jack rabbit with

white-flour dumplings and plenty of gravy. There

was a steaming-hot, thick cornbread flavored with

bacon fat. There was molasses to eat on the

cornbread, but because this was a company supper they

did not sweeten their coffee with molasses. Ma

brought out the little paper sack of pale-brown store

sugar.

Mr. Edwards said he surely did

appreciate that supper.

Then Pa brought out his fiddle.

Mr. Edwards stretched out on the ground,

to listen. But first Pa played for Laura and

Mary. He played their very favorite song, and

he sang it. Laura liked it best of all because

Pa's voice went down deep, deep, deeper

in that song.

"Oh, I am a Gypsy King!

I come and go as I please!

I pull my old nightcap down

And take the world at my ease."

Then his voice went deep, deep down,

deeper than the very oldest bullfrog's.

"Oh,

I am

a

Gyp

sy

KING!"

They all laughed. Laura could hardly stop

laughing.

"Oh, sing it again, Pa! Sing it again!" she

cried, before she remembered that children must be seen and not

heard. Then she was quiet.

Pa went on playing, and everything began to dance.

Mr. Edwards rose up on one elbow, then he

sat up, then he jumped up and he danced. He

danced like a jumping-jack in the moonlight, while

Pa's fiddle kept on rollicking and his foot

kept tapping the ground, and Laura's hands and

Mary's hands were clapping together and their feet were

patting, too.

"You're the fiddlin'est fool that ever I see!"

Mr. Edwards shouted admiringly to Pa. He

didn't stop dancing, Pa didn't stop

playing. He played "Money Musk" and

"Arkansas Traveler," "Irish

Washerwoman" and the "Devil's Hornpipe."

Baby Carrie couldn't sleep in all that

music. She sat up in Ma's lap, looking

at Mr. Edwards with round eyes, and clapping her

little hands and laughing.

Even the firelight danced, and all around its

edge the shadows were dancing. Only the new house

stood still and quiet in the dark, till the big

moon rose and shone on its gray walls and the

yellow chips around it.

Mr. Edwards said he must go. It was a long

way back to his camp on the other side of the

woods and the creek. He took his gun, and said

good night to Laura and Mary and Ma. He said a

bachelor got mighty lonesome, and he surely

had enjoyed this evening of home life.

"Play, Ingalls!" he said. "Play me

down the road!" So while he went down the

creek road and out of sight, Pa played, and

Pa and Mr. Edwards and Laura sang with all

their might.

"Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man;

He washed his face in the frying-pan,

He combed his hair with a wagon wheel,

And died of the toothache in his heel.

"Git out of the way for old Dan Tucker!

He's too late to get his supper!

Supper's over and the dishes washed,

Nothing left but a piece of squash!

"Old Dan Tucker went to town,

Riding a mule, leading a houn' ..."

Far over the prairie rang Pa's big

voice and Laura's little one, and faintly from the

creek bottoms came a last whoop from Mr.

Edwards.

"Git out of the way for old Dan Tucker!

He's too late to get his supper!"

When Pa's fiddle stopped, they could not hear

Mr. Edwards any more. Only the wind rustled in

the prairie grasses. The big, yellow moon

was sailing high overhead. The sky was so full of

light that not one star twinkled in it, and all the

prairie was a shadowy mellowness.

Then from the woods by the creek a

nightingale began to sing.

Everything was silent, listening to the nightingale's

song. The bird sang on and on. The cool wind

moved over the prairie and the song was round and clear

above the grasses' whispering. The sky was like a

bowl of light overturned on the flat black

land.

The song ended. No one moved or spoke.

Laura and Mary were quiet, Pa and Ma sat

motionless. Only the wind stirred and the grasses

sighed. Then Pa lifted the fiddle to his shoulder

and softly touched the bow to the strings. A few

notes fell like clear drops of water into the

stillness. A pause, and Pa began to play the

nightingale's song. The nightingale answered

him. The nightingale began to sing again. It was singing

with Pa's fiddle.

When the strings were silent, the nightingale went

on singing. When it paused, the fiddle called to it

and it sang again. The bird and the fiddle were talking

to each other in the cool night under the moon.

MOVING IN

"The walls are up," Pa was saying to Ma in

the morning. "We'd better move in and get

along as best we can without a floor or other

fixings. I must build the stable as fast as I can,

so Pet and Patty can be inside walls, too.

Last night I could hear wolves howling from every

direction, seemed like, and close, too."

"Well, you have your gun, so I'll not

worry," said Ma.

"Yes, and there's Jack. But I'll feel

easier in my mind when you and the girls have good

solid walls around you."

"Why do you suppose we haven't seen any

Indians?" Ma asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Pa replied,

carelessly. "I've seen their camping-places

among the bluffs. They're away on a

hunting-trip now, I guess."

Then Ma called: "Girls! The sun's

up!" and Laura and Mary scrambled out of bed and

into their clothes.

"Eat your breakfasts quickly," Ma said,

putting the last of the rabbit stew on their

tin plates. "We're moving into the house today, and

all the chips must be out."

So they ate quickly, and hurried to carry all the

chips out of the house. They ran back and forth as

fast as they could, gathering their skirts full of

chips and dumping them in a pile near the fire.

But there were still chips on the ground inside the house

when Ma began to sweep it with her willow-bough

broom.

Ma limped, though her sprained ankle was

beginning to get well. But she soon swept the

earthen floor, and then Mary and Laura began

to help her carry things into the house.

Pa was on top of the walls, stretching the

canvas wagon-top over the skeleton roof of

saplings. The canvas billowed in the wind,

Pa's beard blew wildly and his hair stood

up from his head as if it were trying to pull itself out.

He held on to the canvas and fought it. Once it

jerked so hard that Laura thought he must let go or

sail into the air like a bird. But he held tight

to the wall with his legs, and tight to the canvas with his

hands, and he tied it down.

"There!" he said to it. "Stay where you are, and

be--"

"Charles!" Ma said. She stood with her arms

full of quilts and looked up at him

reprovingly.

"--and be good," Pa said to the canvas. "Why,

Caroline, what did you think I was going to say?"

"Oh, Charles!" Ma said. "You

scalawag!"

Pa came right down the corner of the house. The

ends of the logs stuck out, and he used them for a

ladder. He ran his hand through his hair so that it

stood up even more wildly, and Ma burst out

laughing. Then he hugged her, quilts and all.

Then they looked at the house and Pa said,

"How's that for a snug house!"

"I'll be thankful to get into it," said Ma.

There was no door and there were no windows. There was

no floor except the ground and no roof except

the canvas. But that house had good stout walls, and

it would stay where it was. It was not like the wagon, that

every morning went on to some other place.

"We're going to do well here, Caroline,"

Pa said. "This is a great country. This is a

country I'll be contented to stay in the rest of my

life."

"Even when it's settled up?" Ma

asked.

"Even when it's settled up. No matter how

thick and close the neighbors get, this

country'll never feel crowded. Look at that

sky!"

Laura knew what he meant. She liked this

place, too. She liked the enormous sky and the

winds, and the land that you couldn't see to the end of.

Everything was so free and big and splendid.

By dinner time the house was in order. The beds were

neatly made on the floor. The wagon-seat and

two ends of logs were brought in for chairs. Pa's

gun lay on its pegs above the doorway.

Boxes and bundles were neat against the walls. It

was a pleasant house. A soft light came through

the canvas roof, wind and sunshine came through the

window holes, and every crack in the four walls

glowed a little because the sun was overhead.

Only the camp fire stayed where it had been.

Pa said he would build a fireplace in the

house as soon as he could. He would hew out

slabs to make a solid roof, too, before winter

came. He would lay a puncheon floor, and

make beds and tables and chairs. But all that work

must wait until he had helped Mr. Edwards

and had built a stable for Pet and Patty.

"When that's all done," said Ma, "I want

a clothes-line."

Pa laughed. "Yes, and I want a well."

After dinner he hitched Pet and Patty to the

wagon and he hauled a tubful of water from the

creek so that Ma could do the washing. "You could wash

clothes in the creek," he told her. "Indian

women do."

"If we wanted to live like Indians, you could

make a hole in the roof to let the smoke out, and

we'd have the fire on the floor inside the

house," said Ma. "Indians do."

That afternoon she washed the clothes in the tub and

spread them on the grass to dry.

After supper they sat for a while by the camp

fire. That night they would sleep in the house; they

would never sleep beside a camp fire again. Pa and

Ma talked about the folks in Wisconsin, and

Ma wished she could send them a letter. But

Independence was forty miles away, and no letter could

go until Pa made the long trip to the

post-office there.

Back in the Big Woods so far away,

Grandpa and Grandma and the aunts and

uncles and cousins did not know where Pa and Ma and

Laura and Mary and Baby Carrie were. And

sitting there by the camp fire, no one knew what

might have happened in the Big Woods. There was

no way to find out.

"Well, it's bedtime," Ma said. Baby

Carrie was already asleep. Ma carried her into the

house and undressed her, while Mary

unbuttoned Laura's dress and petticoat

waist down the back, and Pa hung a quilt

over the door hole. The quilt would be better

than no door. Then Pa went out to bring Pet and

Patty close to the house.

He called back, softly, "Come out here,

Caroline, and look at the moon."

Mary and Laura lay in their little bed on the

ground inside the new house, and watched the sky

through the window hole to the east. The edge of the big,

bright moon glittered at the bottom of the window

space, and Laura sat up. She looked at the

great moon, sailing silently higher in the clear

sky.

Its light made silvery lines in all the

cracks on that side of the house. The light poured

through the window hole and made a square of soft

radiance on the floor. It was so bright that Laura

saw Ma plainly when she lifted the quilt at

the door and came in.

Then Laura very quickly lay down, before Ma

saw her naughtily sitting up in bed.

She heard Pet and Patty whinnying softly

to Pa. Then the faint thuds of their feet came

into her ear from the floor. Pet and Patty and Pa

were coming toward the house, and Laura heard Pa

singing:

"Sail on, silver moon!

Shed your radiance o'er the sky--"

His voice was like a part of the night and the

moonlight and the stillness of the prairie. He

came to the doorway, singing:

"By the pale, silver light of the moon--"

Softly Ma said, "Hush, Charles. You'll

wake the children."

So Pa came in without a sound. Jack

followed at his heels and lay down across the

doorway. Now they were all inside the

stout walls of their new home, and they were snug and

safe. Drowsily Laura heard a long

wolf-howl rising from far away on the prairie,

but only a little shiver went up her backbone and

she fell asleep.

THE WOLF-PACK

All in one day Pa and Mr. Edwards built

the stable for Pet and Patty. They even put the

roof on, working so late that Ma had to keep

supper waiting for them.

There was no stable door, but in the moonlight

Pa drove two stout posts well into the ground,

one on either side of the doorway. He put Pet

and Patty inside the stable, and then he laid

small split logs one above another, across the

door space. The posts held them, and they made

a solid wall.

"Now!" said Pa. "Let those wolves howl!

I'll sleep, tonight."

In the morning, when he lifted the split logs

from behind the posts, Laura was amazed. Beside Pet

stood a long-legged, long-eared, wobbly little

colt.

When Laura ran toward it, gentle Pet

laid back her ears and snapped her teeth at

Laura.

"Keep back, Laura!" Pa said, sharply.

He said to Pet, "Now, Pet, you know we

won't hurt your little colt." Pet answered him

with a soft whinny. She would let Pa stroke her

colt, but she would not let Laura or Mary come

near it. When they even peeked at it through the

cracks in the stable wall, Pet rolled the

whites of her eyes at them and showed them her

teeth. They had never seen a colt with ears so

long. Pa said it was a little mule, but Laura said

it looked like a jack rabbit. So they named the little

colt Bunny.

When Pet was on the picket-line, with Bunny

frisking around her and wondering at the big world,

Laura must watch Baby Carrie carefully.

If anyone but Pa came near Bunny, Pet

squealed with rage and dashed to bite that little girl.

Early that Sunday afternoon Pa rode Patty

away across the prairie to see what he should see.

There was plenty of meat in the house, so he did not

take his gun.

He rode away through the tall grass,

along the rim of the creek bluffs. Birds flew

up before him and circled and sank into the grasses.

Pa was looking down into the creek bottoms as he

rode; perhaps he was watching deer browsing there. Then

Patty broke into a gallop, and swiftly she

and Pa grew smaller. Soon there was only

waving grass where they had been.

Late that afternoon Pa had not come home. Ma

stirred the coals of the fire and laid chips on

them, and began to get supper. Mary was in the

house, minding the baby, and Laura asked Ma,

"What's the matter with Jack?"

Jack was walking up and down, looking

worried. He wrinkled his nose at the wind, and the

hair rose up on his neck and lay down, and then

rose up again. Pet's hoofs suddenly thudded.

She ran around the circle of her picket-rope

and stood still, whickering a low whicker. Bunny

came close to her.

"What's the matter, Jack?" Ma asked.

He looked up at her, but he couldn't say

anything. Ma gazed around the whole circle of

earth and sky. She could not see anything unusual.

"Likely it isn't anything, Laura," she

said. She raked coals around the coffee-pot and the

spider and onto the top of the bake oven. The

prairie hen sizzled in the spider and the

corn-cakes began to smell good. But all the time

Ma kept glancing at the prairie all around.

Jack walked about restlessly, and Pet did not

graze. She faced the northwest, where Pa had

gone, and kept her colt close beside her.

All at once Patty came running across the

prairie. She was stretched out, running with all

her might, and Pa was leaning almost flat on her

neck.

She ran right past the stable before Pa could stop

her. He stopped her so hard that she almost sat

down. She was trembling all over and her black

coat was streaked with sweat and foam. Pa swung

off her. He was breathing hard, too.

"What is the matter, Charles?" Ma asked

him.

Pa was looking toward the creek, so Ma and

Laura looked at it, too. But they could see

only the space above the bottom lands, with a few

tree-tops in it, and the distant tops of the earthen

bluffs under the High Prairie's grasses.

"What is it?" Ma asked again. "Why did you

ride Patty like that?"

Pa breathed a long breath. "I was afraid the

wolves would beat me here. But I see everything's

all right."

"Wolves!" she cried. "What wolves?"

"Everything's all right, Caroline," said Pa.

"Let a fellow get his breath."

When he had got some breath, he said, "I

didn't ride Patty like that. It was all I could

do to hold her at all. Fifty wolves,

Caroline, the biggest wolves I ever saw. I

wouldn't go through such a thing again, not for a mint of

money."

A shadow came over the prairie just then because the

sun had gone down, and Pa said, "I'll tell

you about it later."

"We'll eat supper in the house," said Ma.

"No need of that," he told her. "Jack will

give us warning in plenty of time."

He brought Pet and her colt from the

picket-line. He didn't take them and

Patty to drink from the creek, as he usually

did. He gave them the water in Ma's

washtub, which was standing full, ready for the washing

next morning. He rubbed down Patty's

sweaty sides and legs and put her in the barn with

Pet and Bunny.

Supper was ready. The camp fire made a

circle of light in the dark. Laura and Mary

stayed close to the fire, and kept Baby

Carrie with them. They could feel the dark all around

them, and they kept looking behind them at the place

where the dark mixed with the edge of the firelight.

Shadows moved there, as if they were alive.

Jack sat on his haunches beside Laura. The

edges of his ears were lifted, listening to the dark.

Now and then he walked a little way into it. He

walked all around the camp fire, and came back

to sit beside Laura. The hair lay flat on his

thick neck and he did not growl. His teeth showed

a little, but that was because he was a bulldog.

Laura and Mary ate their corncakes and the

prairie hen's drumsticks, and they listened

to Pa while he told Ma about the wolves.

He had found some more neighbors. Settlers were

coming in and settling along both sides of the creek.

Less than three miles away, in a hollow

on the High Prairie, a man and his wife were

building a house. Their name was Scott, and Pa

said they were nice folks. Six miles beyond them,

two bachelors were living in one house.

They had taken two farms, and built the house

on the line between them. One man's bunk was against

one wall of the house, and the other man's bunk was

against the other wall. So each man slept on his

own farm, although they were in the same house and the house

was only eight feet wide. They cooked and ate

together in the middle of the house.

Pa had not said anything about the wolves yet.

Laura wished he would. But she knew that she must

not interrupt when Pa was talking.

He said that these bachelors did not know that

anyone else was in the country. They had seen

nobody but Indians. So they were glad to see

Pa, and he stayed there longer than he had meant

to.

Then he rode on, and from a little rise in the

prairie he saw a white speck down in the

creek bottoms. He thought it was a covered

wagon, and it was. When he came to it, he found

a man and his wife and five children. They had come from

Iowa, and they had camped in the bottoms because one

of their horses was sick. The horse was better

now, but the bad night air so near the creek had

given them fever 'n' ague. The man and his wife

and the three oldest children were too sick to stand up. The

little boy and girl no bigger than Mary and

Laura, were taking care of them.

So Pa did what he could for them, and then he

rode back to tell the bachelors about them. One

of them rode right away to fetch that family up on

the High Prairie, where they would soon get

well in the good air.

One thing had led to another, until Pa was

starting home later than he had meant. He

took a short cut across the prairie, and as he

was loping along on Patty, suddenly out of a little

draw came a pack of wolves. They were all

around Pa in a moment.

"It was a big pack," Pa said. "All of

fifty wolves, and the biggest wolves I ever

saw in my life. Must be what they call

buffalo wolves. Their leader's a big gray

brute that stands three feet at the shoulder, if

an inch. I tell you my hair stood straight

on end."

"And you didn't have your gun," said Ma.

"I thought of that. But my gun would have been no

use if I'd had it. You can't fight fifty

wolves with one gun. And Patty couldn't outrun

them."

"What did you do?" Ma asked.

"Nothing," said Pa. "Patty tried to run.

I never wanted anything worse than I wanted

to get away from there. But I knew if Patty

even started, those wolves would be on us in a

minute, pulling us down. So I held Patty

to a walk."

"Goodness, Charles!" Ma said under her breath.

"Yes. I wouldn't go through such a thing again for

any money. Caroline, I never saw such

wolves. One big fellow trotted along, right

by my stirrup. I could have kicked him in the ribs.

They didn't pay any attention to me at all.

They must have just made a kill and eaten all they

could.

"I tell you, Caroline, those wolves just

closed in around Patty and me and trotted along

with us. In broad daylight. For all the world like a

pack of dogs going along with a horse. They were

all around us, trotting along, and jumping and

playing and snapping at each other, just like dogs."

"Goodness, Charles!" Ma said again. Laura's

heart was thumping fast, and her mouth and her eyes were

wide open, staring at Pa.

"Patty was shaking all over, and fighting the

bit," said Pa. "Sweat ran off her, she was so

scared. I was sweating, too. But I held her

down to a walk, and we went walking along among

those wolves. They came right along with us, a

quarter of a mile or more. That big fellow

trotted by my stirrup as if he were there to stay.

"Then we came to the head of a draw, running

down into the creek bottoms. The big gray

leader went down it, and all the rest of the pack

trotted down into it, behind him. As soon as the last

one was in the draw, I let Patty go.

"She headed straight for home, across the

prairie. And she couldn't have run faster if

I'd been cutting into her with a rawhide whip. I

was scared the whole way. I thought the wolves

might be coming this way and they might be making better

time than I was. I was glad you had the gun,

Caroline. And glad the house is built. I

knew you could keep the wolves out of the house, with the

gun. But Pet and the colt were outside."

"You need not have worried, Charles," Ma said.

"I guess I would manage to save our

horses."

"I was not fully reasonable, at the time," said

Pa. "I know you would save the horses,

Caroline. Those wolves wouldn't bother you,

anyway. If they had been hungry, I wouldn't

be here to--"

"Little pitchers have big ears," Ma said. She

meant that he must not frighten Mary and Laura.

"Well, all's well that ends well," Pa

replied. "And those wolves are miles from here

by now."

"What made them act like that?" Laura asked

him.

"I don't know, Laura," he said. "I

guess they had just eaten all they could hold, and

they were on their way to the creek to get a drink.

Or perhaps they were out playing on the prairie, and not

paying any attention to anything but their play, like little

girls do sometimes. Perhaps they saw that I didn't

have my gun and couldn't do them any harm. Or perhaps

they had never seen a man before and didn't know that

men can do them any harm. So they didn't think about

me at all."

Pet and Patty were restlessly walking around and

around, inside the barn. Jack walked around the

camp fire. When he stood still to smell the air

and listen, the hair lifted on his neck.

"Bedtime for little girls!" Ma said, cheerfully.

Not even Baby Carrie was sleepy yet, but

Ma took them all into the house. She told

Mary and Laura to go to bed, and she put Baby

Carrie's little nightgown on and laid her in the

big bed. Then she went outdoors to do the dishes.

Laura wanted Pa and Ma in the house. They

seemed so far away outside.

Mary and Laura were good and lay still, but Carrie

sat up and played by herself in the dark. In the dark

Pa's arm came from behind the quilt in the doorway

and quietly took away his gun. Out by the camp

fire the tin plates rattled. Then a knife

scraped the spider. Ma and Pa were talking together

and Laura smelled tobacco smoke.

The house was safe, but it did not feel safe

because Pa's gun was not over the door and there was no

door; there was only the quilt.

After a long time Ma lifted the quilt.

Baby Carrie was asleep then. Ma and Pa

came in very quietly and very quietly went to bed.

Jack lay across the doorway, but his chin was not on

his paws. His head was up, listening. Ma breathed

softly, Pa breathed heavily, and Mary was

asleep, too. But Laura strained her eyes in

the dark to watch Jack. She could not tell

whether the hair was standing up on his neck.

Suddenly she was sitting straight up in bed.

She had been asleep. The dark was gone.

Moonlight streamed through the window hole and streaks

of moonlight came through every crack in that wall.

Pa stood black in the moonlight at the window.

He had his gun.

Right in Laura's ear a wolf howled.

She scringed away from the wall. The wolf was

on the other side of it. Laura was too scared

to make a sound. The cold was not in her backbone

only, it was all through her. Mary pulled the

quilt over her head. Jack growled and showed his

teeth at the quilt in the doorway.

"Be still, Jack," Pa said.

Terrible howls curled all around inside the

house, and Laura rose out of bed. She wanted

to go to Pa, but she knew better than to bother him

now. He turned his head and saw her standing in her

nightgown.

"Want to see them, Laura?" he asked,

softly. Laura couldn't say anything, but she

nodded, and padded across the ground to him. He stood

his gun against the wall and lifted her up to the window

hole.

There in the moonlight sat half a circle of

wolves. They sat on their haunches and looked

at Laura in the window, and she looked at them.

She had never seen such big wolves. The biggest

one was taller than Laura. He was taller even

than Mary. He sat in the middle, exactly

opposite Laura. Everything about him was big--

his pointed ears, and his pointed mouth with the tongue

hanging out, and his strong shoulders and legs, and his

two paws side by side, and his tail curled

around the squatting haunch. His coat was shaggy

gray and his eyes were glittering green.

Laura clutched her toes into a crack of the

wall and she folded her arms on the window slab,

and she looked and looked at that wolf. But she

did not put her head through the empty window space

into the outdoors where all those wolves sat so near

her, shifting their paws and licking their chops. Pa

stood firm against her back and kept his arm tight

around her middle.

"He's awful big," Laura whispered.

"Yes, and see how his coat shines," Pa

whispered into her hair. The moonlight made little

litters in the edges of the shaggy fur, all around the

big wolf.

"They are in a ring clear around the house," Pa

whispered. Laura pattered beside him to the other

window. He leaned his gun against that wall and

lifted her up again. There, sure enough, was the other

half of the circle of wolves. All their eyes

glittered green in the shadow of the house. Laura

could hear their breathing. When they saw Pa and

Laura looking out, the middle of the circle moved

back a little way.

Pet and Patty were squealing and running inside

the barn. Their hoofs pounded the ground and crashed

against the walls.

After a moment Pa went back to the other window,

and Laura went, too. They were just in time to see the

big wolf lift his nose till it pointed

straight at the sky. His mouth opened, and a long

howl rose toward the moon.

Then all around the house the circle of wolves

pointed their noses toward the sky and answered him.

Their howls shuddered through the house and filled the

moonlight and quavered away across the vast silence

of the prairie.

"Now go back to bed, little half-pint," Pa

said. "Go to sleep. Jack and I will take care

of you all."

So Laura went back to bed. But for a long time

she did not sleep. She lay and listened to the

breathing of the wolves on the other side of the log

wall. She heard the scratch of their claws on

the ground, and the snuffling of a nose at a crack.

She heard the big gray leader howl again, and all

the others answering him.

But Pa was walking quietly from one window

hole to the other, and Jack did not stop pacing up

and down before the quilt that hung in the doorway.

The wolves might howl, but they could not get in

while Pa and Jack were there. So at last

Laura fell asleep.

