Each wind storm that spring tried to outdo its predecessor in sheer fury. As to snow or rain, the skies seemed not to be able to produce them any more. The prospects were grave for the coming planting season. The economic depression too was full blown. No wonder Daddy’s face was often care worn and his step lacking in the usual spring.
“There’s only one thing that can give us a ghost of a chance this year, Mom,” Daddy observed one Saturday morning. “And that’s a two-week-long, soaking rain. We’ll haul our last load of hay today over to them cattle on the school section place. If we have to buy hay, we cain’t even come out on the cattle, I’m thinking.” Turning to the children at the breakfast table, he gave the orders for the day.
“Clara, you and Robbie come along with me in the car. Cliff’ll drive Snip and Bessie over with the load of hay. Then he can help me over there and you young uns can drive the team and wagon home. I think you should be able to manage. Then the rest of you that Mom don’t need fer the house, at least Jennie and Lori, I want you to burn them piles of weeds Cliff raked out in the field west of the gulch. Don’t set more’n one at a time and quit if the wind comes up. You got that?”
The family dispersed to their assigned tasks. Mary Jane knew she would slosh through the dishes as fast as possible and coax Mamma to let her help the girls with the weed burning. That sounded like fun.
Later when she had gained her purpose, Mary Jane joined Jennie to watch a pile of tumbleweeds burn hotly.
“Look, quick!” screamed Lori, “A ferret! He was using the weeds for a hiding place! Did you see his white fur coat? In the summer he’ll turn brown.”
How he could appear and disappear so quickly was a mystery. The girls knew better than to probe him out for the disposition of these animals was all tooth and temper.
“Jennie,” asked Mary Jane, “do you really think we’re ‘just a few jumps from the poorhouse,’ like Daddy said last night when Ellen and I asked to mail in our order for new summer clothes?”
“Oh, probably not that serious. But hard times are ahead for sure – especially unless the weather changes. Did you know that Clara wants to leave and go to work for Mrs. Eaton? If she does go, she’ll have to be there two weeks before Marguerite quits to get married, and that means soon. Daddy is inclined to agree since times are so hard and prospects here about nil.”
“Really?” Mary Jane was quiet. “Do you suppose they’ll take her to Paris?”
“Maybe they’ll have to put off the Paris trip,” put in Lori. “The depression has nipped into old Eaton’s prosperity too; Marguerite mentioned that in her last letter. If Clara is maid number one and two, that job would be pretty rough. I sure wouldn’t want it.”
The girls chatted on casually as they worked. Clara and Robbie were having anything but a casual time.
The plans for the day had clicked off quite according to schedule to a point. The hay had been pitched off the wagon. Throwing the reins to Robbie, Daddy chirped, “All yours, m ‘boy! Remember now, Bessie is always on the lookout fer excitement. She’d sooner run away than eat. Just keep a firm hand on the reins and you’ll be okay.”
“Okay, Pop!” Clara returned and she and Robbie were off.
All went well out to the interstate highway on which they had to travel for about a mile. After Daddy’s experience at the railroad where a train had slipped around the bend without whistling, the children always used extra care at that point. The wind had carried the sound of the train away that day, and Mr. Hillman had missed disaster by about two feet. Crossing the tracks in safety, they felt there was nothing more to fear.
Unknown to them, just below the brow of the little hill where lay the gate to the highway, a little vehicle sputtered and chugged its way to a fateful encounter with the children. Miss Pickins pedaled her wares around the countryside, conveying her ample three hundred pound figure and sundry bolts of cloth and clothing in the saddest little flivver ever to roll onto the road. Its top of black canvas was tattered and patched and flappers that perhaps were meant to be curtains fluttered gaily in the breezes. The lady herself in a brightly colored dress was spread over the whole front seat, hemmed in on all sides by her stock in trade. Had she known the fright that lay in store for her, she would surely not have left her bed that day.
As the little contraption clattered, chugged and flapped by, Snip and Bessie reared and snorted in alarm. Clara bit her lips until they bled as she grabbed the reins from the startled Robbie. Nobly she tried to yank the horses to the left turn they were to make, but sheer panic had set in. Blindly they leaped to the right almost leaving the road entirely. Clara managed to pull them back onto the road. Plunging wildly ahead, they charged in hot pursuit of the very object of their terror. Nearer and nearer they came. Miss Pickins was almost as panic stricken as the horses and was leaning dangerously toward the side ditch in her efforts to give them room. But Daddy’s sharp eyes had seen the race begin.
“Yonder there, Cliff!” he yelled, pointing. “We’ve got to catch them horses!”
Cliff jumped for the Chevie and Daddy clung to it crouched on the running board. “Floor-board her, Cliff!”
Cliff was fully equal to the situation and gained the side of the wagon just after it passed the unfortunate flivver. Matching their speed and praying for no sudden turnings of the wagon, he kept abreast long enough for Daddy to grab hold and swing aboard. Whether the horses were too weary to continue or whether the roar of the Master’s “Wooh!” put reason into their heads is unimportant. The situation was soon in hand. Miss Pickins had stopped.
“Cliff, go back and tell that gal there that under no circumstances is she to move that heap of hers till I can get this team past her. She can thank God she wasn’t clean run over!”
Miss Pickins only gasped, “My stars!” She couldn’t seem to find her tongue. It was just as well too.