These Happy Golden Years (20 page)

“It's lucky I thought we'd want more candy than we'd likely get at the Christmas tree,” Pa took credit to himself.

“Oh!” Carrie discovered. “We've made one bag too many. Grace miscounted.”

“I did not!” Grace cried.

“Grace,” Ma said.

“I am not contradicting!” cried Grace.

“Grace,” said Pa.

Grace gulped. “Pa,” she said. “I didn't count wrong. I guess I can count five! There was candy enough for another one, and it looks pretty in the pink bag.”

“So it does, and it is nice to have an extra one. We haven't always been so lucky,” Pa told her.

Laura remembered the Christmas on the Verdigris River in Indian Territory, when Mr. Edwards had walked eighty miles to bring her and Mary each one stick of candy. Wherever he was tonight, she wished him as much happiness as he had brought them. She remembered the Christmas Eve on Plum Creek in Minnesota, when Pa had been lost in the blizzard and they feared he would never come back. He had eaten the Christmas candy while he lay sheltered three days under the creek bank. Now here they were, in the snug warm house, with plenty of candy and other good things.

Yet now she wished that Mary were there, and she was trying not to think of Almanzo. When he first went away, letters had come from him often; then they had come regularly. Now for three weeks there had been no letter. He was at home, Laura thought, meeting his old friends and the girls he used to know. Springtime was four months away. He might forget her, or wish 225

that he had not given her the ring that sparkled on her finger.

Pa broke into her thoughts. “Bring me the fiddle, Laura. Let's have a little music before we begin on these good things.”

She brought him the fiddle box and he tuned the fiddle and resined the bow. “What shall I play?”

“Play Mary's song first,” Laura answered. “Perhaps she is thinking of us.”

Pa drew the bow across the strings and he and the fiddle sang:

"Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle of Montgomery,

Green be your woods and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie;

There summer first unfolds her robes And there the langest tarry,

For there I took the last fareweel

Of my sweet Highland Mary."

One Scots song reminded Pa of another, and with the fiddle he sang:

"My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody.

Oh! I could make a winter night,

A for the sake o' somebody."

Ma sat in her rocking chair beside the heater, and Carrie and Grace were snug in the window seat, but Laura moved restlessly around the room.

The fiddle sang a wandering tune of its own that made her remember June's wild roses. Then it caught up another tune to blend with Pa's voice.

"When marshalled on the mighty plane, The glittering hosts bestud the sky

One star alone of all the train

Can catch the sinner's wandering eye.

It was my light, my guide, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease,

And through the storm and dangers thrall It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moored, my perils o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem

Forever and forever more,

The Star—the Star of Bethlehem."

Grace said softly, “The Christmas star.”

The fiddle sang to itself again while Pa cocked his head, listening. “The wind is rising,” he said. “Good thing we stayed home.”

Then the fiddle began to laugh and Pa's voice laughed as he sang,

"Oh, do not stand so long outside, Why need you be so shy?

The people's ears are open, John,

As they are passing by!

You can not tell what they may think They've said strange things before

And if you wish to talk awhile,

Come in and shut the door!

Come in! Come in! Come in!"

Laura looked at Pa in amazement as he sang so loudly, looking at the door, “Come in! Come in! Come . . .”

Someone knocked at the door. Pa nodded to Laura to go to the door, while he ended the song. “Come in and shut the door!”

A gust of wind swirled snow into the room when Laura opened the door; it blinded her for a moment and when she could see she could not believe her eyes. The wind whirled snow around Almanzo as, speechless, she stood holding the door open.

“Come in!” Pa called. “Come in and shut the door!”

Shivering, he laid the fiddle in its box and put more coal on the fire. “That wind blows the cold into a fellow's bones,” he said. “What about your team?”

“I drove Prince, and I put him in the stable beside Lady,” Almanzo answered, as he shook the snow from his overcoat and hung it with his cap on the polished buffalo horns fastened to the wall near the door, while Ma rose from her chair to greet him.

Laura had retreated to the other end of the room, beside Carrie and Grace. When Almanzo looked toward them, Grace said, “I made an extra bag of candy.”