TWO STOUT DOORS

Laura felt a soft warmth on her face and

opened her eyes into morning sunshine. Mary was

talking to Ma by the camp fire. Laura ran

outdoors, all bare inside her nightgown. There

were no wolves to be seen; only their tracks were

thick around the house and the stable.

Pa came whistling up the creek road. He

put his gun on its pegs and led Pet and

Patty to the creek to drink as usual.

He had followed the wolf tracks so far that he

knew they were far away now, following a herd of

deer.

The mustangs shied at the wolves' tracks and

pricked their ears nervously, and Pet kept her

colt close at her side. But they went

willingly with Pa, who knew there was nothing to fear.

Breakfast was ready. When Pa came back from

the creek they all sat by the fire and ate fried

mush and prairie-chicken hash. Pa said he would

make a door that very day. He wanted more than a

quilt between them and the wolves, next time.

"I have no more nails, but I'll not keep on

waiting till I can make a trip

to Independence," he said. "A man doesn't

need nails to build a house or make a

door."

After breakfast he hitched up Pet and

Patty, and taking his ax he went to get timber

for the door. Laura helped wash the dishes and

make the beds, but that day Mary minded the baby.

Laura helped Pa make the door. Mary

watched, but Laura handed him his tools.

With the saw he sawed logs the right length for a

door. He sawed shorter lengths for

cross-pieces. Then with the ax he split the

logs into slabs, and smoothed them nicely. He

laid the long slabs together on the ground and placed

the shorter slabs across them. Then with the auger he

bored holes through the cross-pieces into the long

slabs. Into every hole he drove a wooden peg

that fitted tightly.

That made the door. It was a good oak door,

solid and strong.

For the hinges he cut three long straps. One

hinge was to be near the top of the door, one near the

bottom, and one in the middle.

He fastened them first to the door, in this way:

He laid a little piece of wood on the door,

and bored a hole through it into the door. Then he

doubled one end of a strap around the little piece of

wood, and with his knife cut round holes through the

strap. He laid the little piece of wood on the

door again, with the strap doubled around it, and all the

holes making one hole. Then Laura gave him

a peg and the hammer, and he drove the peg into the

hole. The peg went through the strap and the little piece

of wood and through the strap again and into the door. That

held the strap so that it couldn't get loose.

"I told you a fellow doesn't need

nails!" Pa said.

When he had fastened the three hinges to the door,

he set the door in the doorway. It fitted.

Then he pegged strips of wood to the old slabs

on either side of the doorway, to keep the door from

swinging outward. He set the door in place again,

and Laura stood against it to hold it there, while

Pa fastened the hinges to the door-frame.

But before he did this he had made the latch on

the door, because, of course, there must be some way

to keep a door shut.

This was the way he made the latch: First he

hewed a short, thick piece of oak. From one

side of this, in the middle, he cut a wide,

deep notch. He pegged this stick to the inside of the

door, up and down and near the edge. He put the

notched side against the door, so that the notch made

a little slot.

Then he hewed and whittled a longer, smaller

stick. This stick was small enough to slip easily

through the slot. He slid one end of it through the

slot, and he pegged the other end to the door.

But he did not peg it tightly. The peg was

solid and firm in the door, but the hole in the

stick was larger than the peg. The only thing that

held the stick on the door was the slot.

This stick was the latch. It turned easily on

the peg, and its loose end moved up and down in the

slot. And the loose end of it was long enough to go through the

slot and across the crack between the door and the wall,

and to lie against the wall when the door was shut.

When Pa and Laura had hung the door in the

doorway, Pa marked the spot on the wall where

the end of the latch came. Over that spot he pegged

to the wall a stout piece of oak. This piece of

oak was cut out at the top, so that the latch could

drop between it and the wall.

Now Laura pushed the door shut, and while

she pushed she lifted the end of the latch as high as

it would go in the slot. Then she let it fall

into its place behind the stout piece of oak. That

held the latch against the wall, and the up-and-down

strip held the latch in its slot against the door.

Nobody could break in without breaking the strong

latch in two.

But there must be a way to lift the latch from the

outside. So Pa made the latch-string. He

cut it from a long strip of good leather. He tied

one end to the latch, between the peg and the slot. Above

the latch he bored a small hole through the

door, and he pushed the end of the latch-string through the

hole.

Laura stood outside, and when the end of the

latch-string came through the hole she took hold of

it and pulled. She could pull it hard enough to lift the

latch and let herself in.

The door was finished. It was strong and solid,

made of thick oak with oak slabs across it, all

pegged together with good stout pegs. The latch-string was

out; if you wanted to come in, you pulled the

latch-string. But if you were inside and wanted

to keep anyone out, then you pulled the latch-string in

through its hole and nobody could get in. There was

no doorknob on that door, and there was no

keyhole and no key. But it was a good door.

"I call that a good day's work!" said Pa.

"And I had a fine little helper!"

He hugged the top of Laura's head with his

hand. Then he gathered up his tools and put them

away, whistling, and he went to take Pet and

Patty from their picket-lines to water. The sun

was setting, the breeze was cooler, and supper

cooking on the fire made the best

supper-smells that Laura had ever smelled.

There was salt pork for supper. It was the last

of the salt pork, so next day Pa went hunting.

But the day after that he and Laura made the barn

door.

It was exactly like the house door, except that

it had no latch. Pet and Patty did not understand

door-latches and would not pull a latch-string in

at night. So instead of a latch Pa made a

hole through the door, and he put a chain through the

hole.

At night he would pull an end of the chain through

a crack between the logs in the stable wall, and he

would padlock the two ends of the chain together. Then

nobody could get into that stable.

"Now we're all snug!" Pa said. When

neighbors began to come into a country, it was best

to lock up your horses at night, because, where there

are deer there will be wolves, and where there are

horses, there will be horse thieves.

That night at supper Pa said to Ma, "Now,

Caroline, as soon as we get Edwards' house

up, I'm going to build you a fireplace, so you

can do your cooking in the house, out of the wind and the

storms. It seems like I never did see a

place with so much sunshine, but I suppose it's

bound to rain sometime."

"Yes, Charles," Ma said. "Good weather

never lasts forever on this earth."

A FIRE ON THE HEARTH

Outside the house, close to the log wall

opposite the door, Pa cut away the grass

and scraped the ground smooth. He was getting

ready to build the fireplace.

Then he and Ma put the wagon-box on the

wheels again, and Pa hitched up Pet and

Patty.

The rising sun was shortening all the shadows.

Hundreds of meadow larks were rising from the

prairie, singing higher and higher in the air. Their

songs came down from the great, clear sky like a

rain of music. And all over the land, where the

grasses waved and murmured under the wind, thousands

of little dickie-birds clung with their tiny claws

to the blossoming weeds and sang their thousands of little

songs.

Pet and Patty sniffed the wind and whinnied with

joy. They arched their necks and pawed at the ground

because they were eager to go. Pa was whistling while he

climbed to the wagon-seat and took up the reins.

Then he looked down at Laura, who was looking

up at him, and he stopped whistling and said:

"Want to go along, Laura? You and Mary?"

Ma said they could. They climbed up the wheels,

clinging to the spokes with their bare toes, and they sat

on the high wagon-seat beside Pa. Pet and

Patty started with a little jump, and the wagon went

jolting down the road that Pa's wagon wheels

had made.

They went down between the bare, reddish-yellow

walls of earth, all ridged and wrinkled

by forgotten rains. Then they went on, across the

rolling land of the creek bottoms. Masses of

trees covered some of the low, rounded hills, and some

of them were grassy, open spaces. Deer were lying

in the shadows of the trees, and deer were grazing in the

sunshine on the green grass. They lifted their

heads and pricked their ears, and stood chewing and

watching the wagon with their soft, large eyes.

All along the road the wild larkspur was

blossoming pink and blue and white, birds

balanced on yellow plumes of goldenrod, and

butterflies were fluttering. Starry daisies

lighted the shadows under trees, squirrels

chattered on branches overhead,

white-tailed rabbits hopped along the road, and

snakes wriggled quickly across it when they heard the

wagon coming.

Deep in the lowest valley the creek was

running, in the shadow of dirt bluffs. When

Laura looked up those bluffs, she couldn't see

the prairie grass at all. Trees grew up

the bluffs where the earth had crumbled, and where the bare

dirt was so steep that trees couldn't grow on it

bushes held on desperately with their roots.

Half-naked roots were high above Laura's

head.

"Where are the Indian camps?" Laura asked

Pa. He had seen the Indians' deserted

camps, here among the bluffs. But he was too

busy to show them to her now. He must get the rocks

to build the fireplace.

"You girls can play," he said, "but don't go

out of my sight and don't go into the water. And

don't play with snakes. Some of the snakes down

here are poison."

So Laura and Mary played by the creek,

while Pa dug the rocks he wanted and loaded

them into the wagon.

They watched long-legged water-bugs skate

over the glassy-still pools. They ran along the

bank to scare the frogs, and laughed when the

green-coated frogs with their white vests plopped

into the water. They listened to the wood-pigeons

call among the trees, and the brown thrush singing.

They saw the little minnows swimming all together in the

shallow places where the creek ran sparkling. The

minnows were thin gray shadows in the rippling water,

only now and again one minnow flashed the sunshine from

its silvery belly.

There was no wind along the creek. The air was

still and drowsy-warm. It smelled of damp roots

and mud, and it was full of the sound of rustling leaves

and of the water running.

In the muddy places where deer's tracks were

thick and every hoofprint held water, swarms of

mosquitoes rose up with a keen, sharp buzzing.

Laura and Mary slapped at mosquitoes on

their faces and necks and hands and legs, and wished

they could go wading. They were so hot and the water

looked so cool. Laura was sure that it would do

no harm just to dip one foot in, and when Pa's

back was turned she almost did it.

"Laura," said Pa, and she snatched the

naughty foot back.

"If you girls want to go wading," Pa said,

"you can do it in that shallow place. Don't go in

over your ankles."

Mary waded only a little while. She said the

gravel hurt her feet, and she sat on a log

and patiently slapped at mosquitoes. But

Laura slapped and kept on wading. When she

stepped, the gravel hurt her feet. When she

stood still, the tiny minnows swarmed about her toes and

nibbled them with their tiny mouths. It was a funny,

squiggling feeling. Laura tried and tried

to catch a minnow, but she only got the hem of her

dress wet.

Then the wagon was loaded. Pa called, "Come

along, girls!" and they climbed to the wagon-seat

again and rode away from the creek. Up through the

woods and hills they rode again, to the High

Prairie where the winds were always blowing and the

grasses seemed to sing and whisper and laugh.

They had had a wonderful time in the creek

bottoms. But Laura liked the High

Prairie best. The prairie was so wide and

sweet and clean.

That afternoon Ma sat sewing in the shade of the

house, and Baby Carrie played on the quilt

beside her, while Laura and Mary watched Pa

build the fireplace.

First he mixed clay and water to a beautiful

thick mud, in the mustangs' water bucket.

He let Laura stir the mud while he laid

a row of rocks around three sides of the space

he had cleared by the house-wall. Then with a wooden

paddle he spread the mud over the rocks. In the

mud he laid another row of rocks, and plastered

them over the top and down on the inside with more mud.

He made a box on the ground; three sides

of the box were made of rocks and mud, and the other

side was the log wall of the house.

With rocks and mud and more rocks and more mud, he

built the walls as high as Laura's chin. Then

on the walls, close against the house, he laid

a log. He plastered the log all over with mud.

After that, he built up rocks and mud on

top of that log. He was making the chimney now, and

he made it smaller and smaller.

He had to go to the creek for more rocks. Laura

and Mary could not go again, because Ma said the damp air

might give them a fever. Mary sat beside Ma and

sewed another block of her nine-patch quilt,

but Laura mixed another bucketful of

mud.

Next day Pa built the chimney as high as

the house-wall. Then he stood and looked at it.

He ran his fingers through his hair.

"You look like a wild man, Charles," Ma

said. "You're standing your hair all on end."

"It stands on end, anyway, Caroline," Pa

answered. "When I was courting you, it never would

lie down, no matter how much I slicked it with

bear grease."

He threw himself down on the grass at her

feet. "I'm plumb tuckered out, lifting

rocks up there."

"You've done well to build that chimney up so

high, all by yourself," Ma said. She ran her hand

through his hair and stood it up more than ever. "Why

don't you make it stick-and-daub the rest of the

way?" she asked him.

"Well, it would be easier," he admitted.

"I'm blamed if I don't believe I will!"

He jumped up. Ma said, "Oh, stay here in

the shade and rest awhile." But he shook his head.

"No use lazing here while there's work to be

done, Caroline. The sooner I get the

fireplace done, the sooner you can do your cooking

inside, out of the wind."

He hauled saplings from the woods, and he cut

and notched them and laid them up like the walls of the

house, on top of the stone chimney. As he laid

them, he plastered them well with mud. And that

finished the chimney.

Then he went into the house, and with his ax and saw

he cut a hole in the wall. He cut away the

logs that had made the fourth wall at the bottom

of the chimney. And there was the fireplace.

It was large enough for Laura and Mary and Baby

Carrie to sit in. Its bottom was the ground that

Pa had cleared of grass, and its front was the

space where Pa had cut away the logs. Across

the top of that space was the log that Pa had

plastered all over with mud.

On each side Pa pegged a thick slab of

green oak against the cut ends of the logs. Then by the

upper corners of the fireplace he pegged chunks

of oak to the wall, and on these he laid an oak

slab and pegged it firmly. That was the

mantel-shelf.

As soon as it was done, Ma set in the middle

of the mantel-shelf the little china woman she had

brought from the Big Woods. The little china

woman had come all the way and had not been

broken. She stood on the mantel-shelf with her

little china shoes and her wide china skirts and her

tight china bodice, and her pink cheeks and blue

eyes and golden hair all made of china.

Then Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura stood and

admired that fireplace. Only Carrie did not

care about it. She pointed at the little china woman

and yelled when Mary and Laura told her that no

one but Ma could touch it.

"You'll have to be careful with your fire,

Caroline," Pa said. "We don't want

sparks going up the chimney to set the roof on

fire. That cloth would burn, easy. I'll

split out some clapboards as soon as I can, and

make a roof you won't have to worry about."

So Ma carefully built a little fire in the

new fireplace, and she roasted a prairie hen

for supper. And that evening they ate in the house.

They sat at table, by the western window. Pa

had quickly made the table of two slabs of oak.

One end of the slabs stuck in a crack of the

wall, and the other end rested on short, upright

logs. Pa had smoothed the slabs with his ax, and the

table was very nice when Ma spread a cloth over

it.

The chairs were chunks of big logs. The

floor was the earth that Ma had swept clean with her

willow-bough broom. On the floor, in the

corners, the beds were neat under their patchwork

quilts. The rays of the setting sun came through the

window and filled the house with golden light.

Outside, and far, far away to the pink edge of the

sky, the wind went blowing and the wild grasses

waved.

Inside, the house was pleasant. The good roast

chicken was juicy in Laura's mouth. Her hands

and face were washed, her hair was combed, her napkin

was tied around her neck. She sat up straight

on the round end of log and used her knife and fork

nicely, as Ma had taught her. She did not

say anything, because children must not speak at table

until they are spoken to, but she looked at

Pa and Ma and Mary and at Baby Carrie in

Ma's lap, and she felt contented. It was nice

to be living in a house again.

A ROOF AND A FLOOR

All day long, every day, Laura and Mary were

busy. When the dishes were washed and the beds made,

there was always plenty to do and to see and to listen to.

They hunted for birds' nests in the tall

grass and when they found them the mother birds

squawked and scolded. Sometimes they touched a nest

gently, and all in an instant a nest full of

downiness became a nest full of wide-gaping

beaks, hungrily squawking. Then the mother bird

scolded like anything, and Mary and Laura

quietly went away because they did not want

to worry her too much.

In the tall grass they lay still as mice and

watched flocks of little prairie chickens running

and pecking around their anxiously clucking, smooth

brown mothers. They watched striped snakes

rippling between the grass stems or lying so still that

only their tiny flickering tongues and glittering

eyes showed that they were alive. They were garter

snakes and would not hurt anybody, but Laura and

Mary did not touch them. Ma said snakes were best

left alone, because some snakes would bite, and it was

better to be safe than sorry.

And sometimes there'd be a great gray rabbit, so

still in the lights and shadows of a grass clump that you

were near enough to touch him before you saw him. Then, if you

were very quiet, you might stand a long time looking at

him. His round eyes stared at yours without meaning

anything. His nose wiggled, and sunlight was rosy

through his long ears, that had delicate veins in them

and the softest short fur on their outsides. The

rest of his fur was so thick and soft that at last you

couldn't help trying, very carefully, to touch it.

Then he was gone in a flash and the place where he

had been sitting was hollowed and smooth and still warm

from his warm behind.

All the time, of course, Laura or Mary was

minding Baby Carrie, except when she had her

afternoon nap. Then they sat and soaked in the sunshine

and the wind until Laura forgot that the baby was

sleeping. She jumped up and ran and shouted till

Ma came to the door and said, "Dear me,

Laura, must you yell like an Indian? I

declare," Ma said, "if you girls aren't getting

to look like Indians! Can I never teach you to keep

your sunbonnets on?"

Pa was up on the house wall beginning the roof.

He looked down at them and laughed.

"One little Indian, two little Indians, three

little Indians," he sang, softly. "No,

only two."

"You make three," Mary said to him. "You're

brown, too."

"But you aren't little, Pa," said Laura.

"Pa, when are we going to see a papoose?"

"Goodness!" Ma exclaimed. "What do you

want to see an Indian baby for? Put on your

sunbonnet, now, and forget such nonsense."

Laura's sunbonnet hung down her back.

She pulled it up by its strings, and its sides

came past her cheeks. When her sunbonnet was

on she could see only what was in front of her,

and that was why she was always pushing it back and letting

it hang by its strings tied around her throat. She

put her sunbonnet on when Ma told her to,

but she did not forget the papoose.

This was Indian country and she didn't know why

she didn't see Indians. She knew she would

see them sometime, though. Pa said so, but she was

getting tired of waiting.

Pa had taken the canvas wagon-top off the

house, and now he was ready to put the roof on. For

days and days he had been hauling logs from the

creek bottoms and splitting them into thin, long

slabs. Piles of slabs lay all around the

house and slabs stood against it.

"Come out of the house, Caroline," he said. "I

don't want to risk anything falling on you or

Carrie."

"Wait, Charles, till I put away the

china shepherdess," Ma answered. In a minute

she came out, with a quilt and her mending and Baby

Carrie. She spread the quilt on the shady

grass by the stable, and sat there to do her mending and

watch Carrie play.

Pa reached down and pulled up a slab. He

laid it across the ends of the sapling rafters. Its

edge stuck out beyond the wall. Then Pa put some

nails in his mouth and took his hammer out of his

belt, and he began to nail the slab to the

rafters.

Mr. Edwards had lent him the nails. They

had met in the woods, where they were both chopping

down trees, and Mr. Edwards had insisted that

Pa borrow nails for the roof.

"That's what I call a good neighbor!" Pa

said when he told Ma about it.

"Yes," said Ma. "But I don't like

to be beholden, not even to the best of neighbors."

"Nor I," Pa replied. "I've never

been beholden to any man yet, and I never will

be. But neighborliness is another matter, and

I'll pay him back every nail as soon as I can

make the trip to Independence."

Now Pa carefully took the nails one by one

from his mouth, and with ringing blows of the hammer he drove

them into the slab. It was much quicker than drilling

holes and whittling pegs and driving them into the

holes. But every now and then a nail sprang away

from the tough oak when the hammer hit it, and if Pa

was not holding it firmly, it went sailing through the

air.

Then Mary and Laura watched it fall and they

searched in the grass till they found it. Sometimes

it was bent. Then Pa carefully pounded it straight

again. It would never do to lose or waste a nail.

When Pa had nailed down two slabs, he

got up on them. He laid and nailed more

slabs, all the way up to the top of the rafters.

The edge of each slab lapped over the edge of the

slab below it.

Then he began again on the other side of the

house, and he laid the roof all the way up from that

side. A little crack was left between the highest

slabs. So Pa made a little trough of two

slabs, and he nailed this trough firmly,

upside down over the crack.

The roof was done. The house was darker than it

had been, because no light came through the slabs.

There was not one single crack that would let rain come

in.

"You have done a splendid job, Charles,"

Ma said, "and I'm thankful to have a good roof over

my head."

"You shall have furniture, too, as fine as I can

make it," Pa replied. "I'll make a

bedstead as soon as the floor is laid."

He began again to haul logs. Day after day he

hauled logs. He did not even stop hauling

logs to go hunting; he took his gun on the

wagon and brought back at night whatever meat he

had shot from the wagon-seat.

When he had hauled enough logs to make the

floor, he began to split them. He split

each log straight down the middle. Laura

liked to sit on the woodpile and watch him.

First, with a mighty blow of his ax he split the

butt of the log. Into the crack he

slipped the thin edge of an iron wedge. Then he

wrenched the ax out of the log, and he drove the wedge

deeper into the crack. The tough wood split a

little farther.

All the way up the log Pa fought that tough

oak. He struck with his ax into the crack. He

drove blocks of wood into it, and moved the iron

wedge higher. Little by little he followed the crack

up the log.

He swung the ax high, and brought it down with a

great swing and a grunt from his chest. "Ugh!" The ax

whizzed and struck, plung! It always struck

exactly where Pa wanted it to.

At last, with a tearing, cracking sound, the whole

log split. Its two halves lay on the

ground, showing the tree's pale insides and the darker

streak up its middle. Then Pa wiped the sweat

from his forehead, he took a fresh grip on the

ax, and he tackled another log.

One day the last log was split, and next

morning Pa began to lay the floor. He dragged

the logs into the house and laid them one by one, flat

side up. With his spade he scraped the ground

underneath, and fitted the round side of the log

firmly down into it. With his ax he trimmed away

the edge of bark and cut the wood straight, so that

each log fitted against the next, with hardly a

crack between them.

Then he took the head of the ax in his hand, and with

little, careful blows he smoothed the wood. He

squinted along the log to see that the surface was

straight and true. He took off last little

bits, here and there. Finally he ran his hand over the

smoothness, and nodded.

"Not a splinter!" he said. "That'll be all

right for little bare feet to run over."

He left that log fitted into its place, and

dragged in another.

When he came to the fireplace, he used

shorter logs. He left a space of bare earth

for a hearth, so that when sparks or coals popped out

of the fire they would not burn the floor.

One day the floor was done. It was smooth and

firm and hard, a good floor of solid oak that

would last, Pa said, forever.

"You can't beat a good puncheon floor," he

said, and Ma said she was glad to be up off the

dirt. She put the little china woman on the

mantel-shelf, and spread a red-checked cloth

on the table.

"There," she said. "Now we're living like

civilized folks again."

After that Pa filled the cracks in the walls.

He drove thin strips of wood into them, and

plastered them well with mud, filling every chink.

"That's a good job," Ma said. "That chinking will

keep out the wind, no matter how hard it blows."

Pa stopped whistling to smile at her. He

slapped the last bit of mud between the logs and

smoothed it and set down the bucket. At last the

house was finished.

"I wish we had glass for the windows," Pa

said.

"We don't need glass, Charles," said

Ma.

"Just the same, if I do well with my hunting

and trapping this winter, I'm going to get some

glass in Independence next spring," said Pa.

"And hang the expense!"

"Glass windows would be nice if we can afford

them," Ma said. "But we'll cross that bridge

when we come to it."

They were all happy that night. The fire on the

hearth was pleasant, for on the High Prairie

even the summer nights were cool. The red-checked

cloth was on the table, the little china woman glim-

mered on the mantel-shelf, and the new floor was

golden in the flickering firelight. Outside,

the night was large and full of stars. Pa sat for a

long time in the doorway and played his fiddle and

sang to Ma and Mary and Laura in the house and

to the starry night outside.

INDIANS IN THE HOUSE

Early one morning Pa took his gun and went

hunting.

He had meant to make the bedstead that day. He

had brought in the slabs, when Ma said she had no

meat for dinner. So he stood the slabs against the

wall and took down his gun.

Jack wanted to go hunting, too. His eyes

begged Pa to take him, and whines came up from his

chest and quivered in his throat till Laura almost

cried with him. But Pa chained him to the stable.

"No, Jack," Pa said. "You must stay here

and guard the place." Then he said to Mary and

Laura, "Don't let him loose, girls."

Poor Jack lay down. It was a disgrace

to be chained, and he felt it deeply.

He turned his head from Pa and would not watch him

going away with the gun on his shoulder. Pa went

farther and farther away, till the prairies

swallowed him and he was gone.

Laura tried to comfort Jack, but he would not be

comforted. The more he thought about the chain, the worse he

felt. Laura tried to cheer him up to frisk and

play, but he only grew more sullen.

