Little Town On The Prairie (8 page)

Now the basque of Mary's best dress was ready to try on for the last time. It was brown cashmere, lined with brown cambric. Small brown buttons buttoned it down the front, and on either side of the buttons and around the bottom Ma had trimmed it with a narrow, shirred strip of brown-and-blue plaid, with red threads and golden threads running through it. A high collar of the plaid was sewed on, and Ma held in her hand a gathered length of white machine-made lace.

The lace was to be fitted inside the collar, so that it would fall a little over the top.

“Oh, Mary, it's beautiful. The back fits without a wrinkle, and so do the shoulders,” Laura told her.

“And the sleeves look absolutely skin tight to the elbows.”

“ The y are,” Mary said. “I don't know if I can button—”

Laura went around in front. “Hold your breath, Mary. Breathe out, and hold it,” she advised anxiously.

“It's too tight,” Ma said in despair. Some of the buttons strained in the buttonholes, some could not be buttoned at all.

“Don't breathe, Mary! Don't breathe!” Laura said frantically, and quickly she unbuttoned the straining buttons. “Now you can.” Mary breathed, outbursting from the open bodice.

“Oh, how ever did I make such a mistake,” Ma said.

“That bodice fitted well enough last week.”

Laura had a sudden thought. “It's Mary's corsets! It must be. The corset strings must have stretched.”

It was so. When Mary held her breath again and Laura pulled tight the corset strings, the bodice buttoned, and it fitted beautifully.

“I'm glad I don't have to wear corsets yet,” said Carrie.

“Be glad while you can be,” said Laura. “You'll have to wear them pretty soon.” Her corsets were a sad af-fliction to her, from the time she put them on in the morning until she took them off at night. But when girls pinned up their hair and wore skirts down to their shoetops, they must wear corsets.

“You should wear them all night,” Ma said. Mary did, but Laura could not bear at night the torment of the steels that would not let her draw a deep breath.

Always before she could get to sleep, she had to take off her corsets.

“What your figure will be, goodness knows,” Ma warned her. “When I was married, your Pa could span my waist with his two hands.”

“He can't now,” Laura answered, a little saucily.

“And he seems to like you.”

“You must not be saucy, Laura,” Ma reproved her, but Ma's cheeks flushed pink and she could not help smiling.

Now she fitted the white lace into Mary's collar and pinned it so that it fell gracefully over the collar's edge and made a full cascade between the collar's ends in front.

The y all stood back to admire. The gored skirt of brown cashmere was smooth and rather tight in front, but gathered full around the sides and back, so that it would be ample for hoops. In front it touched the floor evenly, in back it swept into a graceful short train that swished when Mary turned. All around the bottom was a pleated flounce.

The overskirt was of the brown-and-blue plaid. It was shirred in front, it was draped up at the sides to show more of the skirt beneath, and at the back it fell in rich, full puffs, caught up above the flounced train.

Above all this, Mary's waist rose slim in the tight, smooth bodice. The neat little buttons ran up to the soft white lace cascading under Mary's chin. The brown cashmere was smooth as paint over her sloping shoulders and down to her elbows; then the sleeves widened. A shirring of the plaid curved around them, and the wide wrists fell open, showing the lining of white lace ruffles that set off Mary's slender hands.

Mary was beautiful in that beautiful dress. Her hair was silkier and more golden than the golden silk threads in the plaid. Her blind eyes were bluer than the blue in it. Her cheeks were pink, and her figure was so stylish.

“Oh, Mary,” Laura said. “You look exactly as if you'd stepped out of a fashion plate. There won't be, there just can't be, one single girl in college who can hold a candle to you.”

“Do I really look so well, Ma?” Mary asked timidly, and she flushed pinker.

For once Ma did not guard against vanity. “Yes, Mary, you do,” she said. “You are not only as stylish as can be, you are beautiful. No matter where you go, you will be a pleasure to every eye that sees you. And, I am thankful to say, you may be sure your clothes are equal to any occasion.”

The y could not look at her longer. She was almost fainting from the heat, in that woolen dress. The y laid it carefully away, done at last, and a great success.

There were only a few more things to be done now.

Ma must make Mary a winter hat of velvet, and knit some stockings for her, and Laura was knitting her a pair of mitts, of brown silk thread.