“And I brought some oranges,” Almanzo answered, taking a paper bag from his overcoat pocket. “I have a package with Laura's name on it, too, but isn't she going speak to me?”

“I can't believe it is you,” Laura murmured. “You said you would be gone all winter.”

“I decided I didn't want to stay away so long, and as you will speak to me, here is your Christmas gift.”

“Come, Charles, put the fiddle away,” said Ma.

“Carrie and Grace, help me bring in the popcorn balls.”

Laura opened the small package that Almanzo gave her. The white paper unfolded; there was a white box inside. She lifted its lid. There in a nest of soft white cotton lay a gold bar pin. On its flat surface was etched a little house, and before it along the bar lay a tiny lake, and a spray of grasses and leaves.

“Oh, it is beautiful,” she breathed. “Thank you!”

“Can't you thank a fellow better than that?” he asked, and then he put his arms around her while Laura kissed him and whispered, “I am glad you came back.”

Pa came from the kitchen bringing a hodful of coal and Ma followed. Carrie brought in the pan of popcorn balls and Grace gave everyone a bag of candy.

While they ate the sweets, Almanzo told of driving all day in the cold winds and camping on the open prairie with no house nor shelter near, as he and Royal drove south into Nebraska. He told of seeing the beautiful capital building at Omaha; of muddy roads when they turned east into Iowa, where the farmers were burning their corn for fuel because they could not sell it for as much as twenty-five cents a bushel. He told of seeing the Iowa state capital at Des Moines; of rivers in flood that they crossed in Iowa and Missouri, until when faced with the Missouri River they turned north again.

So with interesting talk the evening sped by until the old clock struck twelve.

“Merry Christmas!” Ma said, rising from her chair, and

“Merry Christmas!” everyone answered.

Almanzo put on his overcoat, his cap and mittens, said good night, and went out into the storm. Faintly the sleigh bells rang as he passed the house on his way home.

“Did you hear them before?” Laura asked Pa.

“Yes, and nobody was ever asked to come in oftener than he was,” said Pa. “I suppose he couldn't hear me in the storm.”

“Come, come, girls,” Ma said. “If you don't get to sleep soon, Santa Claus will have no chance to fill the stockings.”

In the morning, there would be all the surprises from the stockings, and at noon there would be the special Christmas feast, with a big fat hen stuffed and roasted, brown and juicy, and Almanzo would be there, for Ma had asked him to Christmas dinner. The wind was blowing hard, but it had not the shriek and howl of a blizzard wind, so probably he would be able to come tomorrow.

“Oh, Laura!” Carrie said, as Laura blew out the lamp in the bedroom. “Isn't this the nicest Christmas! Do Christmases get better all the time?”

“Yes,” Laura said. “They do.”

Through a March snowstorm Laura rode to town with Pa in the bobsled, to take the teachers'

examinations. There was no school that day, so Carrie and Grace stayed at home.

Winter had been pleasant on the claim, but Laura was glad that spring was coming soon. Vaguely as she rode in the nest of blankets on the hay, she thought of the pleasant winter Sundays with the family and Almanzo in the cosy sitting room, and she looked forward to long drives again through the summer sunshine and wind; she wondered if Barnum would still be gentle after the long winter in a stable.

As they neared the schoolhouse, Pa asked if she were nervous about the examinations.

“Oh, no,” she answered through the frosty veil. “I am sure I can pass. I wish I were as sure of getting a school I will like.”

“You could have the Perry school again,” said Pa.

“I would rather have a larger one with more pay,”

Laura explained.

“Well,” Pa said cheerfully as they stopped at the schoolhouse, “the first bridge is the examinations, and here we are! Time enough to cross the next bridge when we come to it.”

Laura was impatient with herself because she felt timid when she went into the room full of strangers.

Nearly every desk was occupied, and the only person she knew was Florence Wilkins. When she touched Florence's hand, she was startled; it was cold as ice, and Florence's lips were pale from nervousness. Laura felt so sorry for her that she forgot her own timidity.

“I'm scared,” Florence said in a low, shaking voice.

“All the others are old teachers, and the examination is going to be hard. I know I'll never pass.”