Both Mary and Laura felt that they could not

leave Jack while he was so unhappy. So all

that morning they stayed by the stable. They stroked

Jack's smooth, brindled head and scratched

around his ears, and told him how sorry they were that

he must be chained. He lapped their hands a little

bit, but he was very sad and angry.

His head was on Laura's knee and she was

talking to him, when suddenly he stood up and

growled a fierce, deep growl. The hair on his

neck stood straight up and his eyes glared red.

Laura was frightened. Jack had never growled

at her before. Then she looked over her shoulder,

where Jack was looking, and she saw two naked,

wild men coming, one behind the other, on the Indian

trail.

"Mary! Look!" she cried. Mary looked and

saw them, too.

They were tall, thin, fierce-looking men. Their

skin was brownish-red. Their heads seemed to go up

to a peak, and the peak was a tuft of hair that stood

straight up and ended in feathers. Their eyes were

black and still and glittering, like snake's eyes.

They came closer and closer. Then they went out

of sight, on the other side of the house.

Laura's head turned and so did Mary's, and

they looked at the place where those terrible men would

appear when they came past the house.

"Indians!" Mary whispered. Laura was

shivering; there was a queer feeling in her middle and the

bones in her legs felt weak. She wanted

to sit down. But she stood and looked and waited for

those Indians to come out from beyond the house. The

Indians did not do that.

All this time Jack had been growling. Now he

stopped growling and was lunging against the chain. His

eyes were red and his lips curled back and all the

hair on his back was bristling. He bounded and

bounded, clear off the ground, trying to get loose

from the chain. Laura was glad that the chain kept him

right there with her.

"Jack's here," she whispered

to Mary. "Jack won't let them hurt us.

We'll be safe if we stay close to Jack."

"They are in the house," Mary whispered. "They

are in the house with Ma and Carrie."

Then Laura began to shake all over. She

knew she must do something. She did not know what those

Indians were doing to Ma and Baby Carrie. There

was no sound at all from the house.

"Oh, what are they doing to Ma!" she

screamed, in a whisper.

"Oh, I don't know!" Mary whispered.

"I'm going to let Jack loose," Laura

whispered, hoarsely. "Jack will kill them."

"Pa said not to," Mary answered. They were

too scared to speak out loud. They put their heads

together and watched the house and whispered.

"He didn't know Indians would come,"

Laura said.

"He said not to let Jack loose." Mary was

almost crying.

Laura thought of little Baby Carrie and Ma,

shut in the house with those Indians. She said,

"I'm going in to help Ma!"

She ran two steps, and walked a step, then

she turned and flew back to Jack. She

clutched him wildly and hung on to his strong,

panting neck. Jack wouldn't let anything hurt

her.

"We mustn't leave Ma in there alone," Mary

whispered. She stood still and trembled. Mary never

could move when she was frightened.

Laura hid her face against Jack and held

on to him tightly.

Then she made her arms let go. Her hands

balled into fists and her eyes shut tight and she

ran toward the house as fast as she could run.

She stumbled and fell down and her eyes popped

open. She was up again and running before she could think.

Mary was close behind her. They came to the door.

It was open, and they slipped into the house without a

sound.

The naked wild men stood by the fireplace.

Ma was bending over the fire, cooking something.

Carrie clung to Ma's skirts with both hands and

her head was hidden in the folds.

Laura ran toward Ma, but just as she reached the

hearth she smelled a horribly bad smell and

she looked up at the Indians. Quick as a flash

she ducked behind the long, narrow slab that leaned

against the wall.

The slab was just wide enough to cover both her

eyes. If she held her head perfectly still and

pressed her nose against the slab, she couldn't

see the Indians. And she felt safer. But she

couldn't help moving her head just a little, so that one

eye peeped out and she could see the wild men.

First she saw their leather moccasins. Then their

stringy, bare, red-brown legs, all the way up.

Around their waists each of the Indians wore a

leather thong, and the furry skin of a small animal

hung down in front. The fur was striped black

and white, and now Laura knew what made that

smell. The skins were fresh skunk skins.

A knife like Pa's hunting-knife, and a

hatchet like Pa's hatchet, were stuck into each

skunk skin. The Indians' ribs made little

ridges up their bare sides. Their arms were

folded on their chests. At last Laura looked

again at their faces, and she dodged quickly behind the

slab.

Their faces were bold and fierce and terrible.

Their black eyes glittered. High on their

foreheads and above their ears where hair grows, these

wild men had no hair. But on top of their

heads a tuft of hair stood straight up. It

was wound around with string, and feathers were stuck in it.

When Laura peeked out from behind the slab again,

both Indians were looking straight at her. Her

heart jumped into her throat and choked her with its

pounding. Two black eyes glittered down into her

eyes. The Indian did not move, not one

muscle of his face moved. Only his eyes shone

and sparkled at her. Laura didn't move,

either. She didn't even breathe.

The Indian made two short, harsh sounds in

his throat. The other Indian made one sound, like

"Hah!" Laura hid her eyes behind the slab

again.

She heard Ma take the cover off the

bake-oven. She heard the Indians squat down

on the hearth. After a while she heard them eating.

Laura peeked, and hid, and peeked again,

while the Indians ate the cornbread that Ma had

baked. They ate every morsel of it, and even

picked up the crumbs from the hearth. Ma stood and

watched them and stroked Baby Carrie's head.

Mary stood close behind Ma and held on to her

sleeve.

Faintly Laura heard Jack's chain

rattling. Jack was still trying to get

loose.

When every crumb of the cornbread was gone, the

Indians rose up. The skunk smell was

stronger when they moved. One of them made harsh

sounds in his throat again. Ma looked at him with

big eyes; she did not say anything. The

Indian turned around, the other Indian turned,

too, and they walked across the floor and out through the

door. Their feet made no sound at all.

Ma sighed a long, long sigh. She hugged

Laura tight in one arm and Mary tight in the

other arm, and through the window they watched those

Indians going away, one behind the other, on the

dim trail toward the west. Then Ma sat down

on the bed and hugged Laura and Mary tighter, and

trembled. She looked sick.

"Do you feel sick, Ma?" Mary asked her.

"No," said Ma. "I'm just thankful they're

gone."

Laura wrinkled her nose and said, "They

smell awful."

"That was the skunk skins they wore," Ma said.

Then they told her how they had left Jack and

had come into the house because they were afraid the

Indians would hurt her and Baby Carrie. Ma

said they were her brave little girls.

"Now we must get dinner," she said. "Pa will

be here soon and we must have dinner ready for him.

Mary, bring me some wood. Laura, you may

set the table."

Ma rolled up her sleeves and washed her

hands and mixed cornbread, while Mary brought the

wood and Laura set the table. She set a tin

plate and knife and fork and cup for Pa, and the

same for Ma, with Carrie's little tin cup beside

Ma's. And she set tin plates and knives and

forks for her and Mary, but only their one cup between the

plates.

Ma made the cornmeal and water into two thin

loaves, each shaped in a half circle. She

laid the loaves with their straight sides together in

the bake-oven, and she pressed her hand flat on

top of each loaf. Pa always said he did not

ask any other sweetening, when Ma put the

prints of her hands on the loaves.

Laura had hardly set the table when Pa was

there. He left a big rabbit and two prairie

hens outside the door, and stepped in and laid his

gun on its pegs. Laura and Mary ran and

clutched him, both talking at once.

"What's all this? What's all this?" he said,

rumpling their hair. "Indians? So you've seen

Indians at last, have you, Laura? I noticed

they have a camp in a little valley west of here.

Did Indians come to the house, Caroline?"

"Yes, Charles, two of them," Ma said.

"I'm sorry, but they took all your tobacco,

and they ate a lot of cornbread. They pointed

to the cornmeal and made signs for me to cook some.

I was afraid not to. Oh Charles! I was

afraid!"

"You did the right thing," Pa told her. "We

don't want to make enemies of any

Indians." Then he said, "Whew! what a

smell."

"They wore fresh skunk skins," said Ma.

"And that was all they wore."

"Must have been thick while they were here," Pa

said.

"It was, Charles. We were short of

cornmeal, too."

"Oh well. We have enough to hold out awhile

yet. And our meat is running all over the

country. Don't worry, Caroline."

"But they took all your tobacco."

"Never mind," Pa said. "I'll get along

without tobacco till I can make that trip

to Independence. The main thing is to be on good

terms with the Indians. We don't want to wake

up some night with a band of the screeching dev--"

He stopped. Laura dreadfully wanted to know

what he had been going to say. But Ma's lips

were pressed together and she shook a little shake of her

head at Pa.

"Come on, Mary and Laura!" Pa said.

"We'll skin that rabbit and dress the prairie

hens while that cornbread bakes. Hurry!

I'm hungry as a wolf!"

They sat on the woodpile in the wind and

sunshine and watched Pa work with his hunting-knife.

The big rabbit was shot through the eye, and the

prairie hens' heads were shot clean away. They

never knew what hit them, Pa said.

Laura held the edge of the rabbit skin while

Pa's keen knife ripped it off the rabbit

meat. "I'll salt this skin and peg it out on the

house wall to dry," he said. "It will make a

warm fur cap for some little girl to wear next

winter."

But Laura could not forget the

Indians. She said to Pa that if they had turned

Jack loose, he would have eaten those Indians

right up.

Pa laid down the knife. "Did you girls

even think of turning Jack loose?" he asked,

in a dreadful voice.

Laura's head bowed down and she whispered,

"Yes, Pa."

"After I told you not to?" Pa said, in a more

dreadful voice.

Laura couldn't speak, but Mary choked,

"Yes, Pa."

For a moment Pa was silent. He sighed a long

sigh like Ma's sigh after the Indians went away.

"After this," he said, in a terrible voice, "you

girls remember always to do as you're told.

Don't you even think of disobeying me. Do you

hear?"

"Yes, Pa," Laura and Mary whispered.

"Do you know what would have happened if you had

turned Jack loose?" Pa asked.

"No, Pa," they whispered.

"He would have bitten those Indians," said Pa.

"Then there would have been trouble. Bad trouble. Do you

understand?"

"Yes, Pa," they said. But they did not

understand.

"Would they have killed Jack?" Laura asked.

"Yes. And that's not all. You girls

remember this: You do as you're told, no matter

what happens."

"Yes, Pa," Laura said, and Mary said,

"Yes, Pa." They were glad they had not turned

Jack loose.

"Do as you're told," said Pa, "and no harm

will come to you."

FRESH WATER TO DRINK

Pa had made the bedstead.

He had smoothed the oak slabs till there was

not a splinter on them. Then he pegged them

firmly together. Four slabs made a box

to hold the straw-tick. Across the bottom of it

Pa stretched a rope, zigzagged from side

to side and pulled tight.

One end of the bedstead Pa pegged solidly to the

wall, in a corner of the house. Only one

corner of the bed was not against a wall. At this

corner, Pa set up a tall slab.

He pegged it to the bedstead. As high up as he could

reach, he pegged two strips of oak to the walls

and to the tall slab. Then he climbed up on

them, and pegged the top of the tall slab solidly

to a rafter. And on the strips of oak he laid

a shelf, above the bed.

"There you are, Caroline!" he said.

"I can't wait see it made up," said Ma.

"Help me bring in the straw-tick."

She had filled the straw-tick that morning.

There was no straw on the High Prairie, so she

had filled it with dry, clean, dead grass. It

was hot from the sunshine and it had a grassy,

sweet smell. Pa helped her bring it into the

house and lay it in the bedstead. She tucked the

sheets in, and spread her prettiest patchwork

quilt over them. At the head of the bed she set

up the goose-feather pillows, and spread the

pillow-shams against them. On each white

pillow-sham two little birds were outlined with red

thread.

Then Pa and Ma and Laura and Mary stood and

looked at the bed. It was a very nice bed. The

zigzag rope was softer than the floor to sleep

on. The straw-tick was plump with the

sweet-smelling grass, the quilt lay smooth,

and the pretty pillow shams stood up crisply.

The shelf was a good place to store things. The

whole house had quite an air, with such a bed in it.

That night when Ma went to bed, she settled

into the crackling straw-tick and said to Pa, "I

declare, I'm so comfortable it's almost sinful."

Mary and Laura still slept on the floor, but

Pa would make a little bed for them as soon as he

could. He had made the big bed, and he had made

a stout cupboard and padlocked it, so the

Indians could not take all the cornmeal if they

came again. Now he had only to dig a well, and

then he would make that trip to town. He must dig

the well first, so that Ma could have water while he was

gone.

Next morning he marked a large circle in

the grass near the corner of the house. With his

spade he cut the sod inside the circle, and

lifted it up in large pieces. Then he began

to shovel out the earth, digging himself deeper and deeper

down.

Mary and Laura must not go near the well while

Pa was digging. Even when they couldn't see his head

any more, shovelfuls of earth came flying

up. At last the spade flew up and fell in the

grass. Then Pa jumped. His hands caught

hold of the sod, then one elbow gripped it, and then

the other elbow, andwitha heave Pa came rolling out.

"I can't throw the dirt out from any deeper," he

said.

He had to have help, now. So he took his gun

and rode away on Patty. When he came

back he brought a plump rabbit, and he had

traded work with Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott would

help him dig this well, and then he would help

dig Mr. Scott's well.

Ma and Laura and Mary had not seen Mr. and

Mrs. Scott. Their house was hidden somewhere in a

little valley on the prairie. Laura had seen

the smoke rising up from it, and that was all.

At sunup next morning Mr. Scott

came. He was short and stout. His hair was

bleached by the sun and his skin was bright red and scaly.

He did not tan; he peeled.

"It's this blasted sun and wind," he said.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am, but it's enough to make a

saint use strong language. I might as well

be a snake, the way I keep shedding my skin in

this country."

Laura liked him. Every morning, as soon as the

dishes were washed and the beds made, she ran out

to watch Mr. Scott and Pa working at the well.

The sunshine was blistering, even the winds were hot,

and the prairie grasses were turning yellow. Mary

preferred to stay in the house and sew on her

patchwork quilt. But Laura liked the fierce

light and the sun and the wind, and she couldn't stay

away from the well. But she was not allowed to go near

its edge.

Pa and Mr. Scott had made a stout

windlass. It stood over the well, and two

buckets hung from it on the ends of a rope. When

the windlass was turned, one bucket went down

into the well and the other bucket came up. In the

morning Mr. Scott slid down the rope and

dug. He filled the buckets with earth, almost as

fast as Pa could haul them up and empty them.

After dinner, Pa slid down the rope into the

well, and Mr. Scott hauled up the

buckets.

Every morning, before Pa would let Mr. Scott

go down the rope, he set a candle in a bucket

and lighted it and lowered it to the bottom. Once

Laura peeped over the edge and she saw

the candle brightly burning, far down in the dark

hole in the ground.

Then Pa would say, "Seems to be all right,"

and he would pull up the bucket and blow out the

candle.

"That's all foolishness, Ingalls," Mr.

Scott said. "The well was all right yesterday."

"You can't ever tell," Pa replied.

"Better be safe than sorry."

Laura did not know what danger Pa was

looking for by that candle-light. She did not ask,

because Pa and Mr. Scott were busy. She meant

to ask later, but she forgot.

One morning Mr. Scott came while Pa

was eating breakfast. They heard him shout: "Hi,

Ingalls! It's sunup. Let's go!" Pa

drank his coffee and went out.

The windlass began to creak and Pa began

to whistle. Laura and Mary were washing the dishes and

Ma was making the big bed, when Pa's whistling

stopped. They heard him say, "Scott!" He

shouted, "Scott! Scott!" Then he called:

"Caroline! Come quick!"

Ma ran out of the house. Laura ran after her.

"Scott's fainted, or something, down there,"

Pa said. "I've got to go down after him."

"Did you send down the candle?" Ma asked.

"No. I thought he had. I asked him if it

was all right, and he said it was." Pa cut the

empty bucket off the rope and tied the rope

firmly to the windlass.

"Charles, you can't. You mustn't," Ma said.

"Caroline, I've got to."

"You can't. Oh, Charles, no!"

"I'll make it all right. I won't breathe

till I get out. We can't let him die down

there."

Ma said, fiercely: "Laura, keep

back!" So Laura kept back. She stood

against the house and shivered.

"No, no, Charles! I can't let you," Ma

said. "Get on Patty and go for help."

"There isn't time."

"Charles, if I can't pull you up--if you

keel over down there and I can't pull you up--"

"Caroline, I've got to," Pa said. He

swung into the well. His head slid out of sight,

down the rope.

Ma crouched and shaded her eyes, staring down

into the well.

All over the prairie meadow larks were rising,

singing, flying straight up into the sky. The wind was

blowing warmer, but Laura was cold.

Suddenly Ma jumped up and seized the handle

of the windlass. She tugged at it with all her

might. The rope strained and the windlass creaked.

Laura thought that Pa had keeled over, down in the

dark bottom of the well, and Ma couldn't pull

him up. But the windlass turned a little, and then a

little more.

Pa's hand came up, holding to the rope. His

other hand reached above it and took hold of the rope.

Then Pa's head came up. His arm held on

to the windlass. Then somehow he got to the ground and

sat there.

The windlass whirled around and there was a thud

deep down in the well. Pa struggled to get up

and Ma said: "Sit still, Charles! Laura, get

some water. Quick!"

Laura ran. She came hurrying back,

lugging the pail of water. Pa and Ma were both

turning the windlass. The rope slowly wound itself

up, and the bucket came up out of the well, and tied

to the bucket and the rope was Mr. Scott. His

arms and his legs and his head hung and wobbled, his

mouth was partly open and his eyes half shut.

Pa tugged him onto the grass. Pa rolled

him over and he flopped where he was rolled. Pa

felt his wrist and listened at his chest and then Pa

lay down beside him.

"He's breathing," Pa said. "He'll be all

right, in the air. I'm all right, Caroline.

I'm plumb tuckered out, is all."

"Well!" Ma scolded. "I should think you would

be! Of all the senseless performances! My goodness

gracious! scaring a body to death, all for the want

of a little reasonable care! My goodness! I--" She

covered her face with her apron and burst out

crying.

That was a terrible day.

"I don't want a well," Ma sobbed.

"It isn't worth it. I won't have you running

such risks!"

Mr. Scott had breathed a kind of gas that

stays deep in the ground. It stays at the

bottom of wells because it is heavier than the

air. It cannot be seen or smelled, but no one can

breathe it very long and live. Pa had gone down

into that gas to tie Mr. Scott to the rope, so that

he could be pulled up out of the gas.

When Mr. Scott was able, he went home.

Before he went he said to Pa: "You were right about that

candle business, Ingalls. I thought it was all

foolishness and I would not bother with it, but I've

found out my mistake."

"Well," said Pa, "where a light can't

live, I know I can't. And I like to be safe

when I can be. But all's well that ends well."

Pa rested awhile. He had breathed a little of the

gas and he felt like resting. But that afternoon he

raveled a thread from a tow sack, and he took a

little powder from his powder-horn. He tied the powder

in a piece of cloth with one end of the tow string in the

powder.

"Come along, Laura," he said, "and I'll

show you something."

They went to the well. Pa lighted the end of the

string and waited till the spark was crawling quickly

along it. Then he dropped the little bundle into the

well.

In a minute they heard a muffled bang! and a

puff of smoke came out of the well. "That will bring

the gas," Pa said.

When the smoke was all gone, he let Laura

light the candle and stand beside him while he let it

down. All the way down in the dark hole the little

candle kept on burning like a star.

So next day Pa and Mr. Scott went on

digging the well. But they always sent the candle down

every morning.

There began to be a little water in the well, but it

was not enough. The buckets came up full of

mud, and Pa and Mr. Scott worked every day in

deeper mud. In the mornings when the candle went

down, it lighted oozing-wet walls, and

candlelight sparkled in rings over the water when the

bucket struck bottom.

Pa stood knee deep in water and bailed out

bucketfuls before he could begin digging in the mud.

One day when he was digging, a loud shout came

echoing up. Ma ran out of the house and Laura

ran to the well. "Pull, Scott! Pull!"

Pa yelled. A swishing, gurgling sound echoed

down there. Mr. Scott turned the windlass as

fast as he could, and Pa came up climbing hand

over hand up the rope.

"I'm blamed if that's not quicksand!" Pa

gasped, as he stepped onto the ground, muddy and

dripping. "I was pushing down hard on the spade,

when all of a sudden it went down, the

whole length of the handle. And water came pouring

up all around me."

"A good six feet of this rope's wet,"

Mr. Scott said, winding it up. The bucket was

full of water. "You showed sense in getting out of

that hand over hand, Ingalls. That water came up

faster than I could pull you out." Then Mr.

Scott slapped his thigh and shouted, "I'm

blasted if you didn't bring up the spade!"

Sure enough, Pa had saved his spade.

In a little while the well was almost full of

water. A circle of blue sky lay not far

down in the ground, and when Laura looked at it,

a little girl's head looked up at her. When she

waved her hand, a hand on the water's surface

waved, too.

The water was clear and cold and good. Laura

thought she had never tasted anything so good as those

long, cold drinks of water. Pa hauled no more

stale, warm water from the creek. He built a

solid platform over the well, and a heavy cover

for the hole that let the water-bucket through. Laura

must never touch that cover. But whenever she or Mary

was thirsty, Ma lifted the cover and drew a

dripping bucket of cold, fresh water from that

well.

TEXAS LONGHORNS

One evening Laura and Pa were sitting on the

doorstep. The moon shone over the dark

prairie, the winds were still, and softly Pa played

his fiddle.

He let a last note quiver far, far

away, until it dissolved in the moonlight.

Everything was so beautiful that Laura wanted it

to stay so forever. But Pa said it was time for little

girls to go to bed.

Then Laura heard a strange, low, distant

sound. "What's that!" she said.

Pa listened. "Cattle, by George!" he

said. "Must be the cattle herds going north to Fort

Dodge."

After she was undressed, Laura stood in her

nightgown at the window. The air was very still, not a

grass blade rustled, and far away and faint she

could hear that sound. It was almost a rumble and almost a

song.

"Is that singing Pa?" she asked.

"Yes," Pa said. "The cowboys are

singing the cattle to sleep. Now hop into bed, you

little scalawag!"

Laura thought of cattle lying on the dark

ground in the moonlight, and of cowboys softly singing

lullabies.

Next morning when she ran out of the house two

strange men were sitting on horses by the stable.

They were talking to Pa. They were as red-brown as

Indians, but their eyes were narrow slits between

squinting eyelids. They wore flaps of leather

over their legs, and spurs, and wide-brimmed

hats. Handkerchiefs were knotted around their

necks, and pistols were on their hips.

They said, "So long," to Pa, and "Hi!

Yip!" to their horses, and they galloped away.

"Here's a piece of luck!" Pa said to Ma.

Those men were cowboys. They wanted Pa to help

them keep the cattle out of the ravines among the

bluffs of the creek bottoms. Pa would not charge

them any money, but he told them he would take a

piece of beef. "How would you like a good piece of

beef?" Pa asked.

"Oh, Charles!" said Ma, and her eyes

shone.

Pa tied his biggest handkerchief around his neck.

He showed Laura how he could pull it up over

his mouth and nose to keep the dust out. Then he

rode Patty west along the Indian trail,

till Laura and Mary couldn't see him any more.

All day the hot sun blazed and the hot winds

blew, and the sound of the cattle herds came nearer.

It was a faint, mournful sound of cattle lowing.

At noon dust was blowing along the horizon.

Ma said that so many cattle trampled the grasses

flat and stirred up dust from the prairie.

Pa came riding home at sunset, covered

with dust. There was dust in his beard and in his hair and

on the rims of his eyelids, and dust fell off his

clothes. He did not bring any beef, because the

cattle were not across the creek yet. The cattle

went very slowly, eating grass as they went. They

had to eat enough grass to be fat when they came to the

cities where people ate them.

Pa did not talk much that night, and he

didn't play the fiddle. He went to bed soon

after supper.

The herds were so near now that Laura could hear

them plainly. The mournful lowing sounded over the

prairie till the night was dark. Then the

cattle were quieter and the cowboys began

to sing. Their songs were not like lullabies. They were

high, lonely, wailing songs, almost like the howling of

wolves.

Laura lay awake, listening to the lonely

songs wandering in the night. Farther away, real

wolves howled. Sometimes the cattle lowed. But the

cowboys' songs went on, rising and falling and

wailing away under the moon. When everyone else was

asleep, Laura stole softly to the window, and

she saw three fires gleaming like red eyes from the

dark edge of the land. Overhead the sky was big and still

and full of moonlight. The lonely songs seemed

to be crying for the moon. They made Laura's

throat ache.

All next day Laura and Mary watched the

west. They could hear the far-away bawling of the

cattle, they could see dust blowing. Sometimes they

thinly heard a shrill yell.

Suddenly a dozen long-horned cattle burst

out of the prairie, not far from the stable. They had come

up out of a draw going down to the creek bottoms.