“I can finish them in spare time,” Laura said.

“We're through with the sewing, in time for me to help Pa make hay.”

She liked working with Pa, and she liked working outdoors in the sun and wind. Besides, secretly she was hoping to leave off her corsets while she worked in the haying.

“I suppose you may help to load the hay,” Ma agreed reluctantly, “but it will be stacked in town.”

“Oh, Ma, no! Do we have to move to town again?”

Laura cried.

“Modulate your voice, Laura,” Ma said gently. "Remember, 'Her voice was ever gentle, low, and soft, an excellent thing in woman.'"

“Do we have to go to town?” Laura murmured.

“Your Pa and I think best not to risk a winter in this house until he can make it more weatherproof,” said Ma. “You know that we could not have lived through last winter here.”

“Maybe this winter won't be so bad,” Laura pleaded.

“We must not tempt Providence,” Ma said firmly.

Laura knew it was decided; they had to live in town again next winter, and she must make the best of it.

That evening when the flock of happy blackbirds was swirling at play in the sunset air above the oatfield, Pa took out his shotgun and shot them. He did not like to do it, and in the house no one liked to hear the shots, but they knew it must be done. Pa must protect the crops. The horses and Ellen and her calves would live on hay that winter, but the oats and the corn were cash crops. The y would sell for money to pay taxes and buy coal.

As soon as the dew was off the grass next morning, Pa went out to cut it with the mowing machine. In the house Ma began to make Mary's velvet hat, and Laura busily knitted a brown silk mitt. At eleven o'clock Ma said, “Mercy, it's time to start dinner already. Run out, Laura, and see if you can find a mess of roasting ears to boil.”

The corn was taller than Laura now, a lavish sight to see, with its long leaves rustling thickly and its nodding tasseled tops. As Laura went in between the rows, a great black swirl of birds rose up and whirled above her. The noise of their wings was louder than the rustling of all the long leaves. The birds were so many that they made a shadow like a cloud. It passed swiftly over the corn tops and the crowd of birds settled again.

The ears of corn were plentiful. Nearly every stalk had two ears on it, some had three. The tassels were dry, only a little pollen was still flying and the cornsilks hung like thick, green hair from the tips of the green cornhusks. Here and there a tuft of cornsilk was turning brown, and the ear felt full in the husk when Laura gently pinched it. To make sure, before she tore it from the stalk, she parted the husks to see the rows of milky kernels.

Blackbirds kept flying up around her. Suddenly she stood stock-still. The blackbirds were eating the corn!

Here and there she saw bare tips of ears. The husks were stripped back, and kernels were gone from the cobs. While she stood there, blackbirds settled around her. Their claws clung to the ears, their sharp beaks ripped away the husks, and quickly pecking they swallowed the kernels.

Silently, desperately, Laura ran at them. She felt as if she were screaming. She beat at the birds with her sunbonnet. The y rose up swirling on noisy wings and settled again to the corn, before her, behind her, all around her. The y swung clinging to the ears, ripping away the husks, swallowing the corn crop. She could do nothing against so many.

She took a few ears in her apron and went to the house. Her heart was beating fast and her wrists and knees trembled. When Ma asked what was the matter, she did not like to answer. “ The blackbirds are in the corn,” she said. “Oughtn't I to tell Pa?”

“Blackbirds always eat a little corn, I wouldn't worry about it,” said Ma. “You might take him a cold drink.”

In the hayfield, Pa was not much troubled about the blackbirds. He said he had about cleaned them out of the oats, he had shot a hundred or more. “Likely they'll do some harm to the corn, but that can't be helped,” he said.

“There are so many of them,” Laura said. “Pa, if you don't get a corn crop, can—can Mary go to college?”

Pa looked bleak. “You think it's as bad as that?”

“There's so many of them,” said Laura.

Pa glanced at the sun. “Well, another hour can't make much difference. I'll see about it when I come to dinner.”

At noon he took his shotgun to the cornfield. He walked between the corn rows and shot into the cloud of blackbirds as it rose. Every shot brought down a hail of dead birds, but the black cloud settled into the corn again. When he had shot away all his cartridges, the swirl of wings seemed no thinner.

There was not a blackbird in the oatfield. The y had left it. But they had eaten every kernel of oats that could be dug out of the shocks. Only straw was left.