“Pooh! I bet they're scared, too!” Laura said. “Don't worry; you'll pass all right. Just don't be frightened. You know you've always passed examinations.”

Then the bell rang, and Laura faced the lists of questions. Florence was right; they were hard. Working her way through them, Laura was tired when intermission came. By noon she felt her own heart failing; she began to fear she would not get a certificate, but she worked doggedly on until at last she was through. Her last paper was collected with the others, and Pa came to take her home.

“I don't know, Pa,” she said in answer to his question.

“It was harder than I expected, but I did the best I could.”

“No one can do better than that,” Pa assured her.

At home, Ma said that no doubt it would be all right.

“Now don't fret! Forget about it until you hear the re-sults of the examinations.”

Ma's advice was always good, but Laura repeated it to herself every day and almost every hour. She went to sleep telling herself: “Don't worry,” and wake up thinking with dread: “The letter may come today.”

At school, Florence had no hope for either of them. “It was too hard,” she said. “I'm sure only a few of the oldest teachers passed it.”

A week went by, with no word. Laura hardly expected Almanzo to come that Sunday, for Royal was sick with the grippe. Almanzo did not come. There was no letter on Monday. There was no letter on Tuesday.

A warm wind had melted the snow to slush and the sun was shining, so on Wednesday Pa did not come for Laura. She and Carrie and Grace walked home. The letter was there; Pa had got it that morning.

“What does it say, Ma?” Laura cried as she dropped her coat and crossed the room to pick up the letter.

“Why, Laura!” Ma said in astonishment. “You know I'd no more look at another person's letter than I'd steal.”

With shaking fingers Laura tore the envelope and took out a teacher's certificate. It was a second-grade one.

“It's better than I expected,” she told Ma. "The most I hoped for was third grade. Now if I can only have the 234

good luck to get the right school!"

“A body makes his own luck, be it good or bad,” Ma placidly said. “I have no doubt you will get as good as you deserve.”

Laura had no doubt that she would get as good a school as she could get, but she wondered how to make herself the good luck to get the one she wanted. She thought about little else that night, and she was still thinking about it next morning when Florence came into the schoolroom and came directly to her.

“Did you pass, Laura?” she asked.

“Yes, I got a second-grade certificate,” Laura answered.

“I didn't get any, so I can't teach our school,” Florence said soberly, “but this is what I want to tell you: You tried to help me, and I would rather you taught our school than anyone else. If you want it, my father says you may have it. It is a three months' school, beginning the first of April, and it pays thirty dollars a month.”

Laura could hardly get the breath to answer, "Oh, yes!

I do want it."

“Father said, if you did, to come and see him and the board will sign the contract.”

“I will be there tomorrow afternoon,” Laura said.

“Thank you, Florence, so much.”

“Well, you have always been so nice to me, I am glad of a chance to pay some of it back,” Florence told her.

Laura remembered what Ma had said about luck, and she thought to herself: “I believe we make most of our luck without intending to.”

At the end of the last day of school in March, Laura gathered her books, and stacked them neatly on her slate. She looked around the schoolroom for the last time. She would never come back. Monday she would begin teaching the Wilkins school, and sometime next fall she and Almanzo would be married.

Carrie and Grace were waiting downstairs, but Laura lingered at her desk, feeling a strange sinking of heart.

Ida and Mary Power and Florence would be here next week. Carrie and Grace would walk to school without her, always after this.

Except for Mr. Owen at his desk, the room was empty now. Laura must go. She picked up her books and went toward the door. At Mr. Owen's desk she stopped and 236

said, “I must tell you good-by, for I shall not be coming back.”

“I heard you were going to teach again,” Mr. Owen said. “We will miss you, but we will look for you back next fall.”

“That is what I want to tell you. This is good-by,”

Laura repeated. “I am going to be married, so I won't be coming back at all.”

Mr. Owen sprang up and walked nervously across the platform and back. “I'm sorry,” he said. "Not sorry you are going to be married, but sorry I didn't graduate you this spring. I held you back because I . . . because I had a foolish pride; I wanted to graduate the whole class together, and some weren't ready. It was not fair to you.