Their tails stood up and their fierce horns

tossed and their feet pounded the ground. A cowboy

on a spotted mustang galloped madly to get

in front of them. He waved his big hat and

yelled sharp, high yells. "Hi! Yi-yi-yi!

Hi!" The cattle wheeled, clashing their long

horns together. With lifted tails they galloped

lumbering away, and behind them the mustang ran and

whirled and ran, herding them together. They all went

over a rise of ground and down out of sight.

Laura ran back and forth, waving her

sunbonnet and yelling, "Hi! Yi-yi-yi!"

till Ma told her to stop. It was not ladylike

to yell like that. Laura wished she could be a

cowboy.

Late that afternoon three riders came out of the

west, driving one lone cow. One of the riders was

Pa, on Patty. Slowly they came nearer, and

Laura saw that with the cow was a little spotted calf.

The cow came lunging and plunging. Two

cowboys rode well apart in front of her.

Two ropes around her long horns were fastened to the

cowboys' saddles. When the cow lunged with her

horns toward either cowboy the other cowboy's pony

braced its feet and held her. The cow bawled

and the little calf bleated thinner bawls.

Ma watched from the window, while Mary and

Laura stood against the house and stared.

The cowboys held the cow with their

ropes while Pa tied her to the stable. Then they

said good-by to him and rode away.

Ma could not believe that Pa had actually brought

home a cow. But it really was their own cow. The

calf was too small to travel, Pa said, and the

cow would be too thin to sell, so the cowboys had

given them to Pa. They had given him the beef,

too; a big chunk was tied to his saddlehorn.

Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura and even

Baby Carrie laughed for joy. Pa always

laughed out loud and his laugh was like great bells

ringing. When Ma was pleased she smiled a gentle

smile that made Laura feel warm all over.

But now she was laughing because they had a cow.

"Give me a bucket, Caroline," said

Pa. He was going to milk the cow, right away.

He took the bucket, he pushed back his

hat, and he squatted by the cow to milk her. And that

cow hunched herself and kicked Pa flat on his

back.

Pa jumped up. His face was blazing red and his

eyes snapped blue sparks.

"Now, by the Great Horn Spoon, I'll

milk her!" he said.

He got his ax and he sharpened two stout

slabs of oak. He pushed the cow against the stable,

and he drove those slabs deep into the ground beside

her. The cow bawled and the little calf squalled.

Pa tied poles firmly to the posts and stuck their

ends into the cracks of the stable, to make a fence.

Now the cow could not move forward or backward

or sidewise. But the little calf could nudge its

way between its mother and the stable. So the baby calf

felt safe and stopped bawling. It stood on that

side of the cow and drank its supper, and Pa put

his hand through the fence and milked from the other side.

He got a tin cup almost full of milk.

"We'll try again in the morning," he said.

"The poor thing's as wild as a deer. But we'll

gentle her, we'll gentle her."

The dark was coming on. Nighthawks were chasing

insects in the dark air. Bullfrogs were

croaking in the creek bottoms. A bird

called, "Whip! Whip! Whip-poor-Will!"

"Who? Whooo?" said an owl. Far away the

wolves howled, and Jack was growling.

"The wolves are following the herds," Pa

said. "Tomorrow I'll build a strong, high yard

for the cow, that wolves can't get into."

So they all went into the house with the

beef. Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura all

agreed to give the milk to Baby Carrie. They

watched her drink it. The tin cup hid her

face, but Laura could see the gulps of milk

going down her throat. Gulp by gulp, she

swallowed all that good milk. Then she licked the

foam from her lip with her red tongue, and laughed.

It seemed a long time before the cornbread and the

sizzling beef steaks were done. But nothing had ever

tasted so good as that tough, juicy beef. And

everyone was happy because now there would be milk

to drink, and perhaps even butter for the cornbread.

The lowing of the cattle herds was far away again,

and the songs of the cowboys were almost too faint to be

heard. All those cattle were on the other side

of the creek bottoms now, in Kansas. Tomorrow they

would slowly go farther on their long way northward

to Fort Dodge, where the soldiers were.

INDIAN CAMP

Day after day was hotter than the day before. The

wind was hot. "As if it came out of an oven,"

Ma said.

The grass was turning yellow. The whole world was

rippling green and gold under the blazing sky.

At noon the wind died. No birds sang.

Everything was so still that Laura could hear the

squirrels chattering in the trees down by the

creek. Suddenly black crows flew overhead,

cawing their rough, sharp caws. Then everything was still

again.

Ma said that this was midsummer.

Pa wondered where the Indians had gone. He

said they had left their little camp on the prairie.

And one day he asked Laura and Mary if they

would like to see that camp.

Laura jumped up and down and clapped her

hands, but Ma objected.

"It is so far, Charles," she said. "And in this

heat."

Pa's blue eyes twinkled. "This heat

doesn't hurt the Indians and it won't hurt

us," he said. "Come on, girls!"

"Please, can't Jack come, too?" Laura

begged. Pa had taken his gun, but he looked at

Laura and he looked at Jack, then he

looked at Ma, and he put the gun up on its

pegs again.

"All right, Laura," he said. "I'll

take Jack, Caroline, and leave you the gun."

Jack jumped around them, wagging his stump of a

tail. As soon as he saw which way they were going,

he set off, trotting ahead. Pa came next

and behind him came Mary, and then Laura. Mary

kept her sunbonnet on, but Laura let hers

dangle down her back.

The ground was hot under their bare feet. The

sunshine pierced through their faded dresses and tingled

on their arms and backs. The air was really as hot

as the air in an oven, and it smelled faintly like

baking bread. Pa said the smell came from all the

grass seeds parching in the heat.

They went farther and farther into the vast prairie.

Laura felt smaller and smaller. Even Pa

did not seem as big as he really was. At

last they went down into the little hollow where

the Indians had camped.

Jack started up a big rabbit. When it

bounded out of the grass Laura jumped. Pa said,

quickly: "Let him go, Jack! We have meat

enough." So Jack sat down and watched the big

rabbit go bounding away down the hollow.

Laura and Mary looked around them. They stayed

close to Pa. Low bushes grew on the sides

of the hollow--buck-brush with sprays of berries

faintly pink, and sumac holding up green cones

but showing here and there a bright red leaf. The

goldenrod's plumes were turning gray, and the

ox-eyed daisies' yellow petals hung down

from the crown centers.

All this was hidden in the secret little hollow.

From the house Laura had seen nothing but

grasses, and now from this hollow she could not see the

house. The prairie seemed to be level, but it

was not level.

Laura asked Pa if there were lots of

hollows on the prairie, like this one. He said there

were.

"Are Indians in them?" she almost whispered.

He said he didn't know. There might be.

She held tight to his hand and Mary held

to his other hand, and they looked at the Indians'

camp. There were ashes where Indian camp fires

had been. There were holes in the ground where

tent-poles had been driven. Bones were

scattered where Indian dogs had gnawed them.

All along the sides of the hollow, Indian

ponies had bitten the grasses short.

Tracks of big moccasins and smaller

moccasins were everywhere, and tracks of little bare

toes. And over these tracks were tracks of

rabbits and tracks of birds, and wolves'

tracks.

Pa read the tracks for Mary and Laura.

He showed them tracks of two middle-sized

moccasins by the edge of a camp fire's ashes.

An Indian woman had squatted there. She

wore a leather skirt with fringes; the tiny marks

of the fringe were in the dust. The track of her toes

inside the moccasins was deeper than the track of

her heels, because she had leaned forward to stir something

cooking in a pot on the fire.

Then Pa picked up a smoke-blackened forked

stick. And he said that the pot had hung from a

stick laid across the top of two upright, forked

sticks. He showed Mary and Laura the

holes where the forked sticks had been driven into the

ground. Then he told them to look at the bones

around that camp fire and tell him what had cooked

in that pot.

They looked, and they said, "Rabbit." That was

right; the bones were rabbits' bones.

Suddenly Laura shouted, "Look! Look!"

Something bright blue glittered in the dust. She

picked it up, and it was a beautiful blue bead.

Laura shouted with joy.

Then Mary saw a red bead, and Laura saw

a green one, and they forgot everything but beads. Pa

helped them look. They found white beads and

brown beads, and more and more red and blue beads.

All that afternoon they hunted for beads in the dust of the

Indian camp. Now and then Pa walked up to the

edge of the hollow and looked toward home, then he

came back and helped to hunt for more beads. They

looked all the ground over carefully.

When they couldn't find any more, it was almost

sunset. Laura had a handful of beads, and so

did Mary. Pa tied them carefully in his

handkerchief, Laura's beads in one corner and

Mary's in another corner. He put the

handkerchief in his pocket, and they started home.

The sun was low behind their backs when they came out

of the hollow. Home was small and very far away.

And Pa did not have his gun.

Pa walked so swiftly that Laura could

hardly keep up. She trotted as fast as she

could, but the sun sank faster. Home seemed

farther and farther away. The prairie seemed

larger, and a wind ran over it, whispering something

frightening. All the grasses shook as if they were

scared.

Then Pa turned around and his blue eyes

twinkled at Laura. He said: "Getting

tired, little half-pint? It's a long way for little

legs."

He picked her up, big girl that she was,

and he settled her safe against his shoulder. He

took Mary by the hand, and so they all came home

together.

Supper was cooking on the fire, Ma was

setting the table, and Baby Carrie played with little

pieces of wood on the floor. Pa tossed the

handkerchief to Ma.

"I'm later than I meant, Caroline," he

said. "But look what the girls found." He

took the milk-bucket and went quickly

to bring Pet and Patty from their picket-lines and

to milk the cow.

Ma untied the handkerchief and exclaimed at

what she found. The beads were even prettier than

they had been in the Indian camp.

Laura stirred her beads with her finger and

watched them sparkle and shine. "These are mine,"

she said.

Then Mary said, "Carrie can have mine."

Ma waited to hear what Laura would say.

Laura didn't want to say anything. She

wanted to keep those pretty beads. Her chest

felt all hot inside, and she wished with all her

might that Mary wouldn't always be such a good little

girl. But she couldn't let Mary be better than

she was.

So she said, slowly, "Carrie can have mine,

too."

"That's my unselfish, good little girls," said

Ma.

She poured Mary's beads into Mary's hands, and

Laura's into Laura's hands, and she said she would

give them a thread to string them on. The beads would

make a pretty necklace for Carrie to wear

around her neck.

Mary and Laura sat side by side on their

bed, and they strung those pretty beads on the

thread that Ma gave them. Each wet her end of the

thread in her mouth and twisted it tightly. Then

Mary put her end of the thread through the small hole

in each of the beads, and Laura put her end through

her beads, one by one.

They didn't say anything. Perhaps Mary felt

sweet and good inside, but Laura didn't. When

she looked at Mary she wanted to slap her. So

she dared not look at Mary again.

The beads made a beautiful string. Carrie

clapped her hands and laughed when she saw it. Then

Ma tied it around Carrie's little neck, and it

glittered there. Laura felt a little bit

better. After all, her beads were not enough beads

to make a whole string, and neither were Mary's, but

together they made a whole string of beads for

Carrie.

When Carrie felt the beads on her neck,

she grabbed at them. She was so little that she did not

know any better than to break the string. So Ma

untied it, and she put the beads away until

Carrie should be old enough to wear them. And often after that

Laura thought of those pretty beads and

she was still naughty enough to want her beads for herself.

But it had been a wonderful day. She could always

think about that long walk across the prairie, and about

all they had seen in the Indian camp.

FEVER 'n' AGUE

Now blackberries were ripe, and in the hot

afternoons Laura went with Ma to pick them. The

big, black, juicy berries hung thick in

brier-patches in the creek bottoms. Some were in

the shade of trees and some were in the sun, but the sun

was so hot that Laura and Ma stayed in the shade.

There were plenty of berries.

Deer lay in the shady groves and watched Ma

and Laura. Blue jays flew at their

sunbonnets and scolded because they were taking the

berries. Snakes hurriedly crawled away from

them, and in the trees the squirrels woke up and

chattered at them. Wherever they went among the

scratchy briers, mosquitoes rose up in

buzzing swarms.

Mosquitoes were thick on the big, ripe

berries, sucking the sweet juice. But they

liked to bite Laura and Ma as much as they liked

to eat blackberries.

Laura's fingers and her mouth were

purple-black with berry juice. Her face and

her hands and her bare feet were covered with brier

scratches and mosquito bites. And they were

spattered with purple stains, too, where she had

slapped at the mosquitoes. But every day they

brought home pails full of berries, and Ma

spread them in the sun to dry.

Every day they ate all the blackberries they

wanted, and the next winter they would have dried

blackberries to stew.

Mary hardly ever went to pick blackberries.

She stayed in the house to mind Baby Carrie,

because she was older. In the daytime there were only one

or two mosquitoes in the house. But at

night, if the wind wasn't blowing hard,

mosquitoes came in thick swarms. On still

nights Pa kept piles of damp grass

burning all around the house and stable. The damp

grass made a smudge of smoke, to keep the

mosquitoes away. But a good many mosquitoes

came, anyway.

Pa could not play his fiddle in the evenings because so

many mosquitoes bit him. Mr.

Edwards did not come visiting after supper any more,

because the mosquitoes were so thick in the bottoms.

All night Pet and Patty and the colt and the

calf and the cow were stamping and swishing their tails in

the stable. And in the morning Laura's forehead was

speckled with mosquito bites.

"This won't last long," Pa said. "Fall's

not far away, and the first cold wind will settle

'em!"

Laura did not feel very well. One day she

felt cold even in the hot sunshine, and she could

not get warm by the fire.

Ma asked why she and Mary did not go out

to play, and Laura said she didn't feel like

playing. She was tired and she ached. Ma stopped

her work and asked, "Where do you ache?"

Laura didn't exactly know. She just said:

"I just ache. My legs ache."

"I ache, too," Mary said.

Ma looked at them and said they looked healthy

enough. But she said something must be wrong or they

wouldn't be so quiet. She pulled up Laura's

skirt and petticoats to see where her legs

ached, and suddenly Laura shivered all over.

She shivered so that her teeth rattled in her mouth.

Ma put her hand against Laura's cheek. "You

can't be cold," she said. "Your face is hot as

fire."

Laura felt like crying, but of course she

didn't. Only little babies cried. "I'm

hot now," she said. "And my back aches."

Ma called Pa, and he came in.

"Charles, do look at the girls," she said.

"I do believe they are sick."

"Well, I don't feel any too well

myself," said Pa. "First I'm hot and then I'm

cold, and I ache all over. Is that the way you

feel, girls? Do your very bones ache?"

Mary and Laura said that was the way they felt.

Then Ma and Pa looked a long time at each

other and Ma said, "The place for you girls is

bed."

It was so queer to be put to bed in the daytime, and

Laura was so hot that everything seemed wavering.

She held on to Ma's neck while Ma was

undressing her, and she begged Ma to tell her

what was wrong with her.

"You will be all right. Don't worry," Ma

said, cheerfully. Laura crawled into bed and Ma

tucked her in. It felt good to be in

bed. Ma smoothed her forehead with her cool, soft

hand and said, "There, now. Go to sleep."

Laura did not exactly go to sleep, but she

didn't really wake up again for a long, long time.

Strange things seemed to keep happening in a

haze. She would see Pa crouching by the fire in the

middle of the night, then suddenly sunshine hurt

her eyes and Ma fed her broth from a spoon.

Something dwindled slowly, smaller and smaller,

till it was tinier than the tiniest thing. Then

slowly it swelled till it was larger than anything

could be. Two voices jabbered faster and faster,

then a slow voice drawled more slowly than

Laura could bear. There were no words, only

voices.

Mary was hot in the bed beside her. Mary threw

off the covers, and Laura cried because she was so

cold. Then she was burning up, and Pa's hand

shook the cup of water. Water spilled down her

neck. The tin cup rattled against her teeth

till she could hardly drink. Then Ma tucked in

the covers and Ma's hand burned against Laura's

cheek.

She heard Pa say, "Go to bed, Caroline."

Ma said, "You're sicker than I am,

Charles."

Laura opened her eyes and saw bright

sunshine. Mary was sobbing, "I want a drink of

water! I want a drink of water! I want a

drink of water!" Jack went back and forth between the

big bed and the little bed. Laura saw Pa lying on

the floor by the big bed.

Jack pawed at Pa and whined. He took

hold of Pa's sleeve with his teeth and shook it.

Pa's head lifted up a little, and he said, "I

must get up, I must. Caroline and the girls."

Then his head fell back and he lay still. Jack

lifted up his nose and howled.

Laura tried to get up, but she was too

tired. Then she saw Ma's red face looking

over the edge of the bed. Mary was all the time crying

for water. Ma looked at Mary and then she

looked at Laura, and she whispered, "Laura,

can you?"

"Yes, Ma," Laura said. This time she got

out of bed. But when she tried to stand up, the floor

rocked and she fell down. Jack's tongue

lapped and lapped at her face, and he quivered

and whined. But he stood still and firm when she took

hold of him and sat up against him.

She knew she must get water to stop Mary's

crying, and she did. She crawled all the way

across the floor to the water-bucket. There was only

a little water in it. She shook so with cold that she

could hardly get hold of the dipper. But she did

get hold of it. She dipped up some water, and

she set out to cross that enormous floor again.

Jack stayed beside her all the way.

Mary's eyes didn't open. Her hands held

on to the dipper and her mouth swallowed all the

water out of it. Then she stopped crying. The

dipper fell on the floor, and Laura crawled

under the covers. It was a long time before she began

to get warm again.

Sometimes she heard Jack sobbing. Sometimes he

howled and she thought he was a wolf, but she was not

afraid. She lay burning up and hearing him

howl. She heard voices jabbering again, and the slow

voice drawling, and she opened her eyes and saw

a big, black face close above her face.

It was coal-black and shiny. Its eyes were

black and soft. Its teeth shone white in a

thick, big mouth. This face smiled, and a deep

voice said, softly, "Drink this, little girl."

An arm lifted under her shoulders, and a black

hand held a cup to her mouth. Laura swallowed

a bitter swallow and tried to turn her head

away, but the cup followed her mouth. The mellow,

deep voice said again, "Drink it. It will make

you well." So Laura swallowed the whole

bitter dose.

When she woke up, a fat woman was stirring

the fire. Laura looked at her carefully and

she was not black. She was tanned, like Ma.

"I want a drink of water, please,"

Laura said.

The fat woman brought it at once. The good,

cold water made Laura feel better. She

looked at Mary asleep beside her; she looked

at Pa and Ma asleep in the big bed. Jack

lay half asleep on the floor. Laura

looked again at the fat woman and asked, "Who

are you?"

"I'm Mrs. Scott," the woman said,

smiling. "There now, you feel better, don't

you?"

"Yes, thank you," Laura said, politely.

The fat woman brought her a cup of hot

prairie-chicken broth.

"Drink it all up, like a good child,"

she said. Laura drank every drop of the good broth.

"Now go to sleep," said Mrs. Scott. "I'm

here to take care of everything till you're all

well."

Next morning Laura felt so much better that

she wanted to get up, but Mrs. Scott said she

must stay in bed until the doctor came. She

lay and watched Mrs. Scott tidy the house and

give medicine to Pa and Ma and Mary. Then it was

Laura's turn. She opened her mouth, and

Mrs. Scott poured a dreadful bitterness out

of a small folded paper onto Laura's

tongue. Laura drank water and swallowed and

swallowed and drank again. She could swallow the

powder but she couldn't swallow the bitterness.

Then the doctor came. And he was the black

man. Laura had never seen a black man before

and she could not take her eyes off Dr. Tan.

He was so very black. She would have been afraid of

him if she had not liked him so much. He smiled

at her with all his white teeth. He talked with

Pa and Ma, and laughed a rolling, jolly

laugh. They all wanted him to stay longer, but he

had to hurry away.

Mrs. Scott said that all the settlers, up

and down the creek, had fever 'n' ague. There were

not enough well people to take care of the sick, and she had

been going from house to house, working night and day.

"It's a wonder you ever lived through," she said.

"All of you down at once." What might have

happened if Dr. Tan hadn't found them, she

didn't know.

Dr. Tan was a doctor with the Indians. He

was on his way north to Independence when he came

to Pa's house. It was a strange thing that Jack,

who hated strangers and never let one come near the

house until Pa or Ma told him to, had

gone to meet Dr. Tan and begged him to come in.

"And here you all were, more dead than alive,"

Mrs. Scott said. Dr. Tan had stayed with

them a day and a night before Mrs. Scott came.

Now he was doctoring all the sick settlers.

Mrs. Scott said that all this sickness came

from eating watermelons. She said, "I've said a

hundred times, if I have once, that water-

melons--"

"What's that?" Pa exclaimed. "Who's got

watermelons?"

Mrs. Scott said that one of the settlers had

planted watermelons in the creek

bottoms. And every soul who had eaten one of those

melons was down sick that very minute. She said she

had warned them. "But, no," she said. "There was no

arguing with them. They would eat those melons, and now

they're paying for it."

"I haven't tasted a good slice of

watermelon since Hector was a pup," said

Pa.

Next day he was out of bed. The next day,

Laura was up. Then Ma got up, and then

Mary. They were all thin and shaky, but they could

take care of themselves. So Mrs. Scott went

home.

Ma said she didn't know how they could ever thank

her, and Mrs. Scott said, "Pshaw! What are

neighbors for but to help each other out?"

Pa's cheeks were hollows and he walked

slowly. Ma often sat down to rest. Laura and

Mary didn't feel like playing. Every morning they

all took those bitter powders. But Ma still

smiled her lovely smile, and Pa whistled

cheerfully.

"It's an ill wind that doesn't blow some

good," he said. He wasn't able to work, so he could

make a rocking-chair for Ma.

He brought some slender willows from the creek

bottoms, and he made the chair in the house.

He could stop any time to put wood on the fire

or lift a kettle for Ma.

First he made four stout legs and braced them

firmly with crosspieces. Then he cut thin

strips of the tough willow-skin, just under the bark.

He wove these strips back and forth, under and over,

till they made a seat for the chair.

He split a long, straight sapling down the

middle. He pegged one end of half of it to the

side of the seat, and curved it up and over and down,

and pegged the other end to the other side of the seat. That

made a high, curved back to the chair. He

braced it firmly, and then he wove the thin

willow-strips across and up and down, under and over

each other, till they filled in the chairback.

With the other half of the split sapling Pa made

arms for the chair. He curved them from the front of the

seat to the chair-back, and he filled them in with

woven strips.

Last of all, he split a larger willow which

had grown in a curve. He turned the chair

upside down, and he pegged the curved pieces

to its legs, to make the rockers. And the

chair was done.

Then they made a celebration. Ma took off

her apron and smoothed her smooth brown hair.

She pinned her gold pin in the front of her

collar. Mary tied the string of beads around

Carrie's neck. Pa and Laura put Mary's

pillow on the chair-seat, and set Laura's

pillow against its back. Over the pillows Pa

spread the quilt from the little bed. Then he took

Ma's hand and led her to the chair, and he put

Baby Carrie in her arms.

Ma leaned back into the softness. Her thin

cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled with tears, but

her smile was beautiful. The chair rocked her

gently and she said, "Oh, Charles, I haven't

been so comfortable since I don't know when."

Then Pa took his fiddle, and he played and

sang to Ma in the firelight. Ma rocked and

Baby Carrie went to sleep, and Mary and

Laura sat on their bench and were happy.

The very next day, without saying where he was going,

Pa rode away on Patty. Ma wondered and

wondered where he had gone. And when Pa came

back he was balancing a watermelon in front

of him on the saddle.

He could hardly carry it into the house. He

let it fall on the floor, and dropped down beside

it.

"I thought I'd never get it here," he said.

"It must weigh forty pounds, and I'm as weak as

water. Hand me the butcher knife."

"But, Charles!" Ma said. "You mustn't.

Mrs. Scott said--"

Pa laughed his big, pealing laugh again. "But

that's not reasonable," he said. "This is a good

melon. Why should it have fever 'n' ague?

Everybody knows that fever 'n' ague comes from

breathing the night air."

"This watermelon grew in the night air," said

Ma.

"Nonsense!" Pa said. "Give me the

butcher knife. I'd eat this melon if I

knew it would give me chills and fever."

"I do believe you would," said Ma, handing him the

knife.

It went into the melon with a luscious sound. The

green rind split open, and there was the bright red

inside, flecked with black seeds. The red heart

actually looked frosty. Nothing had ever been so

tempting as that watermelon, on that hot

day.

Ma would not taste it. She would not let Laura

and Mary eat one bite. But Pa ate slice

after slice after slice, until at last he

sighed and said the cow could have the rest of it.

Next day he had a little chill and a little fever.

Ma blamed the watermelon. But next day she

had a chill and a little fever. So, they did not know

what could have caused their fever 'n' ague.

No one knew, in those days, that fever 'n'

ague was malaria, and that some mosquitoes give

it to people when they bite them.