Ma thought that she and the girls could keep them away from the corn. The y tried to do it. Even Grace ran up and down the rows, screeching and waving her little sunbonnet. The blackbirds only swirled around them and settled again to the ears of corn, tearing the husks and pecking away the kernels.

“You'll wear yourselves out for nothing, Caroline,”

said Pa. “I'll go to town and buy more cartridges.”

When he had gone, Ma said, “Let's see if we can't keep them off till he gets back.”

The y ran up and down, in the sun and heat, stum-bling over the rough sods, screeching and shouting and waving their arms. Sweat ran down their faces and their backs, the sharp cornleaves cut their hands and cheeks.

Their throats ached from yelling. And always the swirling wings rose and settled again. Always scores of blackbirds were clinging to the ears, and sharp beaks were tearing and pecking.

At last Ma stopped. “It's no use, girls,” she said.

Pa came with more cartridges. All that afternoon he shot blackbirds. The y were so thick that every pellet of shot brought down a bird. It seemed that the more he shot, the more there were. It seemed that all the blackbirds in the Territory were hurrying to that feast of corn.

At first there were only common blackbirds. The n came larger, yellow-headed blackbirds, and blackbirds with red heads and a spot of red on each wing. Hundreds of them came.

In the morning a dark spray of blackbirds rose and fell above the cornfield. After breakfast Pa came to the house, bringing both hands full of birds he had shot.

“I never heard of anyone's eating blackbirds,” he said, “but these must be good meat, and they're as fat as butter.”

“Dress them, Laura, and we'll have them fried for dinner,” said Ma. “There's no great loss without some small gain.”

Laura dressed the birds, and at noon Ma heated the frying-pan and laid them in it. The y fried in their own fat, and at dinner everyone agreed that they were the tenderest, most delicious meat that had ever been on that table.

After dinner, Pa brought another armful of blackbirds and an armful of corn.

“We might as well figure that the crop's gone,” he said. “This corn's a little too green, but we'd better eat what we can of it before the blackbirds get it all.”

“I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner!” Ma exclaimed. "Laura and Carrie, hurry and pick every ear that's possibly old enough to make dried corn.

Surely we can save a little, to eat next winter."

Laura knew why Ma had not thought of that sooner; she was too distracted. The corn corp was gone. Pa would have to take from his savings to pay taxes and buy coal. The n how could they manage to send Mary to college this fall?

The blackbirds were so thick now that between the corn rows their wings beat rough against Laura's arms and battered her sunbonnet. She felt sharp little blows on her head, and Carrie cried out that the birds were pecking her. The y seemed to feel that the corn was theirs, and to be fighting for it. The y rose up harsh at Laura's face and Carrie's, and flew scolding and pecking at their sunbonnets.

Not much corn was left. Even the youngest ears, on which the kernels were hardly more than blisters, had been stripped and pecked at. But Laura and Carrie several times filled their aprons with ears only partly eaten.

When Laura looked for the blackbirds, to dress them for dinner, she could not find them and Ma would not say where they were.

“Wait and see,” Ma answered mysteriously. “Meantime, we'll boil this corn, and cut it off the cobs, to dry.”

There is a knack to cutting corn from a cob. The knife must slice evenly, the whole length of the rows, cutting deep enough to get almost the whole kernel, but not so deep as to cut even an edge from the sharp pocket in which each kernel grows. The kernels fall away in milky slabs, moist and sticky.

Ma spread these on a clean, old tablecloth laid outdoors in the sunshine, and she covered them with another cloth, to keep away the blackbirds and the chickens and the flies. The hot sun would dry the corn, and next winter, soaked and boiled, it would be good eating.

“That's an Indian idea,” Pa remarked, when he came to dinner. “You'll admit yet, Caroline, there's something to be said for Indians.”

“If there is,” Ma replied, “you've already said it, many's the time, so I needn't.” Ma hated Indians, but now she was brimming with some secret. Laura guessed that it must be the missing blackbirds.

“Comb your hair and sit up to the table, Charles,” Ma said.

She opened the oven door, and took out the tin milk pan. It was full of something covered thickly over with delicately browned biscuit crust. She set it before Pa and he looked at it amazed. “Chicken pie!”