FIRE IN THE CHIMNEY

The prairie had changed. Now it was a dark

yellow, almost brown, and red streaks of sumac

lay across it. The wind wailed in the tan grass,

and it whispered sadly across the curly, short

buffalo grass. At night the wind sounded like

someone crying.

Pa said again that this was a great country. In the

Big Woods he had had to cut hay and cure it

and stack it and put it in the barn for winter. Here

on the High Prairie, the sun had cured the

wild grass where it stood, and all winter the

mustangs and the cow could mow their own hay. He

needed only a small stack, for stormy days.

Now the weather was cooler and he would go to town.

He had not gone while the summer was hot, because the

heat would be too hard on Pet and Patty. They

must pull the wagon twenty miles a day, to get

to town in two days. And he did not want to be

away from home any longer than he had to.

He stacked the small stack of hay by the barn.

He cut the winter's wood and corded it in a

long cord against the house. Now he had only

to get meat enough to last while he was gone, so he

took his gun and went hunting.

Laura and Mary played in the wind outdoors.

When they heard a shot echo in the woods along the

creek, they knew that Pa had got some meat.

The wind was cooler now, and all along the

creek bottoms flocks of wild ducks were

rising, flying, settling again. Up from the creek

came long lines of wild geese, forming in

V's for their flight farther south. The leader in

front called to those behind him. "Honk?" he

called. All down the lines the wild geese

answered, one after another. "Honk."

"Honk." "Honk." Then he cried,

"Honk!" And, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!"

the others answered him. Straight away south he

flew on his strong wings, and the long lines evenly

followed him.

The tree-tops along the creek were colored

now. Oaks were reds and yellows and browns and

greens. Cottonwoods and sycamores and

walnuts were sun shiny yellow. The sky was not so

brightly blue, and the wind was rough.

That afternoon the wind blew fiercely and it was

cold. Ma called Mary and Laura into the

house. She built up the fire and drew her

rocker near it, and she sat rocking Baby

Carrie and singing softly to her,

"By lo, baby bunting.

Papa's gone a-hunting,

To get a rabbit skin

To wrap the baby bunting in."

Laura heard a little crackling in the chimney.

Ma stopped singing. She bent forward and looked up

the chimney. Then she got up quietly, put

Carrie in Mary's arms, pushed Mary down into the

rocking-chair, and hurried outdoors. Laura

ran after her.

The whole top of the chimney was on fire. The

sticks that made it were burning up. The fire was

roaring in the wind and licking toward the helpless

roof. Ma seized a long pole and struck and

struck at the roaring fire, and burning sticks

fell all around her.

Laura didn't know what to do. She grabbed a

pole, too, but Ma told her to stay away. The

roaring fire was terrible. It could burn the whole

house and Laura couldn't do anything.

She ran into the house. Burning sticks and

coals were falling down the chimney and rolling out

on the hearth. The house was full of smoke. One

big, blazing stick rolled on the floor, under

Mary's skirts. Mary couldn't move, she was so

scared.

Laura was too scared to think. She grabbed the

back of the heavy rocking-chair and pulled with all

her might. The chair with Mary and Carrie in it

came sliding back across the floor. Laura

grabbed up the burning stick and flung it into the

fireplace just as Ma came in.

"That's a good girl, Laura,

to remember I told you never to leave fire on the

floor," Ma said. She took the water-pail and

quickly and quietly poured water on the fire in the

fireplace. Clouds of steam came out.

Then Ma said, "Did you burn your hands?"

She looked at Laura's hands, but they were not

burned, because she had thrown the burning stick so

quickly.

Laura was not really crying. She was too big

to cry. Only one tear ran out of each eye and

her throat choked up, but that was not crying. She

hid her face against Ma and hung on to her

tight. She was so glad the fire had not hurt

Ma.

"Don't cry, Laura," Ma said, stroking

her hair. "Were you afraid?"

"Yes," Laura said. "I was afraid Mary

and Carrie would burn up. I was afraid the

house would burn up and we wouldn't have any house.

I'm--I'm scared now!"

Mary could talk now. She told Ma how

Laura had pulled the chair away from the fire.

Laura was so little, and the chair was so big and so

heavy with Mary and Carrie in it, that Ma was

surprised. She said she didn't know how

Laura had done it.

"You were a brave girl, Laura," she said.

But Laura had really been terribly scared.

"And no harm's done," Ma said. "The house

didn't burn up, and Mary's skirts didn't

catch fire and burn her and Carrie. So everything

is all right."

When Pa came home he found the fire out.

The wind was roaring over the low stone top of the

chimney and the house was cold. But Pa said he would

build up the chimney with green sticks and fresh

clay, and plaster it so well that it wouldn't catch

fire again.

He had brought four fat ducks, and he said

he could have killed hundreds. But four were all they

needed. He said to Ma, "You save the feathers from

the ducks and geese we eat, and I'll shoot you

a feather bed."

He could, of course, have got a deer, but the

weather was not yet cold enough to freeze the meat and

keep it from spoiling before they could eat it. And he

had found the place where a flock of wild

turkeys roosted. "Our Thanksgiving and

Christmas turkeys," he said. "Great, big,

fat fellows. I'll get them when the

time comes."

Pa went whistling to mix mud and cut green

sticks and build the chimney up again, while Ma

cleaned the ducks. Then the fire merrily

crackled, a fat duck roasted, and the cornbread

baked. Everything was snug and cozy again.

After supper Pa said he supposed he'd

better start to town early next morning. "Might

as well go and get it over with," he said.

"Yes, Charles, you'd better go," Ma said.

"We could get along all right, if I

didn't," said Pa. "There's no need of running

to town all the time, for every little thing. I have smoked

better tobacco than that stuff Scott raised

back in Indiana, but it will do. I'll raise

some next summer and pay him back. I wish I

hadn't borrowed those nails from Edwards."

"You did borrow them, Charles," Ma

replied. "And as for the tobacco, you don't like

borrowing any more than I do. We need more

quinine. I've been sparing with the cornmeal, but

it's almost gone and so is the sugar. You could find a

bee-tree, but there's no cornmeal tree to be

found, so far as I know, and we'll raise no

corn till next year. A little salt pork would

taste good, too, after all this wild game. And,

Charles, I'd like to write to the folks in

Wisconsin. If you mail a letter now, they can

write this winter, and then we can hear from them next

spring."

"You're right, Caroline. You always are," Pa

said. Then he turned to Mary and Laura and said it

was bedtime. If he was going to start early in the

morning, he'd better start sleeping early tonight.

He pulled off his boots while Mary and

Laura got into their nightgowns. But when they were in

bed he took down his fiddle. Softly he

played and softly sang,

"So green grows the laurel,

And so does the rue,

So woeful, my love,

At the parting with you."

Ma turned toward him and smiled. "Take

care of yourself on the trip, Charles, and don't

worry about us," she told him. "We will be all

right."

PA GOES TO TOWN

Before dawn, Pa went away. When Laura and

Mary woke, he was gone and everything was empty and

lonely. It was not as though Pa had only gone

hunting. He was going to town, and he would not be

back for four long days.

Bunny had been shut in the stable, so she

couldn't follow her mother. The trip was too long

for a colt. Bunny whinnied lonesomely. Laura

and Mary stayed in the house with Ma. Outdoors was

too large and empty to play in when Pa was

away. Jack was uneasy, too, and watchful.

At noon Laura went with Ma to water

Bunny and to move the cow's picket-pin to fresh

grass. The cow was quite gentle now. She followed

where Ma led, and she would even let Ma milk

her.

At milking-time Ma was putting on her

bonnet, when suddenly all Jack's hair

stood up stiff on his neck and back, and he

rushed out of the house. They heard a yell and a

scramble and a shout: "Call off your dog! Call

off your dog!"

Mr. Edwards was on top of the woodpile, and

Jack was climbing up after him.

"He's got me treed," Mr. Edwards said,

backing along the top of the woodpile. Ma could

hardly make Jack come away. Jack grinned

savagely and his eyes were red. He had to let

Mr. Edwards come down from the woodpile, but he

watched him every minute.

Ma said, "I declare, he seems to know that Mr.

Ingalls isn't here."

Mr. Edwards said that dogs knew more than most

folks gave them credit for.

On his way to town that morning, Pa had stopped

at Mr. Edwards' house and asked him to come over

every day to see that everything was all right. And Mr.

Edwards was such a good neighbor that he had come at

chore-time, to do the chores for Ma. But Jack had

made up his mind not to let anyone but Ma go near

the cow or Bunny while Pa was gone. He had

to be shut in the house while Mr. Edwards did

the chores.

When Mr. Edwards went away he said to Ma,

"Keep that dog in the house tonight, and you'll be

safe enough."

The dark crept slowly all around the house.

The wind cried mournfully and owls said,

"Who-oo? Oo-oo." A wolf howled, and

Jack growled low in his throat. Mary and

Laura sat close to Ma in the firelight.

They knew they were safe in the house, because Jack

was there and Ma had pulled the latch-string in.

Next day was empty like the first. Jack paced

around the stable and around the house, then around the stable and

back to the house. He would not pay any attention

to Laura.

That afternoon Mrs. Scott came to visit with

Ma. While they visited, Laura and Mary

sat politely, as still as mice. Mrs. Scott

admired the new rocking-chair. The more she rocked

in it, the more she enjoyed it, and she said how neat and

comfortable and pretty the house was.

She said she hoped to goodness they would have no trouble

with Indians. Mr. Scott had heard rumors

of trouble. She said, "Land knows, they'd never do

anything with this country themselves. All they do is

roam around over it like wild animals.

Treaties or no treaties, the land belongs

to folks that'll farm it. That's only common sense

and justice."

She did not know why the government made

treaties with Indians. The only good Indian was

a dead Indian. The very thought of Indians made

her blood run cold. She said, "I can't

forget the Minnesota massacre. My Pa and

my brothers went out with the rest of the settlers, and

stopped them only fifteen miles west of us.

I've heard Pa tell often enough how they--"

Ma made a sharp sound in her throat, and

Mrs. Scott stopped. Whatever a massacre

was, it was something that grown-ups would not talk about

when little girls were listening.

After Mrs. Scott had gone, Laura asked

Ma what a massacre was. Ma said she could not

explain that now; it was something that Laura would understand

when she was older.

Mr. Edwards came to do the chores again that

evening, and again Jack treed him on the

woodpile. Ma had to drag him off. She told

Mr. Edwards she couldn't think what had got

into that dog. Maybe it was the wind that upset him.

The wind had a strange, wild howl in it, and

it went through Laura's clothes as if the clothes

weren't there. Her teeth and Mary's teeth

chattered while they carried many armfuls of wood

into the house.

That night they thought of Pa, in

Independence. If nothing had delayed him, he

would be camping there now, near the houses and the people.

Tomorrow he would be in the store, buying things. Then,

if he could get an early start, he could come part

way home and camp on the prairie tomorrow night.

And the next night he might come home.

In the morning the wind was blowing fiercely and it

was so cold that Ma kept the door shut. Laura

and Mary stayed by the fire and listened to the wind,

screaming around the house and howling in the chimney.

That afternoon they wondered if Pa was leaving

Independence and coming toward them, against the wind.

Then, when it was dark, they wondered where he was

camping. The wind was bitterly cold. It came

even into the snug house and made their backs shiver

while their faces roasted in the heat of the fire.

Somewhere on the big, dark, lonesome prairie Pa

was camping in that wind.

The next day was very long. They could not expect

Pa in the morning, but they were waiting till they could

expect him. In the afternoon they began to watch the

creek road. Jack was watching it, too. He

whined to go out, and he went all around the stable and the

house, stopping to look toward the creek bottoms

and show his teeth. The wind almost blew him off his

feet.

When he came in he would not lie down. He

walked about, and worried. The hair rose on his

neck, and flattened, and rose again. He tried

to look out of the window, and then whined at the door.

But when Ma opened it, he changed his mind and would

not go out.

"Jack's afraid of something," Mary said.

"Jack's not afraid of anything, ever!"

Laura contradicted.

"Laura, Laura," Ma said. "It isn't

nice to contradict."

In a minute Jack decided to go out. He

went to see that the cow and calf and Bunny were safe

in the stable. And Laura wanted to tell Mary,

"I told you so!" She didn't, but she wanted

to.

At chore-time Ma kept Jack in the house

so he could not tree Mr. Edwards on the

woodpile. Pa had not come yet. The wind blew

Mr. Edwards in through the door. He was breathless,

and stiff with cold. He warmed himself by the fire before

he did the chores, and when he had done them he

sat down to warm himself again.

He told Ma that Indians were

camping in the shelter of the bluffs. He had seen the

smoke from their fires when he crossed the

bottoms. He asked Ma if she had a gun.

Ma said she had Pa's pistol, and Mr.

Edwards said, "I reckon they'll stay close

in camp, a night like this."

"Yes," Ma said.

Mr. Edwards said he could make himself right

comfortable with hay in the stable, and he would spend the

night there if Ma said so. Ma thanked him

nicely, but said she would not put him to that trouble.

They would be safe enough with Jack.

"I am expecting Mr. Ingalls any

minute now," she told him. So Mr. Edwards

put on his coat and cap and muffler and mittens and

picked up his gun. He said he didn't guess

that anything would bother her, anyway.

"No," Ma said.

When she shut the door behind him, she pulled the

latch-string in, though darkness had not yet come.

Laura and Mary could see the creek road

plainly, and they watched it until the dark hid

it. Then Ma closed and barred the wooden window

shutter. Pa had not come.

They ate supper. They washed the dishes and

swept the hearth, and still he had not come. Out in the

dark where he was, the wind shrieked and wailed and

howled. It rattled the door-latch and shook the

shutters. It screamed down the chimney and the fire

roared and flared.

All the time Laura and Mary strained their ears

to hear the sound of wagon wheels. They knew Ma

was listening, too, though she was rocking and singing

Carrie to sleep.

Carrie fell asleep and Ma went on

rocking. At last she undressed Carrie and

put her to bed. Laura and Mary looked at each

other; they didn't want to go to bed.

"Bedtime, girls!" Ma said. Then Laura

begged to be allowed to sit up till Pa came,

and Mary backed her up, till Ma said they

might.

For a long, long time they sat up. Mary

yawned, then Laura yawned, then they both

yawned. But they kept their eyes wide open.

Laura's eyes saw things grow very large and then

very small, and sometimes she saw two Marys and

sometimes she couldn't see at all, but she was going

to sit up till Pa came. Suddenly a fearful

crash scared her and Ma picked her up.

She had fallen off the bench, smack on the

floor.

She tried to tell Ma that she wasn't

sleepy enough to have to go to bed, but an enormous yawn

almost split her head in two.

In the middle of the night she sat straight up.

Ma was sitting still in the rocking-chair by the fire.

The door-latch rattled, the shutters shook, the

wind was howling. Mary's eyes were open and Jack

walked up and down. Then Laura heard again a

wild howl that rose and fell and rose again.

"Lie down, Laura, and go to sleep," Ma

said, gently.

"What's that howling?" Laura asked.

"The wind is howling," said Ma. "Now mind

me, Laura."

Laura lay down, but her eyes would not shut.

She knew that Pa was out in the dark, where that terrible

howling was. The wild men were in the bluffs along

the creek bottoms, and Pa would have to cross the

creek bottoms in the dark. Jack growled.

Then Ma began to sway gently in the comfortable

rocking-chair. Fire-light ran up and down,

up and down the barrel of Pa's pistol in her

lap. And Ma sang, softly and sweetly:

"There is a happy land,

Far, far away,

Where saints in glory stand,

Bright, bright as day.

"Oh, to hear the angels sing,

Glory to the Lord, our King--"

Laura didn't know that she had gone to sleep.

She thought the shining angels began to sing with Ma, and

she lay listening to their heavenly singing until

suddenly her eyes opened and she saw Pa standing

by the fire.

She jumped out of bed, shouting, "Oh Pa!

Pa!"

Pa's boots were caked with frozen mud, his

nose was red with cold, his hair wildly stood

up on his head. He was so cold that coldness

came through Laura's nightgown when she reached

him.

"Wait!" he said. He wrapped Laura in

Ma's big shawl, and then he hugged her.

Everything was all right. The house was cozy with

firelight, there was the warm, brown

smell of coffee, Ma was smiling, and Pa was

there.

The shawl was so large that Mary wrapped the other

end of it around her. Pa pulled off his stiff

boots and warmed his stiff, cold hands. Then he

sat on the bench and he took Mary on one knee

and Laura on the other and he hugged them against him,

all snuggled in the shawl. Their bare toes

toasted in the heat from the fire.

"Ah!" Pa sighed. "I thought I never would

get here."

Ma rummaged among the stores he had brought,

and spooned brown sugar into a tin cup. Pa had

brought sugar from Independence. "Your coffee will be

ready in a minute, Charles," she said.

"It rained between here and Independence, going,"

Pa told them. "And coming back, the mud froze

between the spokes till the wheels were nearly

solid. I had to get out and knock it loose, so

the horses could pull the wagon. And seemed like

we'd no more than started, when I had to get out and

do it again. It was all I could do to keep Pet and

Patty coming against that wind. They're so worn out

they can hardly stagger. I never saw such a wind;

it cuts like a knife."

The wind had begun while he was in town. People

there told him he had better wait until it

blew itself out, but he wanted to get home.

"It beats me," he said, "why they call a

south wind a norther, and how a wind from the south can

be so tarnation cold. I never saw anything like it.

Down here in this country, the north end of a south

wind is the coldest wind I ever heard of."

He drank his coffee and wiped his mustache with

his handkerchief, and said: "Ah! That hits the

spot, Caroline! Now I'm beginning to thaw out."

Then his eyes twinkled at Ma and he told

her to open the square package on the table. "Be

careful," he said. "Don't drop it."

Ma stopped unwrapping it and said: "Oh,

Charles! You didn't!"

"Open it," Pa said.

In that square package there were eight small

squares of window-glass. They would have glass

windows in their house.

Not one of the squares was broken. Pa had brought

them safely all the way home. Ma shook her

head and said he shouldn't have spent so much, but her

whole face was smiling and Pa laughed with joy.

They were all so pleased. All winter

long they could look out of the windows as much as they

liked, and the sunshine could come in.

Pa said he thought that Ma and Mary and Laura

would like glass windows better than any other

present, and he was right. They did. But the windows

were not all he had brought them. There was a little paper

sack full of pure white sugar. Ma opened it

and Mary and Laura looked at the sparkling

whiteness of that beautiful sugar, and they each had a

taste of it from a spoon. Then Ma tied it

carefully up. They would have white sugar when

company came.

Best of all, Pa was safely home again.

Laura and Mary went back to sleep, very

comfortable all over. Everything was all right when Pa

was there. And now he had nails, and cornmeal, and

fat pork, and salt, and everything. He would not have

to go to town again for a long time.

THE TALL INDIAN

In those three days the norther had howled and

screeched across the prairie till it blew itself

out. Now the sun was warm and the wind was mild, but there

was a feeling of autumn in the air.

Indians came riding on the path that passed so

close to the house. They went by as though it were not

there.

They were thin and brown and bare. They rode their

little ponies without saddle or bridle. They sat

up straight on the naked ponies and did not

look to right or left. But their black eyes

glittered.

Laura and Mary backed against the house and

looked up at them. And they saw red-brown skin

bright against the blue sky, and scalplocks wound with

colored string, and feathers quivering. The

Indians' faces were like the red-brown wood that

Pa had carved to make a bracket for Ma.

"I thought that trail was an old one they

didn't use any more," Pa said. "I wouldn't have

built the house so close to it if I'd known

it's a highroad."

Jack hated Indians, and Ma said she

didn't blame him. She said, "I declare,

Indians are getting so thick around here that I

can't look up without seeing one."

As she spoke she looked up, and there stood

an Indian. He stood in the doorway, looking

at them, and they had not heard a sound.

"Goodness!" Ma gasped.

Silently Jack jumped at the Indian.

Pa caught him by the collar, just in time. The

Indian hadn't moved; he stood as still as if

Jack hadn't been there at all.

"How!" he said to Pa.

Pa held on to Jack and replied, "How!"

He dragged Jack to the bedpost and tied him there.

While he was doing it, the Indian came in and

squatted down by the fire.

Then Pa squatted down by the Indian, and they

sat there, friendly but not saying a word, while Ma

finished cooking dinner.

Laura and Mary were close together and quiet on

their bed in the corner. They couldn't take their

eyes from that Indian. He was so still that the beautiful

eagle-feathers in his scalplock didn't stir.

Only his bare chest and the leanness under his ribs

moved a little to his breathing. He wore fringed

leather leggings, and his moccasins were covered with

beads.

Ma gave Pa and the Indian their dinners on

two tin plates, and they ate silently. Then

Pa gave the Indian some tobacco for his pipe.

They filled their pipes, and they lighted the

tobacco with coals from the fire, and they silently

smoked until the pipes were empty.

All this time nobody had said anything. But now

the Indian said something to Pa. Pa shook his head

and said, "No speak."

A while longer they all sat silent. Then the

Indian rose up and went away without a sound.

"My goodness gracious!" Ma said.

Laura and Mary ran to the window. They saw the

Indian's straight back, riding away on a

pony. He held a gun across his knees, its

ends stuck out on either side of him.

Pa said that Indian was no common trash. He

guessed by the scalplock that he was an Osage.

"Unless I miss my guess," Pa said, "that

was French he spoke. I wish I had picked

up some of that lingo."

"Let Indians keep themselves to themselves," said

Ma, "and we will do the same. I don't like

Indians around underfoot."

Pa told her not to worry.

"That Indian was perfectly friendly," he said.

"And their camps down among the bluffs are

peaceable enough. If we treat them well and watch

Jack, we won't have any trouble."

The very next morning, when Pa opened the door

to go to the stable, Laura saw Jack standing in the

Indian trail. He stood stiff, his back

bristled, and all his teeth showed. Before him in the

path the tall Indian sat on his pony.

Indian and pony were still as still. Jack was telling

them plainly that he would spring if they moved.

Only the eagle feathers that stood up from the

Indian's scalplock were waving and spinning in the

wind.

When the Indian saw Pa, he lifted his gun

and pointed it straight at Jack.

Laura ran to the door, but Pa was quicker. He

stepped between Jack and that gun, and he reached down

and grabbed Jack by the collar. He dragged

Jack out of the Indian's way, and the Indian

rode on, along the trail.

Pa stood with his feet wide apart, his hands in

his pockets, and watched the Indian riding farther

and farther away across the prairie.

"That was a darned close call!" Pa said.

"Well, it's his path. An Indian trail,

long before we came."

He drove an iron ring into a log of the house

wall, and he chained Jack to it. After that, Jack

was always chained. He was chained to the house in the

daytime, and at night he was chained to the stable door,

because horse-thieves were in the country now. They had

stolen Mr. Edwards' horses.

Jack grew crosser and crosser because he was

chained. But it could not be helped. He would not

admit that the trail was the Indians' trail, he

thought it belonged to Pa. And Laura knew that

something terrible would happen if Jack hurt an

Indian.

Winter was coming now. The grasses were a dull

color under a dull sky. The winds wailed as

if they were looking for something they could not find.

Wild animals were wearing their thick winter fur,

and Pa set his traps in the creek bottoms.

Every day he visited them, and every day he went

hunting. Now that the nights were freezing cold, he

shot deer for meat. He shot wolves and foxes

for their fur, and his traps caught beaver and

muskrat and mink.

He stretched the skins on the outside of the

house and carefully tacked them there, to dry. In the

evenings he worked the dried skins between his hands

to make them soft, and he added them to the bundle in

the corner. Every day the bundle of furs

grew bigger.

Laura loved to stroke the thick fur of red

foxes. She like the brown, soft fur of beaver,

too, and the shaggy wolf's fur. But best of all

she loved the silky mink. Those were all furs that

Pa saved to trade next spring in Independence.

Laura and Mary had rabbit-skin caps, and

Pa's cap was muskrat.

One day when Pa was hunting, two Indians

came. They came into the house, because Jack was

chained.

Those Indians were dirty and scowling and mean.

They acted as if the house belonged to them. One of

them looked through Ma's cupboard and took all the

cornbread. The other took Pa's

tobacco-pouch. They looked at the pegs where

Pa's gun belonged. Then one of them picked up

the bundle of furs.

Ma held Baby Carrie in her arms, and

Mary and Laura stood close to her. They

looked at that Indian taking Pa's furs. They

couldn't do anything to stop him.

He carried them as far as the door. Then the

other Indian said something to him. They made harsh

sounds at each other in their throats, and he

dropped the furs. They went away.

Ma sat down. She hugged Mary and Laura

close to her and Laura felt Ma's heart

beating.

"Well," Ma said, smiling, "I'm thankful

they didn't take the plow and seeds."

Laura was surprised. She asked, "What

plow?"

"The plow and all our seeds for next year are

in that bundle of furs," said Ma.

When Pa came home they told him about those

Indians, and he looked sober. But he said that

all was well that ended well.

That evening when Mary and Laura were in bed, Pa

played his fiddle. Ma was rocking in the

rocking-chair, holding Baby Carrie against her

breast, and she began to sing softly with the fiddle:

"Wild roved an Indian main,

Bright Alfarata,

Where flow the waters

Of the blue Juniata.

Strong and true my arrows are

In my painted quiver,

Swift goes my light canoe

Adown the rapid river.

"Bold is my warrior good,

The love of Alfarata,

Proud wave his sunny plumes

Along the Juniata.

Soft and low he speaks to me,

And then his war-cry sounding

Rings his voice in thunder loud

From height to height resounding.

"So sang the Indian maid,

Bright Alfarata,

Where sweep the waters

Of the blue Juniata.

Fleeting years have borne away

The voice of Alfarata,

Still flow the waters

Of the blue Juniata."

Ma's voice and the fiddle's music softly

died away. And Laura asked, "Where did the

voice of Alfarata go, Ma?"

"Goodness!" Ma said. "Aren't you asleep

yet?"

"I'm going to sleep," Laura said. "But

please tell me where the voice of Alfarata

went?"

"Oh I suppose she went west," Ma

answered. "That's what the Indians do."

"Why do they do that, Ma?" Laura asked.

"Why do they go west?"

"They have to," Ma said.

"Why do they have to?"

"The government makes them, Laura," said

Pa. "Now go to sleep."

He played the fiddle softly for a while. Then

Laura asked, "Please, Pa, can I ask just

one more question?"

"May I," said Ma.

Laura began again. "Pa, please, may

I--"

"What is it?" Pa asked. It was not polite

for little girls to interrupt, but of course Pa could

do it.

"Will the government make these Indians go

west?"

"Yes," Pa said. "When white settlers come

into a country, the Indians have to move on. The

government is going to move these Indians

farther west, any time now. That's why we're here,

Laura. White people are going to settle all

this country, and we get the best land because we get

here first and take our pick. Now do you

understand?"

"Yes, Pa," Laura said. "But, Pa, I

thought this was Indian Territory. Won't it

make the Indians mad to have to--"

"No more questions, Laura," Pa said, firmly.

"Go to sleep."

MR. EDWARDS MEETS

SANTA CLAUS

The days were short and cold, the wind whistled

sharply, but there was no snow. Cold rains were

falling. Day after day the rain fell, pattering on

the roof and pouring from the eaves.

Mary and Laura stayed close by the fire,

sewing their nine-patch quilt blocks, or

cutting paper dolls from scraps of

wrapping-paper, and hearing the wet sound of the rain.

Every night was so cold that they expected to see snow

next morning, but in the morning they saw only

sad, wet grass.

They pressed their noses against the squares of

glass in the windows that Pa had made, and they were

glad they could see out. But they wished they could see

snow.

Laura was anxious because Christmas was near, and

Santa Claus and his reindeer could not travel

without snow. Mary was afraid that, even if it

snowed, Santa Claus could not find them, so far

away in Indian Territory. When they asked

Ma about this, she said she didn't know.

"What day is it?" they asked her,

anxiously. "How many more days till

Christmas?" And they counted off the days on their

fingers, till there was only one more day left.

Rain was still falling that morning. There was not one

crack in the gray sky. They felt almost sure

there would be no Christmas. Still, they kept

hoping.

Just before noon the light changed. The clouds

broke and drifted apart, shining white in a clear

blue sky. The sun shone, birds sang, and

thousands of drops of water sparkled on the

grasses. But when Ma opened the door to let in

the fresh, cold air, they heard the creek

roaring.

They had not thought about the creek. Now they knew

they would have no Christmas, because Santa Claus

could not cross that roaring creek.

Pa came in, bringing a big fat turkey.

If it weighed less than twenty pounds, he

said, he'd eat it, feathers and all. He

asked Laura, "How's that for a Christmas

dinner? Think you can manage one of those

drumsticks?"

She said, yes, she could. But she was sober.

Then Mary asked him if the creek was going down,

and he said it was still rising.

Ma said it was too bad. She hated to think of

Mr. Edwards eating his bachelor cooking all

alone on Christmas day. Mr. Edwards had

been asked to eat Christmas dinner with them, but

Pa shook his head and said a man would risk his

neck, trying to cross that creek now.

"No," he said. "That current's too strong.

We'll just have to make up our minds that Edwards

won't be here tomorrow."

Of course that meant that Santa Claus could not

come, either.

Laura and Mary tried not to mind too much.

They watched Ma dress the wild turkey, and it

was a very fat turkey. They were lucky little

girls, to have a good house to live in, and a warm

fire to sit by, and such a turkey for their

Christmas dinner. Ma said so, and it was true.

Ma said it was too bad that Santa Claus

couldn't come this year, but they were such good girls that

he hadn't forgotten them; he would surely come

next year.

Still, they were not happy.

After supper that night they washed their hands and

faces, buttoned their red-flannel nightgowns,

tied their night-cap strings, and soberly said their

prayers. They lay down in bed and pulled the

covers up. It did not seem at all like

Christmas time.

Pa and Ma sat silent by the fire. After a

while Ma asked why Pa didn't play the

fiddle, and he said, "I don't seem to have the

heart to, Caroline."

After a longer while, Ma suddenly stood up.

"I'm going to hang up your stockings,

girls," she said. "Maybe something will happen."

Laura's heart jumped. But then she thought again

of the creek and she knew nothing could happen.

Ma took one of Mary's clean

stockings and one of Laura's, and she hung them from

the mantel-shelf, on either side of the

fireplace. Laura and Mary watched her over

the edge of their bed-covers.

"Now go to sleep," Ma said, kissing them good

night. "Morning will come quicker if you're

asleep."

She sat down again by the fire and Laura almost

went to sleep. She woke up a little when she

heard Pa say, "You've only made it

worse, Caroline." And she thought she heard Ma

say: "No, Charles. There's the white sugar."

But perhaps she was dreaming.

Then she heard Jack growl savagely. The

door-latch rattled and someone said, "Ingalls!

Ingalls!" Pa was stirring up the fire, and when

he opened the door Laura saw that it was morning.

The outdoors was gray.

"Great fishhooks, Edwards! Come in, man!

What's happened?" Pa exclaimed.

Laura saw the stockings limply dangling, and

she scrooged her shut eyes into the pillow. She

heard Pa piling wood on the fire, and she

heard Mr. Edwards say he had carried his

clothes on his head when he swam the creek. His

teeth rattled and his voice shivered. He would be

all right, he said, as soon as he got warm.

"It was too big a risk, Edwards," Pa

said. "We're glad you're here, but that was too

big a risk for a Christmas dinner."

"Your little ones had to have a Christmas," Mr.

Edwards replied. "No creek could stop me,

after I fetched them their gifts from Independence."

Laura sat straight up in bed. "Did you

see Santa Claus?" she shouted.

"I sure did," Mr. Edwards said.

"Where? When? What did he look like? What

did he say? Did he really give you something for

us?" Mary and Laura cried.

"Wait, wait a minute!" Mr. Edwards

laughed. And Ma said she would put the presents in

the stockings, as Santa Claus intended. She

said they mustn't look.

Mr. Edwards came and sat on the floor

by their bed, and he answered every question they asked him.

They honestly tried not to look at Ma, and they

didn't quite see what she was doing.

When he saw the creek rising, Mr. Edwards

said, he had known that Santa Claus could not get

across it. ("But you crossed it," Laura

said. "Yes," Mr. Edwards replied, "but

Santa Claus is too old and fat. He

couldn't make it, where a long, lean razor-back

like me could do so.") And Mr. Edwards reasoned that

if Santa Claus couldn't cross the creek,

likely he would come no farther south than

Independence. Why should he come forty miles across

the prairie, only to be turned back? Of

course he wouldn't do that!

So Mr. Edwards had walked to Independence.

("In the rain?" Mary asked. Mr. Edwards

said he wore his rubber coat.) And there, coming down

the street in Independence, he had met Santa

Claus. ("In the daytime?" Laura asked.

She hadn't thought that anyone could see Santa

Claus in the daytime. No, Mr. Edwards said;

it was night, but light shone out across the street from the

saloons.)

Well, the first thing Santa Claus said was,

"Hello, Edwards!" ("Did he know you?"

Mary asked, and Laura asked, "How did you

know he was really Santa Claus?" Mr.

Edwards said that Santa Claus knew

everybody. And he had recognized Santa at

once by his whiskers. Santa Claus had the

longest, thickest, whitest set of whiskers west

of the Mississippi.)

So Santa Claus said, "Hello,

Edwards! Last time I saw you you were sleeping on

a corn-shuck bed in Tennessee." And Mr.

Edwards well remembered the little pair of

red-yarn mittens that Santa Claus had left

for him that time.

Then Santa Claus said: "I understand you're

living now down along the Verdigris River. Have

you ever met up, down yonder, with two little young

girls named Mary and Laura?"

"I surely am acquainted with them," Mr.

Edwards replied.

"It rests heavy on my mind," said Santa

Claus. "They are both of them sweet,

pretty, good little young things, and I know they are

expecting me. I surely do hate to disappoint

two good little girls like them. Yet with the water up

the way it is, I can't ever make it across that

creek. I can figure no way whatsoever to get

to their cabin this year. Edwards," Santa Claus

said. "Would you do me the favor to fetch them their

gifts this one time?"

"I'll do that, and with pleasure," Mr.

Edwards told him.

Then Santa Claus and Mr. Edwards

stepped across the street to the hitching-posts where the

pack-mule was tied. ("Didn't he have his

reindeer?" Laura asked. "You know he

couldn't," Mary said. "There isn't any snow."

Exactly, said Mr. Edwards. Santa

Claus traveled with a pack-mule in the

southwest.)

And Santa Claus uncinched the pack and

looked through it, and he took out the presents for

Mary and Laura.

"Oh, what are they?" Laura cried; but

Mary asked, "Then what did he do?"

Then he shook hands with Mr. Edwards, and he

swung up on his fine bay horse. Santa

Claus rode well for a man of his weight and

build. And he tucked his long, white whiskers

under his bandana. "So long, Edwards," he said, and

he rode away on the Fort Dodge trail,

leading his pack-mule and whistling.

Laura and Mary were silent an instant, thinking

of that.

Then Ma said, "You may look now, girls."

Something was shining bright in the top of Laura's

stocking. She squealed and jumped out of bed. So

did Mary, but Laura beat her to the

fireplace. And the shining thing was a glittering new

tin cup.

Mary had one exactly like it.

These new tin cups were their very own. Now they

each had a cup to drink out of. Laura jumped

up and down and shouted and laughed, but Mary stood still

and looked with shining eyes at her own tin cup.

Then they plunged their hands into the stockings again.

And they pulled out two long, long sticks of

candy. It was peppermint candy, striped red and

white. They looked and looked at the beautiful

candy, and Laura licked her stick, just one

lick. But Mary was not so greedy. She didn't

take even one lick of her stick.

Those stockings weren't empty yet. Mary and

Laura pulled out two small packages. They

unwrapped them, and each found a little heart-shaped

cake. Over their delicate brown tops was

sprinkled white sugar. The sparkling grains lay

like tiny drifts of snow.

The cakes were too pretty to eat. Mary and

Laura just looked at them. But at last Laura

turned hers over, and she nibbled a tiny

nibble from underneath, where it wouldn't show. And the inside

of the little cake was white!

It had been made of pure white flour, and

sweetened with white sugar.

Laura and Mary never would have looked in their

stockings again. The cups and the cakes and the candy were

almost too much. They were too happy to speak. But

Ma asked if they were sure the stockings were

empty.

Then they put their hands down inside them,

to make sure.

And in the very toe of each stocking was a shining

bright, new penny!

They had never even thought of such a thing as having

a penny. Think of having a whole penny for your very

own. Think of having a cup and a cake and a stick

of candy and a penny.

There never had been such a Christmas.

Now of course, right away, Laura and Mary

should have thanked Mr. Edwards for bringing those

lovely presents all the way from Independence.

But they had forgotten all about Mr. Edwards.

They had even forgotten Santa Claus. In a

minute they would have remembered, but before they did,

Ma said, gently, "Aren't you going to thank Mr.

Edwards?"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Edwards! Thank you!"

they said, and they meant it with all their hearts. Pa

shook Mr. Edwards' hand, too, and shook it

again. Pa and Ma and Mr. Edwards acted as if

they were almost crying, Laura didn't know why. So

she gazed again at her beautiful presents.

She looked up again when Ma gasped. And

Mr. Edwards was taking sweet potatoes out of

his pockets. He said they had helped to balance the

package on his head when he swam across the

creek. He thought Pa and Ma might like them, with the

Christmas turkey.

There were nine sweet potatoes. Mr.

Edwards had brought them all the way from town,

too. It was just too much. Pa said so. "It's

too much, Edwards," he said. They never could

thank him enough.

Mary and Laura were too excited to eat

breakfast. They drank the milk from their shining new

cups. but they could not swallow the rabbit stew and the

cornmeal mush.

"Don't make them, Charles," Ma said.

"It will soon be dinner-time."

For Christmas dinner there was the tender,

juicy, roasted turkey. There were the sweet

potatoes, baked in the ashes and carefully wiped

so that you could eat the good skins, too. There was a

loaf of salt-rising bread made from the last of the

white flour.

And after all that there were stewed dried

blackberries and little cakes. But these little cakes

were made with brown sugar and they did not have white

sugar sprinkled over their tops.

Then Pa and Ma and Mr. Edwards sat by the

fire and talked about Christmas times back in

Tennessee and up north in the Big Woods. But

Mary and Laura looked at their beautiful

cakes and played with their pennies and drank their

water out of their new cups. And little by little they

licked and sucked their sticks of candy, till each

stick was sharp-pointed on one end.

That was a happy Christmas.

A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

The days were short and gray now, the nights were very

dark and cold. Clouds hung low above the little

house and spread low and far over the bleak

prairie. Rain fell, and sometimes snow was

driven on the wind. Hard little bits of snow

whirled in the air and scurried over the humped

backs of miserable grasses. And next day the

snow was gone.

Every day Pa went hunting and trapping. In the

cozy, firelit house Mary and Laura helped

Ma with the work. Then they sewed quilt-patches.

They played Patty Cake with Carrie, and they

played Hide the Thimble. With a piece of string and

their fingers, they played Cat's Cradle. And

they played Bean Porridge Hot. Facing

each other, they clapped their hands together and against

each other's hands, keeping time while they said:

"Bean porridge hot,

Bean porridge cold,

Bean porridge in the pot,

Nine days old.

"Some like it hot,

Some like it cold,

Some like it in the pot,

Nine days old.

"I like it hot,

I like it cold,

I like it in the pot,

Nine days old."

That was true. No supper was so good as the thick

bean porridge, flavored with a small bit of

salt pork, that Ma dipped onto the tin

plates when Pa had come home cold and tired from

his hunting. Laura liked it hot, and she liked

it cold, and it was always good as long as it lasted.

But it never really lasted nine days. They ate it

up before that.

All the time the wind blew, shrieking, howling,

wailing, screaming, and mournfully sobbing. They were

used to hearing the wind. All day they heard it, and

at night in their sleep they knew it was blowing.

But one night they heard such a terrible scream that

they all woke up.

Pa jumped out of bed, and Ma said: "Charles!

What was it?"

"It's a woman screaming," Pa said. He was

dressing as fast as he could. "Sounded like it came

from Scott's."

"Oh, what can be wrong!" Ma exclaimed.

Pa was putting on his boots. He put his

foot in, and he put his fingers through the strap-ears

at the top of the long boot leg. Then he gave

a mighty pull, and he stamped hard on the

floor, and that boot was on.

"Maybe Scott is sick," he said,

pulling on the other boot.

"You don't suppose--?" Ma asked, low.

"No," said Pa. "I keep telling you they

won't make any trouble. They're perfectly

quiet and peaceable down in those camps among the

bluffs."

Laura began to climb out of bed, but Ma said,

"Lie down and be still, Laura." So she lay

down.

Pa put on his warm, bright plaid coat, and

his fur cap, and his muffler. He lighted the candle

in the lantern, took his gun, and hurried

outdoors.

Before he shut the door behind him, Laura saw

the night outside. It was black dark. Not one

star was shining. Laura had never seen such solid

darkness.

"Ma?" she said.

"What, Laura?"

"What makes it so dark?"

"It's going to storm," Ma answered. She

pulled the latch-string in and put a stick of wood

on the fire. Then she went back to bed. "Go

to sleep, Mary and Laura," she said.

But Ma did not go to sleep, and neither did

Mary and Laura. They lay wide awake and

listened. They could not hear anything but the wind.

Mary put her head under the quilt and whispered

to Laura, "I wish Pa'd come back."

Laura nodded her head on the pillow, but she

couldn't say anything. She seemed to see Pa

striding along the top of the bluff, on the path that

went toward Mr. Scott's house. Tiny bright

spots of candlelight darted here and there from the

holes cut in the tin lantern. The little flickering

lights seemed to be lost in the black dark.

After a long time Laura whispered, "It must be

'most morning." And Mary nodded. All that time

they had been lying and listening to the wind, and Pa had

not come back.

Then, high above the shrieking of the wind they heard

again that terrible scream. It seemed quite close to the

house.

Laura screamed, too, and leaped out of bed.

Mary ducked under the covers. Ma got up and

began to dress in a hurry. She put another

stick of wood on the fire and told Laura to go

back to bed. But Laura begged so hard that Ma

said she could stay up. "Wrap yourself in the shawl,"

Ma said.

They stood by the fire and listened. They couldn't

hear anything but the wind. And they could not do anything.

But at least they were not lying down in bed.

Suddenly fists pounded on the door and Pa

shouted: "Let me in! Quick, Caroline!"

Ma opened the door and Pa slammed it quickly

behind him. He was out of breath. He pushed back his

cap and said: "Whew! I'm scared yet."

"What was it, Charles?" said Ma.

"A panther," Pa said.

He had hurried as fast as he could go to Mr.

Scott's. When he got there, the house was dark

and everything was quiet. Pa went all around the

house, listening, and looking with the lantern. He could

not find a sign of anything wrong. So he felt

like a fool, to think he had got up and dressed in

the middle of the night and walked two miles, all

because he heard the wind howl.

He did not want Mr. and Mrs.

Scott to know about it. So he did not wake them

up. He came home as fast as he could because the

wind was bitter cold. And he was hurrying along

the path, where it went on the edge of the bluff, when

all of a sudden he heard that scream right under his

feet.

"I tell you my hair stood up till it

lifted my cap," he told Laura. "I lit

out for home like a scared rabbit."

"Where was the panther, Pa?" she asked him.

"In a tree-top," said Pa. "In the top

of that big cottonwood that grows against the bluffs

there."

"Pa, did it come after you?" Laura asked, and

he said, "I don't know, Laura."

"Well, you're safe now, Charles," said

Ma.

"Yes, and I'm glad of it. This is too

dark a night to be out with panthers," Pa said.

"Now, Laura, where's my bootjack?"

Laura brought it to him. The bootjack was a

thin oak slab with a notch in one end and a cleat

across the middle of it. Laura laid it on the

floor with the cleat down, and the cleat lifted up the

notched end. Then Pa stood on it with one foot,

he put the other foot into the notch, and the notch

held the boot by the heel while Pa pulled his

foot out. Then he pulled off his other boot, the

same way. The boots clung tightly, but they

had to come off.

Laura watched him do this, and then she asked,

"Would a panther carry off a little girl, Pa?"

"Yes," said Pa. "And kill her and eat

her, too. You and Mary must stay in the house

till I shoot that panther. As soon as daylight

comes I will take my gun and go after him."

All the next day Pa hunted that panther. And

he hunted the next day and the next day. He found

the panther's tracks, and he found the hide and

bones of an antelope that the panther had eaten,

but he did not find the panther anywhere. The panther

went swiftly through tree-tops, where it left no

tracks.

Pa said he would not stop till he killed that

panther. He said, "We can't have panthers running

around in a country where there are little girls."

But he did not kill that panther, and he did

stop hunting it. One day in the woods he met

an Indian. They stood in the wet, cold

woods and looked at each other, and they

could not talk because they did not know each other's

words. But the Indian pointed to the panther's

tracks, and he made motions with his gun to show

Pa that he had killed that panther. He pointed

to the tree-tops and to the ground, to show that he had

shot it out of a tree. And he motioned to the sky, and

west and east, to say that he had killed it the day

before.

So that was all right. The panther was dead.

Laura asked if a panther would carry off a

little papoose and kill and eat her, too, and Pa

said yes. Probably that was why the Indian had

killed that panther.

INDIAN JAMBOREE

Winter ended at last. There was a softer note

in the sound of the wind, and the bitter cold was gone.

One day Pa said he had seen a flock of wild

geese flying north. It was time to take his furs

to Independence.

Ma said, "The Indians are so near!"

"They are perfectly friendly," said Pa. He

often met Indians in the woods where he was

hunting. There was nothing to fear from Indians.

"No," Ma said. But Laura knew that Ma

was afraid of Indians. "You must go, Charles,"

she said. "We must have a plow and seeds. And you will

soon be back again."

Before dawn next morning Pa hitched Pet and

Patty to the wagon, loaded his furs into it, and

drove away.

Laura and Mary counted the long, empty days.

One, two, three, four, and still Pa had not come

home. In the morning of the fifth day they began

earnestly to watch for him.

It was a sunny day. There was still a little chill in

the wind, but it smelled of spring. The vast blue

sky resounded to the quacks of wild ducks and the

honk-honk-honking of wild geese. The long,

black-dotted lines of them were all flying north.

Laura and Mary played outdoors in the

wild, sweet weather. And poor Jack watched

them and sighed. He couldn't run and play any more,

because he was chained. Laura and Mary tried to comfort

him, but he didn't want petting. He wanted

to be free again, as he used to be.

Pa didn't come that morning; he didn't come

that afternoon. Ma said it must have taken him a long time

to trade his furs.

That afternoon Laura and Mary were playing

hop-scotch. They marked the lines with a stick in the

muddy yard. Mary really didn't want to hop;

she was almost eight years old and she didn't think

that hop-scotch was a ladylike play. But

Laura teased and coaxed, and said that if they stayed

outdoors they would be sure to see Pa the minute

he came from the creek bottoms. So Mary was

hopping.

Suddenly she stopped on one foot and said,

"What's that?"

Laura had already heard the queer sound and she was

listening to it. She said, "It's the Indians."

Mary's other foot dropped and she stood

frozen still. She was scared. Laura was not

exactly scared, but that sound made her feel

funny. It was the sound of quite a lot of Indians,

chopping with their voices. It was something like the sound of

an ax chopping, and something like a dog barking, and it

was something like a song, but not like any song that Laura

had ever heard. It was a wild, fierce sound, but

it didn't seem angry.

Laura tried to hear it more clearly. She

couldn't hear it very well, because hills and trees

and the wind were in the way, and Jack was savagely

growling.

Ma came outdoors and listened a minute.

Then she told Mary and Laura to come into the

house. Ma took Jack inside, too, and

pulled in the latch-string.

They didn't play any more. They watched at

the window, and listened to that sound. It was harder

to hear, in the house. Sometimes they couldn't hear it;

then they heard it again. It hadn't stopped.

Ma and Laura did the chores earlier than

usual. They locked Bunny and the cow and calf in

the stable, and took the milk to the house. Ma

strained it and set it away. She drew a

bucket of fresh water from the well, while

Laura and Mary carried in wood. All the time

that sound went on; it was louder, now, and faster. It

made Laura's heart beat fast.

They all went into the house and Ma barred the

door. The latch-string was already in. They wouldn't

go out of the house till morning.

The sun slowly sank. All around the edge of the

prairie the edge of the sky flushed pink.

Firelight flickered in the dusky house and Ma

was getting supper, but Laura and Mary silently

watched from the window. They saw the

colors fade from everything. The land was shadowy and the

sky was clear, pale gray. All the time that sound

came from the creek bottoms, louder and louder,

faster and faster. And Laura's heart beat faster

and louder.

How she shouted when she heard the wagon! She

ran to the door and jumped up and down, but she

couldn't unbar it. Ma wouldn't let her go out.

Ma went out, to help Pa bring in the bundles.

He came in with his arms full, and Laura and

Mary clung to his sleeves and jumped on his

feet. Pa laughed his jolly big laugh.

"Hey! hey! don't upset me!" he laughed.

"What do you think I am? A tree to climb?"

He dropped the bundles on the table, he

hugged Laura in a big bear hug, and tossed

her and hugged her again. Then he hugged Mary

snugly in his other arm.

"Listen, Pa," Laura said. "Listen to the

Indians. Why are they making that funny

noise?"

"Oh, they're having some kind of jamboree,"

Pa said. "I heard them when I crossed the

creek bottoms."

Then he went out to unhitch the horses and bring

in the rest of the bundles. He had got the plow;

he left it in the stable, but he brought all the

seeds into the house for safety. He had sugar, not

any white sugar this time, but brown. White sugar

cost too much. But he had brought a little white

flour. There were cornmeal and salt and coffee and

all the seeds they needed. Pa had even got seed

potatoes. Laura wished they might eat the

potatoes but they must be saved to plant.

Then Pa's face beamed and he opened a

small paper sack. It was full of crackers.

He set it on the table, and he unwrapped and

set beside it a glass jar full of little green

cucumber pickles.

"I thought we'd all have a treat," he said.

Laura's mouth watered, and Ma's eyes shone

softly at Pa. He had remembered how she

longed for pickles.

That wasn't all. He gave Ma a

package and watched her unwrap it and in it was enough

pretty calico to make her a dress.

"Oh, Charles, you shouldn't! It's too much!"

she said. But her face and Pa's were two beams of

joy.

Now he hung up his cap and his

plaid coat on their pegs. His eyes looked

sidewise at Laura and Mary, but that was all.

He sat down and stretched out his legs to the fire.

Mary sat down, too, and folded her hands in

her lap. But Laura climbed onto Pa's

knee and beat him with her fists. "Where is it?

Where is it? Where's my present?" she said,

beating him.

Pa laughed his big laugh, like great bells

ringing, and he said, "Why, I do believe there is

something in my blouse pocket."

He took out an oddly shaped package, and

very, very slowly he opened it.

"You first, Mary," he said, "because you are so

patient." And he gave Mary a comb for her

hair. "And here, flutterbudget! this is for you,"

he said to Laura.

The combs were exactly alike. They were made of

black rubber and curved to fit over the top of a

little girl's head. And over the top of the comb lay

a flat piece of black rubber, with curving

slits cut in it, and in the very middle of it a little

five-pointed star was cut out. A bright colored

ribbon was drawn underneath, and the color showed through.

The ribbon in Mary's comb was blue, and the

ribbon in Laura's comb was red.

Ma smoothed back their hair and slid the combs

into it, and there in the golden hair, exactly over

the middle of Mary's forehead, was a little blue

star. And in Laura's brown hair, over the

middle of her forehead, was a little red star.

Laura looked at Mary's star, and Mary

looked at Laura's, and they laughed with joy.

They had never had anything so pretty.

Ma said, "But, Charles, you didn't get

yourself a thing!"

"Oh, I got myself a plow," said Pa.

"Warm weather'll be here soon now, and I'll be

plowing."

That was the happiest supper they had had for a long

time. Pa was safely home again. The fried salt

pork was very good, after so many months of eating

ducks and geese and turkeys and venison. And

nothing had ever tasted so good as those crackers and the

little green sour pickles.

Pa told them about all the seeds. He had

got seeds of turnips and carrots and onions and

cabbage. He had got peas and beans. And corn

and wheat and tobacco and the seed potatoes. And

watermelon seeds. He said to Ma,

"I tell you, Caroline, when we begin getting

crops off this rich land of ours, we'll be living

like kings!"

They had almost forgotten the noise from the Indian

camp. The window shutters were closed now, and the

wind was moaning in the chimney and whining around the

house. They were so used to the wind that they did not

hear it. But when the wind was silent an instant,

Laura heard again that wild, shrill, fast-beating

sound from the Indian camps.

Then Pa said something to Ma that made Laura

sit very still and listen carefully. He said that folks

in Independence said that the government was going to put

the white settlers out of the Indian Territory.

He said the Indians had been complaining and they had

got that answer from Washington.

"Oh, Charles, no!" Ma said. "Not when we

have done so much."

Pa said he didn't believe it. He said,

"They always have let settlers keep the land.

They'll make the Indians move on again.

Didn't I get word straight from Washington that

this country's going to be opened for settlement any

time now?"

"I wish they'd settle it and stop talking about

it," Ma said.

After Laura was in bed she lay awake a long

time, and so did Mary. Pa and Ma sat in the

firelight and candlelight, reading. Pa had brought

a newspaper from Kansas, and he read it to Ma.

It proved that he was right, the government would not do

anything to the white settlers.

Whenever the sound of the wind died away, Laura

could faintly hear the noise of that wild

jamboree in the Indian camp. Sometimes even

above the howling of the wind she thought she still heard those

fierce yells of jubilation. Faster, faster,

faster they made her heart beat. "Hi! Hi!

Hi-yi! Hah! Hi! Hah!"

PRAIRIE FIRE

Spring had come. The warm winds smelled

exciting, and all outdoors was large and bright and

sweet. Big white shining clouds floated high

up in clear space. Their shadows floated over

the prairie. The shadows were thin and brown, and all

the rest of the prairie was the pale, soft colors

of dead grasses.

Pa was breaking the prairie sod, with

Pet and Patty hitched to the breaking-plow. The

sod was a tough, thick mass of grass-roots.

Pet and Patty slowly pulled with all their

might and the sharp plow slowly turned over a long,

unbroken strip of that sod.

The dead grass was so tall and thick that it

held up the sod. Where Pa had plowed, he

didn't have a plowed field. The long strips of

grass-roots lay on top of grass, and

grass stuck out between them.

But Pa and Pet and Patty kept on working.

He said that sod potatoes and sod corn would

grow this year, and next year the roots and the dead

grasses would be rotted. In two or three

years he would have nicely plowed fields. Pa

liked the land because it was so rich, and there wasn't a

tree or a stump or a rock in it.

Now a great many Indians came riding along

the Indian trail. Indians were everywhere. Their

guns echoed in the creek bottoms where they were

hunting. No one knew how many Indians were

hidden in the prairie which seemed so level but

wasn't. Often Laura saw an Indian where

no one had been an instant before.

Indians often came to the house. Some were

friendly, some were surly and cross. All of them

wanted food and tobacco, and Ma gave them what

they wanted. She was afraid not to. When an

Indian pointed at something and grunted, Ma

gave him that thing. But most of the food was kept

hidden and locked up.

Jack was cross all the time, even with

Laura. He was never let off the chain, and all

the time he lay and hated the Indians. Laura and

Mary were quite used to seeing them now. Indians

didn't surprise them at all. But they always

felt safer near Pa or Jack.

One day they were helping Ma get dinner.

Baby Carrie was playing on the floor in the

sunshine, and suddenly the sunshine was gone.

"I do believe it is going to storm," Ma

said, looking out of the window. Laura looked,

too, and great black clouds were billowing up in the

south, across the sun.

Pet and Patty were coming running from the field,

Pa holding to the heavy plow and bounding in long

leaps behind it.

"Prairie fire!" he shouted. "Get the

tub full of water! Put sacks in it!

Hurry!"

Ma ran to the well, Laura ran to tug the

tub to it. Pa tied Pet to the house. He brought

the cow and calf from the picket-line and shut them in

the stable. He caught Bunny and tied her fast

to the north corner of the house. Ma was pulling up

buckets of water as fast as she could. Laura

ran to get the sacks that Pa had flung out of the

stable.

Pa was plowing, shouting at Pet and Patty

to make them hurry. The sky was black now, the

air was as dark as if the sun had set. Pa

plowed a long furrow west of the house and south of the

house, and back again east of the house. Rabbits

came bounding past him as if he wasn't there.

Pet and Patty came galloping, the plow and

Pa bounding behind them. Pa tied them to the other north

corner of the house. The tub was full of water.

Laura helped Ma push the sacks under the water

to soak them.

"I couldn't plow but one furrow; there isn't

time," Pa said. "Hurry, Caroline. That

fire's coming faster than a horse can run."

A big rabbit bounded right over the tub while

Pa and Ma were lifting it. Ma told Laura

to stay at the house. Pa and Ma ran staggering to the

furrow with the tub.

Laura stayed close to the house. She could

see the red fire coming under the billows of smoke.

More rabbits went leaping by. They paid no

attention to Jack and he didn't think about them;

he stared at the red under sides of the rolling smoke

and shivered and whined while he crowded close

to Laura.

The wind was rising and wildly screaming.

Thousands of birds flew before the fire, thousands of

rabbits were running.

Pa was going along the furrow, setting fire

to the grass on the other side of it. Ma followed

with a wet sack, beating at the flames that tried

to cross the furrow. The whole prairie was

hopping with rabbits. Snakes rippled across the

yard. Prairie hens ran silently, their

necks outstretched and their wings spread. Birds

screamed in the screaming wind.

Pa's little fire was all around the house now, and

he helped Ma fight it with the wet sacks. The

fire blew wildly, snatching at the dry

grass inside the furrow. Pa and Ma thrashed

at it with the sacks, when it got across the furrow they

stamped it with their feet. They ran back

and forth in the smoke, fighting that fire. The

prairie fire was roaring now, roaring louder and

louder in the screaming wind. Great flames came

roaring, flaring and twisting high. Twists of flame

broke loose and came down on the wind to blaze

up in the grasses far ahead of the roaring wall of

fire. A red light came from the rolling black

clouds of smoke overhead.

Mary and Laura stood against the house and held

hands and trembled. Baby Carrie was in the house.

Laura wanted to do something, but inside her head was

a roaring and whirling like the fire. Her middle

shook, and tears poured out of her stinging eyes. Her

eyes and her nose and her throat stung with

smoke.

Jack howled. Bunny and Pet and Patty were

jerking at the ropes and squealing horribly. The

orange, yellow, terrible flames were coming faster

than horses can run, and their quivering light

danced over everything.

Pa's little fire had made a burned black

strip. The little fire went backing slowly away

against the wind, it went slowly crawling to meet the

racing furious big fire. And suddenly the big

fire swallowed the little one.

The wind rose to a high, crackling, rushing

shriek, flames climbed into the crackling air.

Fire was all around the house.

Then it was over. The fire went roaring past and

away.

Pa and Ma were beating out little fires here and there

in the yard. When they were all out, Ma came to the

house to wash her hands and face. She was all

streaked with smoke and sweat, and she was trembling.

She said there was nothing to worry about. "The

back-fire saved us," she said, "and all's

well that ends well."

The air smelled scorched. And to the very edge of the

sky, the prairie was burned naked and black.

Threads of smoke rose from it. Ashes blew on

the wind. Everything felt different and miserable. But

Pa and Ma were cheerful because the fire was gone and it

had not done any harm.

Pa said that the fire had not missed them far, but

a miss is as good as a mile. He asked Ma,

"If it had come while I was in Independence,

what would you have done?"

"We would have gone to the creek with the birds and the

rabbits, of course," Ma said.

All the wild things on the prairie

had known what to do. They ran and flew and hopped

and crawled as fast as they could go, to the water that would

keep them safe from fire. Only the little soft

striped gophers had gone down deep into their

holes, and they were the first to come up and look around

at the bare, smoking prairie.

Then out of the creek bottoms the birds came

flying over it, and a rabbit cautiously hopped and

looked. It was a long, long time before the snakes

crawled out of the bottoms and the prairie hens

came walking.

The fire had gone out among the bluffs. It had

never reached the creek bottoms or the Indian

camps.

That night Mr. Edwards and Mr. Scott

came to see Pa. They were worried because they thought

that perhaps the Indians had started that fire on

purpose to burn out the white settlers.

Pa didn't believe it. He said the

Indians had always burned the prairie to make

green grass grow more quickly, and traveling

easier. Their ponies couldn't gallop through the

thick, tall, dead grass. Now the ground was

clear. And he was glad of it, because plowing would be

easier.

While they were talking, they could hear drums

beating in the Indian camps, and shouts. Laura

sat still as a mouse on the doorstep and listened to the

talk and to the Indians. The stars hung low and

large and quivering over the burned prairie, and the

wind blew gently in Laura's hair.

Mr. Edwards said there were too many Indians in

those camps; he didn't like it. Mr. Scott

said he didn't know why so many of those savages were

coming together, if they didn't mean devilment.

"The only good Indian is a dead Indian,"

Mr. Scott said.

Pa said he didn't know about that. He figured

that Indians would be as peaceable as anybody else

if they were let alone. On the other hand, they had

been moved west so many times that naturally they

hated white folks. But an Indian ought to have

sense enough to know when he was licked. With soldiers

at Fort Gibson and Fort Dodge, Pa

didn't believe these Indians would make any

trouble.

"As to why they are congregating in these camps,

Scott, I can tell you that," he said. "They're

getting ready for their big spring buffalo hunt."

He said there were half a dozen

tribes down in those camps. Usually the tribes

were fighting each other, but every spring they made peace

and all came together for the big hunt.

"They're sworn to peace among themselves," he

said, "and they're thinking about hunting the buffalo.

So it's not likely they'll start on the war-path

against us. They'll have their talks and their feasts, and

then one day they'll all hit the trail after the

buffalo herds. The buffalo will be working their way

north pretty soon, following the green grass.

By George! I'd like to go on a hunt like that,

myself. It must be a sight to see."

"Well, maybe you're right about it,

Ingalls," Mr. Scott said, slowly.

"Anyway, I'll be glad to tell Mrs.

Scott what you say. She can't get the

Minnesota massacres out of her head."

INDIAN WAR-CRY

Next morning Pa went whistling to his plowing.

He came in at noon black with soot from the

burned prairie, but he was pleased. The tall

grass didn't bother him any more.

But there was an uneasiness about the Indians. More

and more Indians were in the creek bottoms. Mary

and Laura saw the smoke from their fires by day, and

at night they heard the savage voices shouting.

Pa came early from the field. He did the

chores early, and shut Pet and Patty,

Bunny and the cow and calf, into the stable. They could not

stay out in the yard to graze in the cool

moonlight.

When shadows began to gather on the prairie and the

wind was quiet, the noises from the Indian camps

grew louder and wilder. Pa brought Jack into the

house. The door was shut and the latch-string pulled

in. No one could go outdoors till morning.

Night crept toward the little house, and the darkness

was frightening. It yelped with Indian yells, and one

night it began to throb with Indian drums.

In her sleep Laura heard all the time that

savage yipping and the wild, throbbing drums. She

heard Jack's claws clicking, and his low

growl. Sometimes Pa sat up in bed, listening.

One evening he took his bullet-mold from the

box under the bed. He sat for a long time on the

hearth, melting lead and making bullets. He

did not stop till he had used the last bit of

lead. Laura and Mary lay awake and

watched him. He had never made so many bullets

at one time before. Mary asked, "What makes you

do that, Pa?"

"Oh, I haven't anything else to do," Pa

said, and he began to whistle cheerfully. But he had

been plowing all day. He was too tired to play

the fiddle. He might have gone to bed, instead of

sitting up so late, making bullets.

No more Indians came to the house. For days,

Mary and Laura had not seen a single Indian.

Mary did not like to go out of the house any more.

Laura had to play outdoors by herself, and she had

a queer feeling about the prairie. It didn't

feel safe. It seemed to be hiding something.

Sometimes Laura had a feeling that something was

watching her, something was creeping up behind her. She

turned around quickly, and nothing was there.

Mr. Scott and Mr. Edwards, with their

guns, came and talked to Pa in the field. They

talked quite a while, then they went away together.

Laura was disappointed because Mr. Edwards did not

come to the house.

At dinner Pa said to Ma that some of the settlers

were talking about a stockade. Laura didn't know

what a stockade was. Pa had told Mr.

Scott and Mr. Edwards that it was a foolish

notion. He told Ma, "If we need one,

we'd need it before we could get it built. And the

last thing we want to do is to act like we're

afraid."

Mary and Laura looked at each other. They

knew it was no use to ask questions. They would only

be told again that children must not speak at table until

they were spoken to. Or that children should be seen and not

heard.

That afternoon Laura asked Ma what a stockade

was. Ma said it was something to make little girls

ask questions. That meant that grown-ups would not tell

you what it was. And Mary looked a look at

Laura that said, "I told you so."

Laura didn't know why Pa said he must not

act as if he were afraid. Pa was never

afraid. Laura didn't want to act as if

she were afraid, but she was. She was afraid of the

Indians.

Jack never laid back his ears and smiled at

Laura any more. Even while she petted him, his

ears were lifted, his neck bristled, and his lips

twitched back from his teeth. His eyes were angry.

Every night he growled more fiercely, and every

night the Indian drums beat faster, faster, and the

wild yipping rose higher and higher, faster,

wilder.

In the middle of the night Laura sat straight

up and screamed. Some terrible sound had made

cold sweat come out all over her.

Ma came to her quickly and said in her gentle

way: "Be quiet, Laura. You mustn't frighten

Carrie."

Laura clung to Ma, and Ma was wearing her

dress. The fire was covered with ashes and the house

was dark, but Ma had not gone to bed. Moonlight

came through the window. The shutter was open, and Pa

stood in the dark by the window, looking out. He had

his gun.

Out in the night the drums were beating and the

Indians were wildly yelling.

Then that terrible sound came again. Laura felt

as if she were falling; she couldn't hold on

to anything; there was nothing solid anywhere. It

seemed a long time before she could see or think or

speak.

She screamed: "What is it? What is it?

Oh, Pa, what is it?"

She was shaking all over and she felt sick in

her middle. She heard the drums pounding and the

wild yipping yells and she felt Ma holding

her safe. Pa said, "It's the Indian

war-cry, Laura."

Ma made a soft sound, and he said to her,

"They might as well know, Caroline."

He explained to Laura that that was the Indian

way of talking about war. The Indians were only

talking about it, and dancing around their fires. Mary

and Laura must not be afraid, because Pa was there, and

Jack was there, and soldiers were at Fort Gibson

and Fort Dodge.

"So don't be afraid, Mary and Laura,"

he said again.

Laura gasped and said, "No, Pa." But she

was horribly afraid. Mary couldn't say

anything; she lay shivering under the covers.

Then Carrie began to cry, so Ma carried her

to the rocking-chair and gently rocked her. Laura

crept out of bed and huddled against Ma's knee.

And Mary, left all alone, crept after her and

huddled close, too. Pa stayed by the window,

watching.

The drums seemed to beat in Laura's head.

They seemed to beat deep inside her.

The wild, fast yipping yells were worse than

wolves. Something worse was coming, Laura knew

it. Then it came--the Indian war-cry.

A nightmare is not so terrible as that night

was. A nightmare is only a dream, and when it

is worst you wake up. But this was real and Laura

could not wake up. She could not get away from it.

When the war-cry was over, Laura knew it had

not got her yet. She was still in the dark house and

she was pressed close against Ma. Ma was

trembling all over. Jack's howling ended in a

sobbing growl. Carrie began to scream again, and

Pa wiped his forehead and said, "Whew!

"I never heard anything like it," Pa said. He

asked, "How do you suppose they learned to do it?"

but nobody answered that.

"They don't need guns. That yell's enough

to scare anybody to death," he said. "My mouth's

so dry I couldn't whistle a tune to save my

life. Bring me some water, Laura."

That made Laura feel better. She carried

a dipper full of water to Pa at the window.

He took it and smiled at her, and that made her

feel very much better. He drank a little and

smiled again and said, "There! now I can whistle!"

He whistled a few notes to show her that he

could.

Then he listened. And Laura, too, heard

far away the soft pitter-pat, pat-pat,

pitter-pat pat, of a pony's galloping. It

came nearer.

From one side of the house came the drum-throbbing

and the fast, shrill, yapping yells, and from the other

side came the lonely sound of the rider's

galloping.

Nearer and nearer it came. Now the hoofs

clattered loudly and suddenly they were going by. The

galloping went by and grew fainter, down the creek

road.

In the moonlight Laura saw the behind of a little

black Indian pony, and an Indian on its

back. She saw a huddle of blanket and a

naked head and a flutter of feathers above it, and

moonlight on a gun barrel and then it was all

gone. Nothing was there but empty prairie.

Pa said he was durned if he knew what

to make of it. He said that was the Osage who had

tried to talk French to him.

He asked, "What's he doing, out at this hour

riding hell bent for leather?"

Nobody answered because nobody knew.

The drums throbbed and the Indians went on

yelling. The terrible war-cry came again and again.

Little by little, after a long time, the yells grew

fainter and fewer. At last Carrie cried herself

to sleep. Ma sent Mary and Laura back

to bed.

Next day they could not go out of the house. Pa

stayed close by. There was not one sound from the

Indian camps. The whole vast prairie was still.

Only the wind blew over the blackened earth where

there was no grass to rustle. The wind blew past

the house with a rushing sound like running water.

That night the noise in the Indian camps was

worse than the night before. Again the war-cries were

more terrible than the most dreadful nightmare.

Laura and Mary huddled close against Ma,

poor little Baby Carrie cried, Pa watched

at the window with his gun. And all night long

Jack paced and growled, and screamed when the

war-cries came.

The next night, and the next night, and the next

night, were worse and worse. Mary and Laura were

so tired that they fell asleep while the drums

pounded and the Indians yelled. But a war-cry always

jerked them wide awake in terror.

And the silent days were even worse than the

nights. Pa watched and listened all the time. The

plow was in the field where he had left it; Pet

and Patty and the colt and the cow and calf stayed in the

barn. Mary and Laura could not go out of the house.

And Pa never stopped looking at the prairie

all around, and turning his head quickly toward the

smallest noise. He ate hardly any dinner;

he kept getting up and going outdoors to look

all around at the prairie.

One day his head nodded down to the table and he

slept there. Ma and Mary and Laura were still to let

him sleep. He was so tired. But in a minute

he woke up with a jump and said, sharply, to Ma,

"Don't let me do that again!"

"Jack was on guard," Ma said gently.

That night was worst of all. The drums were

faster and the yells were louder and fiercer. All up

and down the creek war-cries answered war-cries

and the bluffs echoed. There was no rest. Laura

ached all over and there was a terrible ache in her very

middle.

At the window Pa said, "Caroline, they are

quarreling among themselves. Maybe they will

fight each other."

"Oh, Charles, if they only will!" Ma said.

All night there was not a minute's rest. Just

before dawn a last war-cry ended and Laura

slept against Ma's knee.

She woke up in bed. Mary was sleeping beside

her. The door was open, and by the sunshine on the

floor Laura knew it was almost noon. Ma was

cooking dinner. Pa sat on the doorstep.

He said to Ma, "There's another big party,

going off to the south."

Laura went to the door in her nightgown, and

she saw a long line of Indians far away. The

line came up out of the black prairie and it went

farther away southward. The Indians on their

ponies were so small in the distance that they looked not

much bigger than ants.

Pa said that two big parties of Indians had

gone west that morning. Now this one was going south.

It meant that the Indians had quarreled among

themselves. They were going away from their camps in the

creek bottoms. They would not go all together to their

big buffalo hunt.

That night the darkness came quietly. There was

no sound except the rushing of the wind.

"Tonight we'll sleep!" Pa said, and they did.

All night long they did not even dream. And in

the morning Jack was still sleeping limp and flat

on the same spot where he had been sleeping when

Laura went to bed.

The next night was still, too, and again they all

slept soundly. That morning Pa said he felt as

fresh as a daisy, and he was going to do a little

scouting along the creek.

He chained Jack to the ring in the house wall,

and he took his gun and went out of sight down the

creek road.

Laura and Mary and Ma could not do anything but

wait until he came back. They stayed in the

house and wished he would come. The sunshine had never

moved so slowly on the floor as it did that day.

But he did come back. Late in the afternoon he

came. And everything was all right. He had gone far

up and down the creek and had seen many deserted

Indian camps. All the Indians had gone

away, except a tribe called the Osages.

In the woods Pa had met an Osage who

could talk to him. This Indian told him that all the

tribes except the Osages had made up their

minds to kill the white people who had come

into the Indian country. And they were getting ready

to do it when the lone Indian came riding into their

big pow-wow.

That Indian had come riding so far and fast because

he did not want them to kill the white people. He was

an Osage, and they called him a name that meant

he was a great soldier.

"Soldat du Ch`ene," Pa said his name

was.

"He kept arguing with them day and night," Pa

said, "till all the other Osages agreed with

him. Then he stood up and told the other tribes

that if they started to massacre us, the Osages would

fight them."

That was what had made so much noise, that last

terrible night. The other tribes were howling at the

Osages, and the Osages were howling back at them.

The other tribes did not dare fight Soldat

du Ch`ene and all his Osages, so next day

they went away.

"That's one good Indian!" Pa said. No

matter what Mr. Scott said, Pa did not

believe that the only good Indian was a dead

Indian.

INDIANS RIDE AWAY

There was another long night of sleep. It was so

good to lie down and sleep soundly. Everything was

safe and quiet. Only the owls called

"Who-oo? Who-oo?" in the woods along the

creek, while the great moon sailed slowly over

the curve of the sky above the endless prairie.

In the morning the sun shone warmly. Down by the

creek the frogs were croaking. "Garrump!

Garrump!" they cried by the edge of the pools.

"Knee deep! Knee deep! Better go

'round."

Ever since Ma had told them what the frogs

were saying, Mary and Laura could hear the words

plainly.

The door was open to let in the warm spring air.

After breakfast Pa went out, whistling merrily.

He was going to hitch Pet and Patty to the plow

again. But his whistling suddenly stopped. He stood

on the doorstep, looking toward the east, and he

said, "Come here, Caroline. And you, Mary and

Laura."

Laura ran out first, and she was surprised. The

Indians were coming.

They did not come on the creek road. They

came riding up out of the creek bottoms far to the

east.

First came the tall Indian who had gone

riding by the house in the moonlight. Jack was

growling and Laura's heart beat fast. She was

glad to be close to Pa. But she knew this was the

good Indian, the Osage chief who had stopped the

terrible war-cries.

His black pony came trotting willingly,

sniffing the wind that blew its mane and tail like

fluttering banners. The pony's nose and head were

free; it wore no bridle. Not even one strap

was on it anywhere. There was nothing to make it do

anything it didn't want to do. Willingly it

came trotting along the old Indian trail as

if it liked to carry the Indian on its back.

Jack growled savagely, trying to get

loose from his chain. He remembered this Indian

who had pointed a gun at him. Pa said, "Be

still, Jack." Jack growled again, and for the first time in

their lives Pa struck him. "Lie down! Be

still!" Pa said. Jack cowered down and was still.

The pony was very near now, and Laura's heart

beat faster and faster. She looked at the

Indian's beaded moccasin, she looked up along

the fringed legging that clung to the pony's bare

side. A bright-colored blanket was wrapped

around the Indian. One bare brown-red arm carried

a rifle lightly across the pony's naked

shoulders. Then Laura looked up at the

Indian's fierce, still, brown face.

It was a proud, still face. No matter what

happened, it would always be like that. Nothing would change

it. Only the eyes were alive in that face, and they

gazed steadily far away to the west. They did not

move. Nothing moved or changed, except the

eagle feathers standing straight up from the

scalplock on the shaved head. The long feathers

swayed and dipped, waving and spinning in the wind as

the tall Indian on the black pony passed on

into the distance.

"Du Ch`ene himself," Pa said, under his breath,

and he lifted his hand in salute.

But the happy pony and the motionless Indian went

by. They went by as if the house and stable and Pa and

Ma and Mary and Laura were not there at all.

Pa and Ma and Mary and Laura slowly

turned and looked at that Indian's proud

straight back. Then other ponies and

other blankets and shaved heads and eagle feathers

came between. One by one on the path, more and more

savage warriors were riding behind du Ch`ene.

Brown face after brown face went by.

Ponies' manes and tails blew in the wind,

beads glittered, fringe flapped, eagle feathers

were waving on all the naked heads. Rifles lying

on the ponies' shoulders bristled all along the

line.

Laura was excited about the ponies. There were

black ponies, bay ponies, gray and brown

and spotted ponies. Their little feet went

trippety-trip-trip, trippety-trip,

pat-patter, pat-patter, trippety

pat-patter, all along the Indian trail.

Their nostrils widened at Jack and their bodies

shied away from him, but they came on bravely,

looking with their bright eyes at Laura.

"Oh, the pretty ponies! See the pretty

ponies!" she cried, clapping her hands.

"Look at the spotted one."

She thought she would never be tired of watching those

ponies coming by, but after a while she began

to look at the women and children on their backs. The

women and children came riding behind the Indian men.

Little naked brown Indians, no bigger than

Mary and Laura, were riding the pretty ponies.

The ponies did not have to wear bridles or

saddles, and the little Indians did not have to wear

clothes. All their skin was out in the fresh air and the

sunshine. Their straight black hair blew in the

wind and their black eyes sparkled with joy. They

sat on their ponies stiff and still like grown-up

Indians.

Laura looked and looked at the Indian children,

and they looked at her. She had a naughty wish

to be a little Indian girl. Of course she did

not really mean it. She only wanted to be bare

naked in the wind and the sunshine, and riding one of those

gay little ponies.

The Indian children's mothers were riding ponies,

too. Leather fringe dangled about their legs and

blankets were wrapped around their bodies, but the

only thing on their heads was their black, smooth

hair. Their faces were brown and placid. Some

had narrow bundles tied on their backs, and tiny

babies' heads stuck out of the top of the bundles.

And some babies and some small children rode in

baskets hanging at the ponies' sides, beside

their mothers.

More and more and more ponies passed, and more children, and more

babies on their mothers' backs, and more babies in

baskets on the ponies' sides. Then came a

mother riding, with a baby in a basket on each

side of her pony.

Laura looked straight into the bright eyes of the

little baby nearer her. Only its small head

showed above the basket's rim. Its hair was as

black as a crow and its eyes were black as a

night when no stars shine.

Those black eyes looked deep into Laura's

eyes and she looked deep down into the blackness of

that little baby's eyes, and she wanted that one little

baby.

"Pa," she said, "get me that little Indian

baby!"

"Hush, Laura!" Pa told her sternly.

The little baby was going by. Its head turned and

its eyes kept looking into Laura's eyes.

"Oh, I want it! I want it!" Laura

begged. The baby was going farther and farther away,

but it did not stop looking back at Laura.

"It wants to stay with me," Laura begged.

"Please, Pa, please!"

"Hush, Laura," Pa said. "The Indian

woman wants to keep her baby."

"Oh, Pa!" Laura pleaded, and then she

began to cry. It was shameful to cry, but she

couldn't help it. The little Indian baby was gone.

She knew she would never see it any more.

Ma said she had never heard of such a thing. "For

shame, Laura," she said, but Laura could not

stop crying. "Why on earth do you want an

Indian baby, of all things!" Ma asked her.

"Its eyes are so black," Laura sobbed.

She could not say what she meant.

"Why, Laura," Ma said, "you don't want

another baby. We have a baby, our own baby."

"I want the other one, too!" Laura

sobbed, loudly.

"Well, I declare!" Ma exclaimed.

"Look at the Indians, Laura," said

Pa. "Look west, and then look east, and see

what you see."

Laura could hardly see at first. Her eyes

were full of tears and sobs kept jerking out of her

throat. But she obeyed Pa as best she could, and

in a moment she was still. As far as she could see to the

west and as far as she could see to the east there were

Indians. There was no end to that long,

long line.

"That's an awful lot of Indians," Pa

said.

More and more and more Indians came riding by.

Baby Carrie grew tired of looking at

Indians and played by herself on the floor. But

Laura sat on the doorstep, Pa stood

close beside her, and Ma and Mary stood in the

doorway. They looked and looked and looked at

Indians riding by.

It was dinner-time, and no one thought of dinner.

Indian ponies were still going by, carrying

bundles of skins and tent-poles and dangling

baskets and cooking pots. There were a few more

women and a few more naked Indian children. Then the very

last pony went by. But Pa and Ma and Laura

and Mary still stayed in the doorway, looking, till

that long line of Indians slowly pulled itself over

the western edge of the world. And nothing was left but

silence and emptiness. All the world seemed very

quiet and lonely.

Ma said she didn't feel like doing anything,

she was so let down. Pa told her not to do anything

but rest.

"You must eat something, Charles," Ma said.

"No," said Pa. "I don't feel

hungry." He went soberly to hitch up Pet

and Patty, and he began again to break the tough sod

with the plow.

Laura could not eat anything, either. She sat a

long time on the doorstep, looking into the empty

west where the Indians had gone. She seemed still

to see waving feathers and black eyes and to hear the

sound of ponies' feet.

SOLDIERS

After the Indians had gone, a great peace

settled on the prairie. And one morning the

whole land was green.

"When did that grass grow?" Ma asked, in

amazement. "I thought the whole country was black,

and now there's nothing but green grass as far as the

eye can see."

The whole sky was filled with lines of wild

ducks and wild geese flying north. Crows

cawed above the trees along the creek. The winds

whispered in the new grass, bringing scents of earth

and of growing things.

In the mornings the meadow larks rose

singing into the sky. All day the curlews and

killdeers and sandpipers chirped and sang in the

creek bottoms. Often in the early evening the

mockingbirds were singing.

One night Pa and Mary and Laura sat still

on the doorstep, watching little rabbits playing in

the grass in the starlight. Three rabbit mothers

hopped about with lopping ears and watched their little

rabbits playing, too.

In the daytime everyone was busy. Pa hurried with

his plowing, and Mary and Laura helped Ma

plant the early garden seeds. With the hoe Ma

dug small holes in the matted grass roots

that the plow had turned up, and Laura and Mary

carefully dropped the seeds. Then Ma covered

them snugly with earth. They planted onions and

carrots and peas and beans and turnips. And they were

all so happy because spring had come, and pretty

soon they would have vegetables to eat. They were growing

very tired of just bread and meat.

One evening Pa came from the field before

sunset and he helped Ma set out the cabbage

plants and the sweet-potato plants. Ma had

sowed the cabbage seed in a flat box and kept it

in the house. She watered it carefully, and carried

it every day from the morning sunshine to the afternoon sunshine

that came through the windows. And she had saved one of the

Christmas sweet potatoes, and planted it in

another box. The cabbage seeds were now little

gray-green plants, and the sweet potato had

sent up a stem and green leaves from every one of its

eyes.

Pa and Ma took each tiny plant very

carefully and settled its roots comfortably in

holes made for them. They watered the roots and

pressed earth upon them firmly. It was dark before the

last plant was in its place, and Pa and Ma were

tired. But they were glad, too, because this year they'd

have cabbages and sweet potatoes.

Every day they all looked at that garden. It was

rough and grassy because it was made in the prairie

sod, but all the tiny plants were growing. Little

crumpled leaves of peas came up, and tiny

spears of onions. The beans themselves popped out

of the ground. But it was a little yellow bean-stem,

coiled like a spring, that pushed them up. Then the

bean was cracked open and dropped by two baby

bean-leaves, and the leaves unfolded flat to the

sunshine.

Pretty soon they would all begin

to live like kings.

Every morning Pa went cheerfully whistling to the

field. He had planted some early sod

potatoes, and some potatoes were saved to plant

later. Now he carried a sack of corn fastened

to his belt, and as he plowed he threw grains of

corn into the furrow beside the plow's point. The plow

turned over a strip of sod on top of the seed

corn. But the corn would fight its way up through the

matted roots, and there would be a corn-field.

There would be green corn for dinner some day. And

next winter there would be ripe corn for Pet and

Patty to eat.

One morning Mary and Laura were washing the

dishes and Ma was making the beds. She was humming

softly to herself and Laura and Mary were talking about

the garden. Laura liked peas best, and Mary

liked beans. Suddenly they heard Pa's

voice, loud and angry.

Ma went quietly to the door, and Laura and

Mary peeped out on either side of her.

Pa was driving Pet and Patty from the field,

dragging the plow behind them. Mr. Scott and Mr.

Edwards were with Pa, and Mr. Scott was talking

earnestly.

"No, Scott!" Pa answered him. "I'll

not stay here to be taken away by the soldiers like an

outlaw! If some blasted politicians in

Washington hadn't sent out word it would be all right

to settle here, I'd never have been three miles

over the line into Indian Territory. But I'll

not wait for the soldiers to take us out. We're

going now!"

"What is the matter, Charles? Where are we

going?" Ma asked.

"Durned if I know! But we're going.

We're leaving here!" Pa said. "Scott and

Edwards say the government is sending soldiers

to take all us settlers out of Indian

Territory."

His face was very red and his eyes were like blue

fire. Laura was frightened; she had never seen

Pa look like that. She pressed close against Ma

and was still, looking at Pa.

Mr. Scott started to speak, but Pa stopped

him. "Save your breath, Scott. It's no

use to say another word. You can stay till the

soldiers come if you want to. I'm going out

now."

Mr. Edwards said he was going, too.

He would not stay to be driven across the line like an

ornery yellow hound.

"Ride out to Independence with us, Edwards,"

Pa said. But Mr. Edwards answered that he

didn't care to go north. He would make a boat

and go on down the river to some settlement farther

south.

"Better come out with us," Pa urged him, "and go

down on foot through Missouri. It's a risky

trip, one man alone in a boat, going down the

Verdigris among the wild Indian tribes."

But Mr. Edwards said he had already seen

Missouri and he had plenty of powder and lead.

Then Pa told Mr. Scott to take the cow

and calf. "We can't take them with us," Pa said.

"You've been a good neighbor, Scott, and

I'm sorry to leave you. But we're going out in the

morning."

Laura had heard all this, but she had not

believed it until she saw Mr. Scott leading

away the cow. The gentle cow went meekly away

with the rope around her long horns, and the calf

frisked and jumped behind. There went all the milk

and butter.

Mr. Edwards said he would be too busy to see

them again. He shook hands with Pa, saying,

"Good-by, Ingalls, and good luck." He shook

hands with Ma and said, "Good-by, ma'am. I

won't be seeing you all again, but I sure will never

forget your kindness."

Then he turned to Mary and Laura, and he

shook their hands as if they were grown up.

"Good-by," he said.

Mary said, politely, "Good-by, Mr.

Edwards." But Laura forgot to be polite.

She said: "Oh, Mr. Edwards, I wish you

wouldn't go away! Oh, Mr. Edwards, thank

you, thank you for going all the way to Independence

to find Santa Claus for us."

Mr. Edwards' eyes shone very bright, and he

went away without saying another word.

Pa began to unhitch Pet and Patty in the

middle of the morning, and Laura and Mary knew it

was really true; they really were going away from there.

Ma didn't say anything. She went into the house

and looked around, at the dishes not washed and the bed

only partly made, and she lifted up both hands

and sat down.

Mary and Laura went on doing the dishes.

They were careful not to let them make a

sound. They turned around quickly when Pa came

in.

He looked like himself again, and he was carrying the

potato-sack.

"Here you are, Caroline!" he said, and his

voice sounded natural. "Cook a plenty for

dinner! We've been going without potatoes,

saving them for seed. Now we'll eat 'em up!"

So that day for dinner they ate the seed

potatoes. They were very good, and Laura knew that

Pa was right when he said, "There's no great loss

without some small gain."

After dinner he took the wagon bows from their

pegs in the barn. He put them on the wagon,

one end of each bow in its iron strap on one

side of the wagon box, and the other end in its iron

strap on the other side. When all the bows were

standing up in their places, Pa and Ma spread the

wagon cover over them and tied it down tightly.

Then Pa pulled the rope in the end of the wagon

cover till it puckered together and left only a

tiny round hole in the middle of the back.

There stood the covered wagon, all ready

to load in the morning.

Everyone was quiet that night. Even Jack

felt that something was wrong, and he lay down close

to Laura when she went to bed.

It was now too warm for a fire, but Pa and Ma

sat looking at the ashes in the fireplace.

Ma sighed gently and said, "A whole year

gone, Charles." But Pa answered, cheerfully:

"What's a year amount to? We have all the time

there is."

GOING OUT

After breakfast next morning, Pa and Ma

packed the wagon.

First all the bedding was made into two beds,

laid on top of each other across the back of the

wagon, and carefully covered with a pretty plaid

blanket. Mary and Laura and Baby Carrie

would ride there in the daytime. At night the top bed

would be put in the front of the wagon, for Pa and

Ma to sleep in. And Mary and Laura would

sleep in the bottom bed, where it was.

Next Pa took the small cupboard from the

wall, and in it Ma packed the food and the dishes.

Pa put the cupboard under the wagon-seat, and in

front of it he laid a sack of corn

for the horses.

"It will make a good rest for our feet,

Caroline," he said to Ma.

Ma packed all the clothing in two

carpet-bags, and Pa hung them to the wagon bows

inside the wagon. Opposite them he hung his

rifle in its straps, and his bullet-pouch and

powder-horn hung beneath it. His fiddle in its box

he laid on one end of the bed, where it would ride

softly.

Ma wrapped the black iron spider, the

bake-oven, and the coffee-pot in sacks, and put

them in the wagon, while Pa tied the

rocking-chair and the tub outside, and hung the

water-bucket and the horse-bucket underneath. And

he put the tin lantern carefully in the front

corner of the wagon-box, where the sack of corn

held it still.

Now the wagon was loaded. The only thing they

could not take was the plow. Well, that could not be

helped. There was no room for it. When they came

to wherever they were going, Pa could get more furs

to trade for another plow.

Laura and Mary climbed into the wagon and sat

on the bed in the back. Ma put Baby Carrie

between them. They were all freshly washed and combed.

Pa said they were clean as a hound's tooth, and Ma

told them they were bright as new pins.

Then Pa hitched Pet and Patty to the

wagon. Ma climbed to her place on the seat and

held the lines. And suddenly Laura wanted

to see the house again. She asked Pa please

to let her look out. So he loosened the rope in

the back of the wagon-cover, and that made a large

round hole. Laura and Mary could look out of it,

but still the rope held up enough canvas to keep

Carrie from tumbling into the feed-box.

The snug log house looked just as it always had.

It did not seem to know they were going away. Pa

stood a moment in the doorway and looked all

around inside; he looked at the bedstead and the

fireplace and the glass windows. Then he closed

the door carefully, leaving the latch-string out.

"Someone might need shelter," he said.

He climbed to his place beside Ma, gathered

the reins into his own hands, and chirruped to Pet and

Patty.

Jack went under the wagon. Pet whinnied

to Bunny, who came to walk beside her. And they were

off.

Just before the creek road went down into the

bottoms, Pa stopped the mustangs, and they all

looked back.

As far as they could see, to the east and to the south and

to the west, nothing was moving on all the vastness of the

High Prairie. Only the green grass was

rippling in the wind, and white clouds drifted in

the high, clear sky.

"It's a great country, Caroline," Pa said.

"But there will be wild Indians and wolves here for

many a long day."

The little log house and the little stable sat lonely in

the stillness.

Then Pet and Patty briskly started

onward. The wagon went down from the bluffs into the

wooded creek bottoms, and high in a

tree-top a mockingbird began to sing.

"I never heard a mockingbird sing so early,"

said Ma, and Pa answered, softly, "He is

telling us good-by."

They rode down through the low hills to the creek.

The ford was low, an easy crossing. On they

went, across the bottoms where antlered deer stood

up to watch them passing, and mother deer with their fawns

bounded into the shadows of the woods. And up between the

steep red-earth cliffs the wagon climbed

to prairie again.

Pet and Patty were eager to go. Their hoofs had

made a muffled sound in the bottoms, but now they

rang on the hard prairie. And the wind sang

shrill against the foremost wagon bows.

Pa and Ma were still and silent on the

wagon-seat, and Mary and Laura were quiet,

too. But Laura felt all excited inside.

You never know what will happen next, nor where

you'll be tomorrow, when you are traveling in a covered

wagon.

At noon Pa stopped beside a little spring to let

the mustangs eat and drink and rest. The spring would

soon be dry in the summer's heat, but there was

plenty of water now.

Ma took cold cornbread and meat from the

food-box, and they all ate, sitting on the

clean grass in the shade of the wagon. They

drank from the spring, and Laura and Mary ran

around in the grass, picking wild flowers, while

Ma tidied the food-box and Pa hitched up

Pet and Patty again.

Then for a long time they went on, across the

prairie. There was nothing to be seen but the

blowing grass, the sky, and the endless wagon

track. Now and then a rabbit bounded away.

Sometimes a prairie hen with her brood of

prairie chicks scuttled out of sight in the

grass. Baby Carrie slept, and Mary and

Laura were almost asleep when they heard Pa

say, "Something's wrong there."

Laura jumped up, and far ahead on the

prairie she saw a small, light-colored

bump. She couldn't see anything else

unusual.

"Where?" she asked Pa.

"There," Pa said, nodding toward that bump. "It

isn't moving."

Laura didn't say any more. She kept on

looking, and she saw that that bump was a covered

wagon. Slowly it grew bigger. She saw that

no horses were hitched to it. Nothing moved,

anywhere around it. Then she saw something dark in

front of it.

The dark thing was two people sitting on the wagon

tongue. They were a man and a woman. They sat

looking down at their feet, and they moved only

their heads to look up when Pet and Patty

stopped in front of them.

"What's wrong? Where are your horses?" Pa

asked.

"I don't know," the man said. "I tied them

to the wagon last night, and this morning they were gone.

Somebody cut the ropes and took them away in the

night."

"What about your dog?" said Pa.

"Haven't got a dog," the man said.

Jack stayed under the wagon. He didn't

growl but he didn't come out. He was a sensible

dog, and knew what to do when he met strangers.

"Well, your horses are gone," Pa told

the man. "You'll never see them again. Hanging's

too good for horse-thieves."

"Yes," the man said.

Pa looked at Ma, and Ma barely nodded.

Then Pa said, "Come ride with us to Independence."

"No," said the man. "All we've got is

in this wagon. We won't leave it."

"Why, man! What will you do?" Pa

exclaimed. "There may be nobody along here for

days, weeks. You can't stay here."

"I don't know," the man said.

"We'll stay with our wagon," the woman said.

She was looking down at her hands

clasped in her lap, and Laura couldn't see her

face; she could see only the side of the

sunbonnet.

"Better come," Pa told them. "You can come

back for your wagon."

"No," the woman said.

They wouldn't leave the wagon; everything they owned

in the world was in it. So at last Pa drove on,

leaving them sitting on the wagon tongue, all

alone on the prairie.

Pa muttered to himself: "Tenderfeet! Everything

they own, and no dog to watch it. Didn't keep

watch himself. And tied his horses with ropes!"

Pa snorted. "Tenderfeet!" he said again.

"Shouldn't be allowed loose west of the

Mississippi!"

"But, Charles! Whatever will become of them?"

Ma asked him.

"There are soldiers at Independence," said

Pa. "I'll tell the captain, and he'll send

out men to bring them in. They can hold out that long.

But it's durned lucky for them that we came by.

If we hadn't, there's no telling when they would have

been found."

Laura watched that lonely wagon until it was

only a small lump on the prairie. Then it

was a speck. Then it was gone.

All the rest of that day Pa drove on and on.

They didn't see anybody else.

When the sun was setting, Pa stopped by a

well. A house had once been there, but it was

burned. The well held plenty of good water, and

Laura and Mary gathered bits of half-burned

wood to make the fire, while Pa unhitched and

watered the horses and put them on

picket-lines. Then Pa took the seat down from

the wagon and lifted out the food-box. The fire

burned beautifully, and Ma quickly got supper.

Everything was just as it used to be before they built the

house. Pa and Ma and Carrie were on the

wagon-seat, Laura and Mary sat on the

wagon tongue. They ate the good supper, hot from

the camp fire. Pet and Patty and Bunny

munched the good grass, and Laura saved bits for

Jack, who mustn't beg but could eat his fill as

soon as supper was over.

Then the sun went down, far away in the west,

and it was time to make the camp ready for night.

Pa chained Pet and Patty to the feed-box at

the end of the wagon. He chained Bunny

to the side. And he fed them all their supper of

corn. Then he sat by the fire and smoked his

pipe, while Ma tucked Mary and Laura

into bed and laid Baby Carrie beside them.

She sat down beside Pa at the fire, and Pa

took his fiddle out of its box and began to play.

"Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me," the

fiddle wailed, and Pa began to sing.

"I went to California

With my wash-pan on my knee,

And every time I thought of home,

I wished it wasn't me."

"Do you know, Caroline," Pa stopped singing

to say, "I've been thinking what fun the rabbits

will have, eating that garden we planted."

"Don't, Charles," Ma said.

"Never mind, Caroline!" Pa told her.

"We'll make a better garden. Anyway,

we're taking more out of Indian Territory than

we took in."

"I don't know what," Ma said, and Pa

answered, "Why, there's the mule!" Then Ma

laughed, and Pa and the fiddle sang again.

"In Dixie land I'll take my stand,

And live and die in Dixie!

Away, away, away, away,

Away down south in Dixie!"

They sang with a lilt and a swing that almost lifted

Laura right out of bed. She must lie still and not

wake Carrie. Mary was sleeping, too, but

Laura had never been wider awake.

She heard Jack making his bed under the wagon.

He was turning round and round, trampling down the

grass. Then he curled into that round nest with a

flop and a sigh of satisfaction.

Pet and Patty were munching the last of their

corn, and their chains rattled. Bunny lay down

beside the wagon.

They were all there together, safe and comfortable for the

night, under the wide, starlit sky. Once more the

covered wagon was home.

The fiddle began to play a marching tune, and

Pa's clear voice was singing like a deep-toned

bell.

"And we'll rally round the flag, boys,

We'll rally once again,

Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom!"

Laura felt that she must shout, too. But

softly Ma looked in through the round hole in the

wagon-cover.

"Charles," Ma said, "Laura is wide

awake. She can't go to sleep on such music as

that."

Pa didn't answer, but the voice of the fiddle

changed. Softly and slurringly it began a long,

swinging rhythm that seemed to rock Laura gently.

She felt her eyelids closing. She began

to drift over endless waves of prairie

grasses, and Pa's voice went with her, singing:

"Row away, row o'er the waters so blue,

Like a feather we sail in our gum-tree canoe.

Row the boat lightly, love, over the sea;

Daily and nightly I'll wander with thee."

THE END